She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. Jack! Mon dieu, but he was unarmed. ” “Perhaps,” he said, “you had better let me have your key, and I will go up and explore. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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