“Goodnight. At length Jack Sheppard observed:—"The coast's clear. She walked across to this apartment and, opening the door a little wider, discovered a press section of the movement at work. “No reason. Taking the opposite course from that which he had hitherto pursued when it has been necessary to attend him in his visits to the lower part of his premises, he struck into a narrow passage on the right, which he tracked till he came to a small door, like the approach to a vault. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. ‘Do not say such things, you—you imbecile. The last piece was Scheherazade. And listen, John. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. I must see if I have a gown fit to wear. You are to remain here until you are well. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation.
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