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Sir Rowland, meantime, paced his chamber with a quick and agitated step. He was ill at ease, though he would not have confessed his disquietude even to himself. Not conceiving that his sister — feeble as she was, and yielding as she had ever shown herself to his wishes, whether expressed or implied — would depart without consulting him, he was equally surprised and enraged to hear the servants busied in transporting her to the carriage. His pride, however, would not suffer him to interfere with their proceedings; much less could he bring himself to acknowledge that he had been in the wrong, and entreat Lady Trafford to remain, though he was well aware that her life might be endangered if she travelled by night. But, when the sound of the carriage-wheels died away, and he felt that she was actually gone, his resolution failed him, and he rang the bell violently.

“My horses, Charcam,” he said, as a servant appeared.

The man lingered.

“‘Sdeath! why am I not obeyed?” exclaimed the knight, angrily. “I wish to overtake Lady Trafford. Use despatch!”

“Her ladyship will not travel beyond Saint Alban’s to-night, Sir Rowland, so Mrs. Norris informed me,” returned Charcam, respectfully; “and there’s a person without, anxious for an audience, whom, with submission, I think your honour would desire to see.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sir Rowland, glancing significantly at Charcam, who was a confidant in his Jacobite schemes; “is it the messenger from Orchard-Windham, from Sir William?”

“No, Sir Rowland.”

“From Mr. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington’s courier was here yesterday.”

“No, Sir Rowland.”

“Perhaps he is from Lord Derwentwater, or Mr. Forster? News is expected from Northumberland.”

“I can’t exactly say, Sir Rowland. The gentleman didn’t communicate his business to me. But I’m sure it’s important.”

Charcam said this, not because he knew anything about the matter; but, having received a couple of guineas to deliver the message, he, naturally enough, estimated its importance by the amount of the gratuity.

“Well, I will see him,” replied the knight, after a moment’s pause; “he may be from the Earl of Mar. But let the horses be in readiness. I shall ride to St. Alban’s to-night.”

So saying, he threw himself into a chair. And Charcam, fearful of another charge in his master’s present uncertain mood, disappeared.

The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light — for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery — to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. He was plainly attired in a riding-dress and boots of the period, and wore a hanger by his side.

“Your servant, Sir Rowland,” said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced.

“Your business, Sir?” returned the other, stiffly.

The new-comer looked at Charcam. Sir Rowland waved his hand, and the attendant withdrew.

“You don’t recollect me, I presume?” premised the stranger, taking a seat.

The knight, who could ill brook this familiarity, instantly arose.

“Don’t disturb yourself,” continued the other, nowise disconcerted by the rebuke. “I never stand upon ceremony where I know I shall be welcome. We have met before.”

“Indeed!” rejoined Sir Rowland, haughtily; “perhaps, you will refresh my memory as to the time, and place.”

“Let me see. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. I have a good memory, you perceive, Sir Rowland.”

The knight staggered as if struck by a mortal wound. Speedily recovering himself, however, he rejoined, with forced calmness, “You are mistaken, Sir. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention.”

The stranger smiled incredulously.

“Well, Sir Rowland,” he said, after a brief pause, during which the knight regarded him with a searching glance, as if endeavouring to recall his features, “I will not gainsay your words. You are in the right to be cautious, till you know with whom you have to deal; and, even then, you can’t be too wary. ‘Avow nothing, believe nothing, give nothing for nothing,’ is my own motto. And it’s a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice. I am not come here to play the part of your father-confessor. I am come to serve you.”

“In what way, Sir?” demanded Trenchard, in astonishment.

“You will learn anon. You refuse me your confidence. I applaud your prudence: it is, however, needless. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser.”

“Make good your assertions,” cried Trenchard, furiously, “or ——”

“To the proof,” interrupted the stranger, calmly. “You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. Sir Montacute had three children — two daughters and yourself. The eldest, Constance, was lost, by the carelessness of a servant, during her infancy, and has never since been heard of: the youngest, Aliva, is the present Lady Trafford. I merely mention these circumstances to show the accuracy of my information.”

“If this is the extent of it, Sir,” returned the knight, ironically, “you may spare yourself further trouble. These particulars are familiar to all, who have any title to the knowledge.”

