Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. "Don't mention it," returned Wood, in the conciliatory tone of one who admits he has been in the wrong; "your explanation is perfectly satisfactory. As Jack departed, a dark figure, emerging from behind a wall, rushed after him. It’s an instinct. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. ‘Yes, miss. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. Wood rushed instantly to meet them. They walked side by side for a time.
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