A ball from Wild's pistol passed through his heart, and a volley of musketry poured from the guards lodged several balls in the yet breathing body of his leader. Lucy had caught it when it was a millimeter away from hitting her teeth. She thought of the smiles she would gather when she brought forth his first grandson. I overheard Jonathan Wild's instructions to Quilt Arnold, and though he spoke in slang, and in an under tone, my quick ears, and acquaintance with the thieves' lingo, enabled me to make out every word he uttered. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said.
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