‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. Sheppard. Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer.
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