“Perhaps so,” rejoined the stranger; “but I have others in reserve, not so generally known. With your permission, I will go on in my own way. Where I am in error, you can set me right. — Your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard, who had been a loyal subject of King James the Second, and borne arms in his service, on the abdication of that monarch, turned his back upon the Stuarts, and would never afterwards recognise their claims to the crown. It was said, that he received an affront from James, in the shape of a public reprimand, which his pride could not forgive. Be this as it may, though a Catholic, he died a friend to the Protestant succession.”

“So far you are correct,” observed Trenchard; “still, this is no secret.”

“Suffer me to proceed,” replied the stranger. “The opinions, entertained by the old knight, naturally induced him to view with displeasure the conduct of his son, who warmly espoused the cause he had deserted. Finding remonstrances of no avail, he had recourse to threats; and when threats failed, he adopted more decided measures.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Trenchard.

“As yet,” pursued the stranger, “Sir Montacute had placed no limit to his son’s expenditure. He did not quarrel with Rowland’s profusion, for his own revenues were ample; but he did object to the large sums lavished by him in the service of a faction he was resolved not to support. Accordingly, the old knight reduced his son’s allowance to a third of its previous amount; and, upon further provocation, he even went so far as to alter his will in favour of his daughter, Aliva, who was then betrothed to her cousin, Sir Cecil Trafford.”

“Proceed, Sir,” said Trenchard, breathing hard.

“Under these circumstances, Rowland did what any other sensible person would do. Aware of his father’s inflexibility of purpose, he set his wits to work to defeat the design. He contrived to break off his sister’s match; and this he accomplished so cleverly, that he maintained the strictest friendship with Sir Cecil. For two years he thought himself secure; and, secretly engaged in the Jacobite schemes of the time, in which, also, Sir Cecil was deeply involved, he began to relax in his watchfulness over Aliva. About this time — namely, in November, 1703 — while young Trenchard was in Lancashire, and his sister in London, on a visit, he received a certain communication from his confidential servant, Davies, which, at once, destroyed his hopes. He learnt that his sister was privately married — the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained — and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. Rowland’s plans were quickly formed, and as quickly executed. Accompanied by Sir Cecil, who still continued passionately enamoured of his sister, and to whom he represented that she had fallen a victim to the arts of a seducer, he set off, at fiery speed, for the metropolis. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady’s retreat — a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George’s Fields in Southwark. Refused admittance, they broke open the door. Aliva’s husband, who passed by the name of Darrell, confronted them sword in hand. For a few minutes he kept them at bay. But, urged by his wife’s cries, who was more anxious for the preservation of her child’s life than her own, he snatched up the infant, and made his escape from the back of the premises. Rowland and his companions instantly started in pursuit, leaving the lady to recover as she might. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. Meantime, the lady had overtaken them; but, terrified by the menaces of her vindictive kinsmen, she did not dare to reveal herself to her husband, of whose concealment on the roof of the very house the party were searching she was aware. Aided by an individual, who was acquainted with a secret outlet from the tenement, Darrell escaped. Before his departure, he gave his assistant a glove. That glove is still preserved. In her endeavour to follow him, Aliva met with a severe fall, and was conveyed away, in a state of insensibility, by Sir Cecil. She was supposed to be lifeless; but she survived the accident, though she never regained her strength. Directed by the same individual, who had helped Darrell to steal a march upon him, Rowland, with Davies, and another attendant, continued the pursuit. Both the fugitive and his chasers embarked on the Thames. The elements were wrathful as their passions. The storm burst upon them in its fury. Unmindful of the terrors of the night, unscared by the danger that threatened him, Rowland consigned his sister’s husband and his sister’s child to the waves.”

“Bring your story to an end, Sir,” said Trenchard who had listened to the recital with mingled emotions of rage and fear.

“I have nearly done,” replied the stranger. —“As Rowland’s whole crew perished in the tempest, and he only escaped by miracle, he fancied himself free from detection. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. During this period Sir Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. His title has descended to Rowland: his estates to Aliva. The latter has, since, been induced to unite herself to Sir Cecil, on terms originating with her brother, and which, however strange and unprecedented, were acquiesced in by the suitor.”

Sir Rowland looked bewildered with surprise.

“The marriage was never consummated,” continued the imperturbable stranger. “Sir Cecil is no more. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland.”

“Are you man, or fiend?” exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration.

“You are complimentary, Sir Rowland,” returned the other, with a grim smile.

