The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. My name is Wild— Jonathan Wild. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. " "Not in the least," replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; "there's my staff. Perhaps it was loneliness. ‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply.
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