She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. She could feel his eyes surreptiously scanning her backside. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found.
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