" "To-morrow will be too late," said Sheppard, moodily. It was at lunch when McClintock announced that in the mailpouch he had found a letter addressed to Howard Taber, care of Donald McClintock and so-forth. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips. ’ ‘The horse?’ echoed Melusine. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons.
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