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"Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers. Detention was merry for the other detainees. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources. "Who, then?" demanded Jack. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. "Will you plead?" demanded Wild, harshly. . Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. Nothing like the direct approach, she thought. ‘Don’t want it to break out bleeding again. Byby.

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