The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. The room was papered with green, large-patterned paper that was at worst a trifle dingy, and the arm-chair and the seats of the other chairs were covered with the unusual brightness of a large-patterned chintz, which also supplied the window-curtain. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. "It is Sheppard—Jack Sheppard—stop him!" And his shouts were reiterated by the pack of bloodhounds at his heels. Think of those days in Paris. One must be on guard.
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