“Fred,” he said, “do you remember taking me to dinner at the ‘Ambassador’s,’ one evening last September, to meet a girl who was singing there? Hamilton and Drummond and his lot were with us. ‘Certainly I am not a nun. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. That it provided proof of the girl’s identity was one thing. And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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