Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. "Thames was always your favourite," observed Jack, as he fastened another piece of wood on the teeth of the iron stopper. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him.
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