"I am no murderer," replied Sheppard. "Here's a cross-bite. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. “Shhh. . Cloud back of your hat!" He opened his eyes again. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. This adventure of yours has gone on altogether too long; it has become a serious distress to both your aunt and myself. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral. . Taking his way along East Smithfield, mounting Little Tower-hill, and threading the Minories and Hounsditch, he arrived without accident or molestation, at Moorfields.
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