"Who are the others?" "Let me see. CHAPTER XXII. Wood, who was standing at the edge of a raised platform, anxiously waving his hand to him. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. Startled by this circumstance, he looked around, and perceived that the trap-door,—which has been mentioned as communicating with a secret staircase,—was open. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. Mr. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. He chuckled. Afterwards was the most delightful part of all!. "Alone?" "Not exactly, Sir. ‘You must have been an exceedingly good pupil. We begin rehearsing on Monday at the ‘Garrick’.
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