“Don't question me, but leave me,” replied the widow wildly; “you had better.”
“Leave you!” echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; “—not just yet.”
“I am not unprotected,” rejoined the poor woman; “there's some one at the window. Help! help!”
But her cries were unheeded. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
“It won't do, widow,” said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, “so you may spare your breath. Come, come, be reasonable, and listen to me. Your kid has already brought me good luck, and may bring me still more if his edication's attended to. This purse,” he added, chinking it in the air, “and this ring, were given me for him just now by the lady, who made a false step on leaving your house. If I'd been in the way, instead of Jonathan Wild, that accident wouldn't have happened.”
As he said this, a slight noise was heard without.
“What's that?” ejaculated the ruffian, glancing uneasily towards the window. “Who's there?—Pshaw! it's only the wind.”
“It's Jonathan Wild,” returned the widow, endeavouring to alarm him. “I told you I was not unprotected.”
“He protect you,” retorted Blueskin, maliciously; “you haven't a worse enemy on the face of the earth than Jonathan Wild. If you'd read your husband's dying speech, you'd know that he laid his death at Jonathan's door,—and with reason too, as I can testify.”
“Man!” screamed Mrs. Sheppard, with a vehemence that shook even the hardened wretch beside her, “begone, and tempt me not.”