The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. A white man, wandering about the streets of Canton at night, was a challenge to such a catastrophe. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both.
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