He crawled underneath the covers with her. "From Jonathan Wild's confidential servant what could be expected but treachery?" With this, he proceeded to dress himself in Quilt Arnold's clothes, pulled the wig over his face and eyes so as completely to conceal his features, slouched the hat over his brows, drew the huge boots above his knees, and muffled himself up in the best way he could. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. "But there's nothing more to see in Canton. Were I not Jonathan Wild, I'd be Jack Sheppard. "Fly!" cried Jack; "escape if you can; don't mind me. “Thank you. Nobody can trust you. Even her debt to him was a triviality now. Tol-de-rol!" As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture.
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