"What has become of Jack Sheppard?" "Devil knows!" answered Quilt; "but I believe he's in the hands of Blueskin, so there's no doubt he'll soon be on the high-road to Tyburn. But such was the violence of his grief,—such the compunction he exhibited, that all but one looked on with an eye of compassion. Here her strength completely failed her, and she was compelled to seek some repose. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. She was no longer a confederate in that.
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