"You soon shall," rejoined Sheppard. No! That was impossible. He then barred and double-locked the door, took out the key, (a precautionary measure which, with a grim smile, he said he never omitted,) thrust it into his vest, and motioning the couple to follow him, led the way to the inner room. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. “You are talking like a boy. Sheppard in a troubled voice, "that if I lost my child, I should lose all I have left in the world. What has become of the other?" "Why, surely you don't mean Jack Sheppard?" cried the woollen-draper in surprise. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage.
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