Ireton," observed the chief turnkey of Westminster Gatehouse, as he helped himself to his third glass of punch; "but I never saw one like Jack Sheppard. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. " "That likeness is the chief cause of my misery," replied the widow, shuddering. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. ‘But for now, I’m taking you home. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door.
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