Pitt?" "There is no mistake, Sir," rejoined the prisoner, drawing himself up, "I am Jack Sheppard. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Particularly when it was obvious the fellow was one of these pitiful wretches weak enough to allow themselves to be ousted from their inheritances and thus obliged to come seeking succour of their neighbours. Before she passed out she turned and faced Sir John. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. He leaned forward to better drink her in. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me.
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