"I knew that would bring him to," thought Wild. She stood among them, watching them and feeling curiously alien to them. However this may be, such was the ill report of the place that few passed along the Old Bailey without bestowing a glance of fearful curiosity at its dingy walls, and wondering what was going on inside them; while fewer still, of those who paused at the door, read, without some internal trepidation, the formidable name—inscribed in large letters on its bright brass-plate—of JONATHAN WILD. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. "Took a great fancy to you. At last—I told a story. Why are you so anxious?" "Oh, if you can't see your way….
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