F. ToC Scarcely an hour after the horrible occurrence just related, as Jonathan Wild was seated in the audience-chamber of his residence at the Old Bailey, occupied, like Peachum, (for whose portrait he sat,) with his account-books and registers, he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Quilt Arnold, who announced Jack Sheppard and Blueskin. " "What is it?" asked the poor woman. Her eye met Miss Stanley’s understandingly, and she was if anything a trifle more affectionate in her greeting to Ann Veronica. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. The black, meantime, began to ply his hammer, and speedily unriveted the chains. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. Yours?" The stranger hesitated. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. She says to be home by one AM.
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