"Stop thief!" roared Jonathan, who perceived the fugitive hurrying along a street towards Hatton Garden. " "Beat out their brains, you mean," rejoined Blueskin with a tremendous imprecation; "no half measures now, Master. Wood will be here presently. Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns. They were all stout ill-favoured men, attired in the regular jail-livery of scratch wig and snuff-coloured suit; and had all a strong family likeness to each other.
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