" "He must," exclaimed Jack, hastily; "but only let me have it till to-morrow, and if I don't entrap him in a snare from which, with all his cunning, he shall find it difficult to escape, my name's not Jack Sheppard. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. The pistol, it was not loaded. “He is not—I don’t like him. "As I said before, I have little reliance upon professions of gratitude. “Isn’t the question more complicated than that?” said Ann Veronica. "Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. But it does not sound as if the girl that wears the name resembles either of her parents.
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