Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Pancras,” she directed, promptly. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. She was watching him intently. Within ten minutes he had read much more than had greeted his eye. “Well, rather,” said Ann Veronica. But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac.
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