Sheppard repressed the scream that rose to her lips, and both mother and son gazed with apprehension at the heavy figure of the thief-taker, which, viewed in the twilight, seemed dilated to twice its natural size, and appeared almost to block up the window. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. Only she is not Madame Valade at all. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. .
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