The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. Fine woman, Lady Trafford—a little on the wane though. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged. It’s a pure joy of giving—giving to YOU. He moved slightly, and she went on, with a slight catching of her breath: “It’s a bother and disturbance, but you see—” She had to go through with it now, because she could think of nothing but her preconceived words. Kneebone, I'll make one of the party. This whole affair is truly my fault. The gong will go at seven-thirty. ‘Then I don’t advise you to visit Remenham House. ' Avoid taverns and bad company, and you may yet do well. I told him that I would help stage your kidnapping. In after years, some pitying hand supplied the inscription, which ran thus— JACK SHEPPARD THE END.
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