At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. And then came the vile experience of being forced and borne along the street to the police-station. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. As silent as she had remained about who had brought her home last night. Torment! And so Ruth discovered him. His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. And immediately afterwards the curtain was drawn aside, and disclosed the Satanic countenance of Jonathan Wild, who had crept into the house unperceived, "I'll tell you, why he can't go back to his master," cried the thief-taker, with a malignant grin. When at first she had realized that he 206 had conducted a sexual affair with a local well-known Florentine courtesan she called him out, accusing him of exposing her to an array of diseases. I mean I’m not a good specimen of a woman. "Ah!" exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength.
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