“If you are human,” rejoined Trenchard, with stern emphasis, “I insist upon knowing whence you derived your information?”

“I might refuse to answer the question, Sir Rowland. But I am not indisposed to gratify you. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources.”

“My confessor!” ejaculated the knight, in the extremity of surprise; “has he betrayed his sacred trust?”

“He has,” replied the other, grinning; “and this will be a caution to you in future, how you confide a secret of consequence to a priest. I should as soon think of trusting a woman. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience.”

“Who are you?” ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses.

“I’m surprised you’ve not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. It would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. My name is Wild — Jonathan Wild.”

And the great thief-taker indulged himself in a chuckle at the effect produced by this announcement. He was accustomed to such surprises, and enjoyed them.

Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword.

“Mr. Wild,” he said, in a sarcastic tone, but with great firmness; “a person of your well-known sagacity must be aware that some secrets are dangerous to the possessor.”

“I am fully aware of it, Sir Rowland,” replied Jonathan, coolly; “but I have nothing to fear; because, in the first place, it will be to your advantage not to molest me; and, in the second, I am provided against all contingencies. I never hunt the human tiger without being armed. My janizaries are without. One of them is furnished with a packet containing the heads of the statement I have just related, which, if I don’t return at a certain time, will be laid before the proper authorities. I have calculated my chances, you perceive.”

“You have forgotten that you are in my power,” returned the knight, sternly; “and that all your allies cannot save you from my resentment.”

“I can at least, protect myself,” replied Wild, with, provoking calmness. “I am accounted a fair shot, as well as a tolerable swordsman, and I will give proof of my skill in both lines, should occasion require it. I have had a good many desperate engagements in my time, and have generally come off victorious. I bear the marks of some of them about me still,” he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver. “This gash,” he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, “was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Knap. This wedge of silver,” pointing to another, “which would mend a coffee-pot, serves to stop up a breach made by Will Colthurst, who robbed Mr. Hearl on Hounslow-Heath. I secured the dog after he had wounded me. This fracture was the handiwork of Jack Parrot (otherwise called Jack the Grinder), who broke into the palace of the Bishop of Norwich. Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace’s best burgundy, as well as his grace’s favourite housekeeper. The Bishop, however, to show him the danger of meddling with the church, gave him a dance at Tyburn for his pains. Not a scar but has its history. The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink. But that’s an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman — Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting. She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand. Thus, you see, I’ve never hesitated and never shall hesitate to expose my life where anything is to be gained. My profession has hardened me.”

And, with this, he coolly re-adjusted his peruke.

“What do you expect to gain from this interview, Mr. Wild!” demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution.

“Ah! now we come to business,” returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands, gleefully. “These are my terms, Sir Rowland,” he added, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight.

Trenchard glanced at the document.

“A thousand pounds,” he observed, gloomily, “is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured.”

“You would purchase it at the price of your head,” replied Jonathan, knitting his brows. “Sir Rowland,” he added, savagely, and with somewhat of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, “if it were my pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. You are wholly in my power. Your name, with the fatal epithet of ‘dangerous’ attached to it, stands foremost on the list of Disaffected now before the Secret Committee. I hold a warrant from Mr. Walpole for your apprehension.”

“Arrested!” exclaimed Trenchard, drawing his sword.

“Put up your blade, Sir Rowland,” rejoined Jonathan, resuming his former calm demeanour, “King James the Third will need it. I have no intention of arresting you. I have a different game to play; and it’ll be your own fault, if you don’t come off the winner. I offer you my assistance on certain terms. The proposal is so far from being exorbitant, that it should be trebled if I had not a fellow-feeling in the cause. To be frank with you, I have an affront to requite, which can be settled at the same time, and in the same way with your affair. That’s worth something to me; for I don’t mind paying for revenge. After all a thousand pounds is a trifle to rid you of an upstart, who may chance to deprive you of tens of thousands.”

“Did I hear you aright?” asked Trenchard, with startling eagerness.

“Certainly,” replied Jonathan, with the most perfect sangfroid, “I’ll undertake to free you from the boy. That’s part of the bargain.”

“Is he alive!” vociferated Trenchard.

“To be sure,” returned Wild; “he’s not only alive, but likely for life, if we don’t clip the thread.”

