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Amid the confusion, Shotbolt sprang to his feet, and levelling a pistol at Jack's head, commanded him to surrender; but, before any reply could be made, the jailer's arm was struck up by Blueskin, who, throwing himself upon him, dragged him to the ground. "Why, what the devil would you have had me do!—make myself scarce, eh? You should have tipped me the wink. Pierre. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Say something. "Be silent," said Jonathan, in a menacing whisper. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. She had called the police on them anonymously. "Because it's not like you," was her answer.
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