Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. 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. It’s your first evening, and early impressions do count for so much. Jonathan, in all probability, knows nothing of these packets; and their production may serve to intimidate him. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment. I didn’t believe him and I said so. His eyes caught at hers with passionate inquiries. One night, about this time, just as Austin was about to lock the great gate, Jonathan Wild and his two janizaries entered the Lodge with a prisoner bound hand and foot. I rarely set foot in London these days. “I am under police surveillance,” she said.
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