We close the chapter. She had found the mausoleum underneath a broken monument. I met a Hindu a few weeks ago who was a Harvard man. “You did your best to kill me,” he said. “Who will you stop with?” “I shall go on my own. If you have aided Jack Sheppard's escape, you shall owe your discharge to me also. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not Jonathan Wild.
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