Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. "Tell him that I—his adopted son, Thames Darrell— am detained here by Jonathan Wild. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. "It is droll," he said. "That I can't say. She might even forgive him. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you.
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