"So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland," he remarked, with a sinister smile; "it is generally admired; and, sometimes by parties who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,—ha! ha! This skull," he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case beside them, "once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad I spoke of just now. I can get into my clothes. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. "Are you hurt, Thames?" asked Jack, anxiously. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away.
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