After a brief conversation, which Sheppard sustained with his accustomed liveliness, the old man turned to Bess and addressed a few words of common-place gallantry to her. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. He, next cautiously tried the door, but found it fastened inside. What Miss Miniver would have called the Higher Truth supervenes.
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