There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. “So, how’d it go?” Lucy sighed. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. Why should he stare at her in this fashion?—for all the world as if she had pointed a pistol at his head? CHAPTER III He had said it, spoken it like that … his own name! After all these weeks of trying to obliterate even the memory of it!… to have given it to this girl without her asking! The thought of peril cleared a space in the alcoholic fog. During detention she orchestrated Ray Plote's murder. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. ” She looked at him doubtfully. "I am content," said Jack. ‘And with my grandfather Charvill also so very angry, it was not perhaps so very comfortable for my father. But, after all, it will be different. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any.
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