It was no use. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. She had been careless. " "I didn't want it," replied Jack; "but who are those gentlemen?" "Friends of yours," replied Figg; "come to see you;—Sir James Thornhill, Mr. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. “Lucy, I have to talk to you.
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