"Bravo, Poll!" cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper. I've despatched him to the New Prison. "Perhaps that would have been best. But one day he came to me. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Not far from the entrance, on the left, was a sort of screen, or partition-wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, formed of thick oaken planks riveted together by iron bolts, and studded with broad-headed nails. " "There it is;" replied the other, tossing him the glove. "I must have dropped it when I took out my note-book. " "The very face," exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—"with all the escapes written in it.
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