’ ‘Ah, you know about that, then?’ ‘That much, yes. ' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. Strange gurgle-like noises emanated from the crypt. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. It was a tale of battle, murder, and sudden death on the New York waterfront. .
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