She stood on the mat instead, and looked down on him. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Pitt?" "There is no mistake, Sir," rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, "I am Jack Sheppard. On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. But it would serve.
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