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"What's the matter?" demanded Jonathan, harshly. The young man opposite was straining his ears to listen to their conversation. He was a business man, pure and simple, his eyes were fastened always upon the practical side of life. Just as he was about to drain it, he encountered the basilisk glance of Jonathan Wild, and paused. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. I'm sure she'll let me go, though. He opened the drawer of the writing table. Wood. Supposing that was it; at least, a solution to part of this amazing riddle? Supposing her father had made her assist him in the care of the derelicts solely to fill her with loathing and abhorrence for mankind? "Didn't you despise the men your father brought home—the beachcombers?" "No. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable.
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