Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. The account of the discovery of Sir Rowland's murder filled Winifred with alarm; but when she learnt what had befallen Thames—how he had been stricken down by the thief-taker's bludgeon, and left for dead, she uttered a piercing scream, fainted, and would have fallen, if Jack had not caught her in his arms. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. She withdrew her head with a little moan, and resumed her flight. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening. I’m going up to London with the Widgetts to that ball.
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