“Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. Tom Sheppard was always a close file, and would never tell whom he married. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. ’ ‘Slaughtered with the rest, was she?’ Despite his hatred of the woman who had caused so much grief, the general found he could not rejoice as he wanted to. He would have risen again, but for the significance of the action. She was no longer there. Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said.
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