"It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. Aware that he should incur the thief-taker's bitterest animosity by what he had done, the watchman, whose wrath against Quilt Arnold had evaporated during the walk, thought it more prudent not to hazard a meeting with his master, till the storm had, in some measure, blown over. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. Who were you looking for tonight? One of the émigrés? There were several in there. Always the other things remained. But it seemed that their presence was not even suspected. What in the world was the wench up to now? For it must be she.
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