But we must not anticipate the course of events. ‘Perhaps I could indeed rescue you if only you would confide in me. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. No window. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
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