" "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance. ‘We needn’t murder Lucia. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. Jack Kimble. Spurling had retired for the night.
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