It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. . In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "Jack," continued Thames, addressing Sheppard, who had only just recovered from the blow, and regained his feet, "I don't ask how you came here, nor do I blame your rashness in doing so. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. He occupied one of the smaller houses near the station. "I understand, Sir," replied Davies, drawing a little aside.
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