Ruth could not be told now. ‘I do not know. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. It would be a great matter, I must own, to bring Jonathan Wild to justice.
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