Marvel held her handkerchief to her eyes, and appeared in great distress. At length, at the end of a passage, next to the cell where Mrs. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. "Then you need no further information from me," rejoined Jackson, sternly. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. ‘What the devil for? I’ll have one of the men ride the creature up tomorrow.
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