"Jack," said Wild, with a glance of malignant triumph, "I will now tell you what I have done. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. CHAPTER XXIII. This won’t do. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. Without an idea where he was going, Jack pursued his way through the fields; and, as he proceeded, the numbness of his limbs in some degree wore off, and his confidence returned. "Then you'll never know more than this," retorted Blueskin, with a grin of satisfaction;—"they're in a place of safety, where you'll never find 'em, but where somebody else will, and that before long.
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