Here Jack Sheppard was unable to repress an exclamation of astonishment. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. As Jonathan scarcely expected a more satisfactory result, he made no comment; but, ordering Quilt to continue his search, and not to return until he had found the fugitive, called Abraham Mendez into the house, and shut the door. "Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. Then for a time she sat very still. Sheppard replied by a solemn assertion, "that he had received no assistance except from Heaven. Prudence attacked her chicken wing. "A vow," she answered,—"a vow to my dead husband.
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