And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. Drive away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against my return. "I am not, by Heaven!" replied Sheppard, firmly. "Hoity-toity! You owe me sixteen thousand dollars. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave.
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