So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. On an empty cask, which served him for a chair, and opposite Jack Sheppard, whose rapid progress in depravity afforded him the highest satisfaction, sat Blueskin, encouraging the two women in their odious task, and plying his victim with the glass as often as he deemed it expedient to do so. He still watched her and questioned her. Hill closed his eyes. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. From the centre of the ceiling hung a replica of the temple lamp in the Taj Mahal.
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