The coachman having received his order, and being offered an extra fare if he drove quickly, set off at full speed. Only a book detective could dope this out. Jack, who had something of the Spartan in his composition, endured his martyrdom without flinching; and carried his stoical indifference so far, as even to make a mocking grimace in Sharples's face, while that amiable functionary thrust Thames into the recess beside him. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. To his relief, she nodded. But the first one was brought home, and it was the beginning of the end. “I am sorry that I have murdered you.
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