How Jack Sheppard got rid of his Irons. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. Ann Veronica could at the same time ask herself what this queer old gentleman could have meant by speaking to her, and know—know in general terms, at least—what that accosting signified. And of course! She had a brilliant idea. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of the front door and looked out. But none ever puts his foot on this boat.
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