"To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. " "A clever device," replied Jonathan; "but it won't serve your turn. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. ‘You have not the right. ’ She smiled on the last words, adding, ‘Oh, I don’t blame you for trying. ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He crossed back to Roding and said low-voiced. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were.
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