“May I hear?” “It really isn’t much to tell,” Drummond answered. “It does not appear to me,” he said, stiffly, “to be an affair for jests. From the freshness of the stains, which grew more frequent as they approached the adjoining chamber, it was evident some violence had been recently perpetrated, and the carpenter's own blood froze within his veins as he thought, with a thrill of horror, that, perhaps on this very spot, not many minutes before his arrival, his adopted son might have been inhumanly butchered. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. If you hang Jack Sheppard, you'll cut off the flower o' the purfession.
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