ToC In a hollow in the meadows behind the prison whence Jack Sheppard had escaped,—for, at this time, the whole of the now thickly-peopled district north of Clerkenwell Bridewell was open country, stretching out in fertile fields in the direction of Islington—and about a quarter of a mile off, stood a solitary hovel, known as Black Mary's Hole. "I am not, by Heaven!" replied Sheppard, firmly. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. The Bitchster strikes again. ‘And if you like, I will tell you why. Good riddance. ‘You and Jarvis Remenham both, yes. I thought that he was dead. Consternation gripped him.
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