Sheppard's dress—extremely neat and clean, but simply fashioned, and of the plainest and most unpretending material,—offered nothing assailable; and her demeanour was so humble, and her looks so modest, that—if she had been ill-looking—she might, possibly, have escaped the shafts of malice preparing to be levelled against her. As soon as the service was over, Thames contrived to approach him, and whispered, "Be cautious,—the funeral will take place after evening service. ‘Jacques!’ Melusine dropped to her haunches beside his inert form, feeling for the wound. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. "Ho, no," replied Jack. He was chained to the ground, but started up at their approach. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. I stole away and walked to the railway station. Then Capes flittered to the hearthrug and poked the fire, stood up, and turned about. Amongst the ring-leaders was Blueskin, whose swarthy features and athletic figure were easily distinguished. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause. Though scarcely two hours past midnight, it was perfectly light. .
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