"Ah! traitor!" cried Jack, pulling the trigger of his pistol. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. He knew. How perfectly charming. When she judged that she must be nearly back at the library, she began to feel somewhat dispirited.
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