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She could learn nothing of her son, and only obtained one solitary piece of information, which added to, rather than alleviated her misery,—namely, that Jonathan Wild had paid a secret visit to the Cross Shovels. She gloried in it: he needed her. He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. "You've given me more than the amount, Sir Rowland," he said, after he had twice counted them, "or I've missed my reckoning. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. "Dying, Sir Rowland.
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