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. He, next, discovered that Blueskin was gone; and, pursuing his scrutiny, found that he had carried off all the banknotes, gold, and letters,—including, what Jonathan himself was not aware of,—the two packets which he had abstracted from the person of Thames. Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. She gave her lips to his without resistance. The boy she had loved was gone. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. “How can you know?” “I think—perhaps I am rather a cold-blooded person. I burned it.
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