Jenny made no remark. She sat in the boat with bent head, her cheeks still flaming. 'I am thinking, Will. Don't speak to me just at present.' The boat carried us swiftly down the river. 'I am thinking,' she repeated, 'what is best to do. Will, I had quite forgotten the things.' I could not understand a word of what she said. 'I know now what I have to do. It's a hard thing to do, but it's the best.' She explained no more, and we presently arrived at the Savoy Stairs and took a coach to Bow Street Police Court. It was only six weeks since I was there last, but on what a different errand! The blind magistrate took our case and called for the evidence. First, the woman who had delivered Jenny into the hands of the law deposed that she was a respectable milliner by trade; that she was accidentally in the neighbourhood of the Black Jack about midnight three nights before, when she became aware of something which excited her curiosity and interest. The landlady of the tavern and her daughter Doll were carrying between them a box full of something or other. She followed them, herself unseen. They walked down Denmark Street into Hog's Lane, and carried their box into a garden, the door of which was open: for greater certainty of knowing the place again she marked the door in the corner with a cross. Then the two women came out and returned to the Black Jack. All night long they were carrying things from the tavern to the garden gate; sometimes in boxes, sometimes in their arms; there were silk mantles and satin frocks and embroidered petticoats, very fine. That work kept them all night. Now, knowing the old woman to be a notorious fence, she was certain that these were stolen goods, and that they were removing them for safety to this house probably unknown to the master and the mistress; that in the morning when it was light she went back to the place and found that the garden-door was the back-door of the premises known as the Soho Square Assembly Rooms kept by a Madame Vallance.' 'Well? what then?' asked Sir John. 'Your worship, the next day was the trial of that gentleman there for robbing the Bishop and the Captain. I was in the Old Bailey, sir, and the gentleman would have been brought in guilty and hanged, as many a better man than he has suffered it without a whisper or a snivel--but this woman here--this Madame Vallance who is nothing in the world but Jenny Wilmot the actress--who was an Orange Girl at Drury Lane once--and is the daughter of the old woman that keeps the Black Jack.' 'The Black Jack!' said Sir John. 'The mob wrecked that house last night.' 'And the other house too. They would have set it on fire, your Honour,' said the girl, 'but the soldiers came up and stopped them. More's the pity.' 'Have a care, woman,' said the magistrate, 'or I shall commit you for taking part in the riot. Go on with your evidence if you have any more.'