She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. “Don’t they look like a pair of young lovers sleeping off a tryst?” He observed. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. "Put it under my pillow," he said. “No, no,” she cried. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. “Take my advice,” he said hoarsely. “Our interest lies in heading them off.
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