He jumped back, cursing. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. "What a very remarkable thing it is," he observed, applying to his snuff-box, "that Thames Darrell, whom we all supposed dead,"—Kneebone in his heart sincerely wished he had been so,—"should turn out to be alive after all. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. Now, you know where he is bound. Thames Darrell. Sheppard; "never! never!" "Halloa! what's this?" demanded Blueskin, springing to his feet. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. Probably a sick man's whim. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor.
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