Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. ’ He sighed elaborately. I've seen many a clever cracksman, but never one like him.
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