"Leave me to my fate," rejoined Jack. I must apologize, I suppose, for speaking to you, but your appearance certainly indicated that you were in some sort of trouble, and you were becoming—pardon me—an object of comment to the passers-by. Now tell them why. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. The miserable woman staggered, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless on the straw.
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