Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. “What the hell is going on here, Officer?” He grumbled. “Perhaps for myself I do not mind, but this man is sure to find out some day, and he will not like having been deceived.
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