When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. She did not forge a note. "Jack Sheppard failed! I'd not believe it, if any one but himself told me so. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. And, if it had not been for a taste for plotting, which was continually getting him into scrapes, he might have been accounted a respectable member of society. She were that miserable. He encouraged her to join him in his debauchery.
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