ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. "Ha!" he exclaimed, with a sudden start, as his glance fell upon the portrait; "how came this into your possession, boy?" "Why don't you answer, sirrah?" cried Wild, in a savage tone, and striking him with the silver staff. I can smell you. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. But, though I cannot reward you, Heaven will. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. Does that boy live in some sort of personal cave? Like, I think he might even be thinking about asking you out again! That is what I think. He motioned the young man to the rear chair, because at that hour the youth appeared to be a quantity close to zero.
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