"You've charged with assisting your comrade, Jack Sheppard, to purloin certain articles of value from a jewel-case belonging to Lady Trafford. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. “We are so interested to hear, Miss Pellissier,” she said, “that you have been living in Paris. "All right," replied Sheppard, with affected indifference. “P. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen.
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