” “Certainly,” Mrs. Wild himself if I met him," retorted Jack. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. “There’s the classes,” said Constance, the well-informed. A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. "You were watched to-night by Blueskin.
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