CHAPTER XXVIII. "Halloa!" cried Jack, looking round, and trying to fix his inebriate gaze upon the speaker,—"who's that?" "Your mother," replied Mrs. Despite him, it was the beauty that she had inherited from her mother they had used to gain the betrothal, and it had not been easy. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. A glance satisfied Jonathan that the turnkey was not aware of the prisoner's escape; and he resolved not to destroy what he considered a good jest, by a premature disclosure of it. Sheppard, fervently. “Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried.
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