The young rascal had learnt from some of the women-servants that Lady Trafford was from home, and was in the very act of making off when I got down stairs. Figg," said Jack. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. "The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. ’ ‘Idiot. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door.
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