“What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. The van started with a jerk and rumbled on its way. Disgusted him! “For men policemen never blush; A man in all things scores so much. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. Look at the poor victim at your feet. While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. "Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. Hanging on the wall was a temple censer, bronze, moulded in the shape of a lotus blossom with stem and leaves—deadly as a club. "I lost a very valuable one some time ago.
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