They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. As they neared the house, Jack Sheppard, who led the way, halted and addressed his companion in a low voice:— "I don't half like this job, Blueskin," he said; "it always went against the grain. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. “I may seem unduly— anxious. When I was younger, I was very sick with a deadly flu. .
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