At this juncture, and just as a cuckoo-clock in the corner struck sis, Jack Sheppard walked into the room, with the packing-case under his arm. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. The poor boy, whose hands were pinioned behind him, looked very pale, but neither trembled, nor exhibited any other symptom of alarm. “I’ve had most of the things I wanted,” said Ramage, in the stillness of the night. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief.
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