"I was right," replied Jack, returning as coolly as if nothing had happened. And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. He had fallen off when trying to tie down his aluminum paint ladder. “Where am I?” he muttered. He gripped the window-sill behind him. The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted accordingly. He occupied one of the smaller houses near the station.
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