Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. 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. “I am off to-night,” he said. Easy enough to look as if one rides away. Again having recourse to the centre-bit,—for Winifred's door was locked,—Jack had nearly cut out a panel, when a sudden outcry was raised in the carpenter's chamber. This door was crested with spikes, and guarded on the right by a bristling semicircle of spikes. “I shot him. Doesn’t know where he is, thought the captain. Take it, if I die.
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