However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. Jack tried it, and found it locked. He was almost frightening in silhouette, his hair uncontrollable under the best of circumstances, but that changed when you saw his face. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. It had evidently seen better days before being relegated to the ministrations of a hackney coachman, one who evidently served the less affluent inhabitants of London. It will do its best to overlook things—” “If we let it, poor dear.
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