"So, you're admiring my cabinet, Sir Rowland," he remarked, with a sinister smile; "it is generally admired; and, sometimes by parties who afterwards contribute to the collection themselves,—ha! ha! This skull," he added, pointing to a fragment of mortality in the case beside them, "once belonged to Tom Sheppard, the father of the lad I spoke of just now. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. " "More blood! more blood!" cried Trenchard, passing his hand with agony across his brow. Anyways, we gets friendly and chats each day, and yesterday I mentions about that Mr Charvill, and the maid ups and says that Frenchie and his missus is going out of town to visit him.
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