There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. “It’s best,” he said, “to make it a good round sum. "I'll tell you," replied Jack, with forced calmness. And it has been well for you that he imagines the child was drowned. All her questions would have as a background the idea of future defence. He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another. It is bad policy. “Of course it is, Anna. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. That’s— that’s my private life.
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