Their conversation hung. Sheppard had been interred. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. "It is", seplied Winifred; "have you brought any tidings of Thames Darrell!" "Troth have I!" replied Terence: "but, bless your angilic face, how did you contrive to guess that?" "Is he well?—is he safe?—is he coming back," cried the little girl, disregarding the question. He was bewildered. It was a dark mysterious place, and what it was used for no one exactly knew; but it was called by those who had seen it the Well Hole. “I wonder,” said Ramage, “that more girls don’t think as you do and want to strike out in the world. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. ” She led the way, talking all the time to Ennison. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. Prom a knot of idlers at a public-house, he learnt that Jonathan Wild had just ridden past, and that his setters were scouring the country in every direction.
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