Wherever I saw him, I should pick him out as a man designed by nature to plan and accomplish the wonderful escapes he has effected. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. Arrived there, the porter thundered at the massive door of the Lodge, which was instantly opened—Shotbolt's note having been received just before. On the groundfloor the shutters were closed, or, to speak more correctly, altogether nailed up, and presented a very singular appearance, being patched all over with the soles of old shoes, rusty hobnails, and bits of iron hoops, the ingenious device of the former occupant of the apartment, Paul Groves, the cobbler, to whom we have before alluded. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral.
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