Wood, softening her asperity. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. ’ She let out a peal of laughter. Jack, who had been lingering near the group, now walked on. He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. Her name was Rhea. If he escapes at all, it must be before our faces. I left him in charge of Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok—the skipper I spoke of— with strict orders to shoot him if he made any further attempt at escape; and they're not lads—the latter especially—to be trifled with. I've often regretted that I didn't investigate the matter. A lesson learned.
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