"What's the matter with the man?" demanded Wild. Kneebone's door, you begged me to await your return here, assuring me you would not detain me five minutes. "Stop thief!" roared Jonathan, who perceived the fugitive hurrying along a street towards Hatton Garden. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. He was so seldom wrong. "What has delayed you?" demanded the knight impatiently.
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