Sheppard raised her eyes, and fixed them upon her interrogator. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. He could lose himself for hours at a time. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air.
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