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Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. “Where have you been? All these hours I have been calling for you. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. This light did not remain stationary, but could be seen at one moment glimmering through the rents in the roof, and at another shining through the cracks in the wall, or the broken panes of the casement. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. "My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the presence of his murderer.
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