Slowly Prudence Sindlesham nodded her head, her eyes never leaving his face. "From that door," continued the thief-taker, pointing to the gloomy portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, "the condemned are taken to Tyburn. He had heard everything. How Jonathan Wild's House was burnt down. But shurely I'd know that vice," he added, turning his lantern towards the janizary. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. And I am grateful to you. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey.
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