“I’ve got bad faults. Sheppard," cried the thief-taker, as he slipped a pair of handcuffs over Jack's wrists, "for the help you have given us in capturing your son. I’m a Socialist, Miss Stanley. . "Where are you going?" she asked. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside.
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