Until that moment, Jarvis had imagined the child to be safe in the wet-nurse’s cottage. I am very, very sorry, but you must listen to me. “Go on,” he said. Courtlaw sat with folded arms. In that sense, my strategy worked. 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. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. Courtlaw for his true verdict, and he gave it me. Just because I attempt to seek the worst of men to kill, it doesn’t make it right.
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