"It is your son. "You don't eat," continued Kneebone, addressing Jack, who had remained for some time thoughtful, and pre-occupied with his head upon his hand. But I have not done so, and will not. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. Sure Mike!" At the hotel he wrote a long letter to his chief, explaining every detail of the fizzle. . Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. '" "Let me see," cried Jack, snatching the paper, and eagerly perusing the advertisement. She had mentioned the address where she and her sister had lived.
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