Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. " "He must," exclaimed Jack, hastily; "but only let me have it till to-morrow, and if I don't entrap him in a snare from which, with all his cunning, he shall find it difficult to escape, my name's not Jack Sheppard.
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