Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. You must—you shall be mine. "Too late!" shrieked the lady, falling heavily backwards,—"too late!—oh!" Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room. ’ Footsteps sounded just outside, and Captain Roding walked in. ’ She eyed him, all her uncertainty surfacing.
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