Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. "Another such attempt," said the latter, "and you are a dead man. " "Rely on me," rejoined Kneebone. Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door.
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