“I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. ‘Why did you bring him? I hate him. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. Acquainted with every part of the jail, Jack well knew that his only chance of effecting an escape must be by the roof. She tried to think how people get work. Anna jumped into a waiting hansom.
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