"Are you my son? Are you Jack?" "I am," replied Jack. "I fear we're too late," he whispered to Thames. After all, why should I care what strangers think?" Ruth asked with sudden heat. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. The last piece was Scheherazade. Wearied at length with thinking on the past, and terrified by the prospect of the future, he threw himself on the straw with which the cage was littered, and endeavoured to compose himself to slumber.
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