Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. Sheppard was no sooner alone than she fell upon her knees by the side of the couch, and poured forth her heart in prayer. Rhea spun round and sank her teeth into Lucy’s arm. It begins with that queer piccolo solo. If Jack Sheppard or his mother ever enter this house again, I leave it—that's all.
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