Sir Rowland caught at a chair for support, and passed his hand across his brow, on which the damp had gathered thickly.

“The intelligence seems new to you. I thought I’d been sufficiently explicit,” continued Jonathan. “Most persons would have guessed my meaning.”

“Then it was not a dream!” ejaculated Sir Rowland in a hollow voice, and as if speaking to himself. “I did see them on the platform of the bridge — the child and his preserver! They were not struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood — or, if they were, they escaped as I escaped. God! I have cheated myself into a belief that the boy perished! And now my worst fears are realized — he lives!”

“As yet,” returned Jonathan, with fearful emphasis.

“I cannot — dare not injure him,” rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair.

Jonathan laughed scornfully.

“Leave him to me,” he said. “He shan’t trouble you further.”

“No,” replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. “I will struggle no longer with destiny. Too much blood has been shed already.”

“This comes of fine feelings!” muttered Jonathan, contemptuously. “Give me your thorough-paced villain. But I shan’t let him off thus. I’ll try a strong dose. — Am I to understand that you intend to plead guilty, Sir Rowland?” he added. “If so, I may as well execute my warrant.”

“Stand off, Sir!” exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards.

“I knew that would bring him to,” thought Wild.

“Where is the boy?” demanded Sir Rowland.

“At present under the care of his preserver — one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up.”

“Wood!” exclaimed Trenchard — “of Wych Street?”

“The same.”

“A boy from his shop was here a short time ago. Could it be him you mean?”

“No. That boy was the carpenter’s apprentice, Jack Sheppard. I’ve just left your nephew.”

At this moment Charcam entered the room.

“Beg pardon, Sir Rowland,” said the attendant, “but there’s a boy from Mr. Wood, with a message for Lady Trafford.”

“From whom?” vociferated Trenchard.

“From Mr. Wood the carpenter.”

“The same who was here just now?”

“No, Sir Rowland, a much finer boy.”

“’Tis he, by Heaven!” cried Jonathan; “this is lucky. Sir Rowland,” he added, in a deep whisper, “do you agree to my terms?”

“I do,” answered Trenchard, in the same tone.

“Enough!” rejoined Wild; “he shall not return.”

“Have you acquainted him with Lady Trafford’s departure?” said the knight, addressing Charcam, with as much composure as he could assume.

“No, Sir Rowland,” replied the attendant, “as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. Besides, there’s something odd about the boy; for, though I questioned him pretty closely concerning his business, he declined answering my questions, and said he could only deliver his message to her ladyship. I thought it better not to send him away till I’d mentioned the circumstance to you.”

“You did right,” returned Trenchard.

“Where is he?” asked Jonathan.

“In the hall,” replied Charcam.

“Alone?”

“Not exactly, Sir. There’s another lad at the gate waiting for him — the same who was here just now, that Sir Rowland was speaking of, who fastened up the jewel-case for her ladyship.”

“A jewel-case!” exclaimed Jonathan. “Ah, I see it all!” he cried, with a quick glance. “Jack Sheppard’s fingers are lime-twigs. Was anything missed after the lad’s departure, Sir Rowland?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” said the knight. —“Stay! something occurs to me.” And he conferred apart with Jonathan.

“That’s it!” cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. “This young fool is come to restore the article — whatever it may be — which Lady Trafford was anxious to conceal, and which his companion purloined. It’s precisely what such a simpleton would do. We have him as safe as a linnet in a cage; and could wring his neck round as easily. Oblige me by acting under my guidance in the matter, Sir Rowland. I’m an old hand at such things. Harkee,” he added, “Mr. What’s-your-name!”

“Charcam,” replied the attendant, bowing.

“Very well, Mr. Charcoal, you may bring in the boy. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford’s absence — mind that. A robbery has been committed, and your master suspects this lad as an accessory to the offence. He, therefore, desires to interrogate him. It will be necessary to secure his companion; and as you say he is not in the house, some caution must be used in approaching him, or he may chance to take to his heels, for he’s a slippery little rascal. When you’ve seized him, cough thrice thus — and two rough-looking gentlemen will make their appearance. Don’t be alarmed by their manners, Mr. Charcoal. They’re apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. The gentleman with the red beard will relieve you of your prisoner. The other must call a coach as quickly as he can.”

“For whom, Sir?” inquired Charcam. “For me — his master, Mr. Jonathan Wild.”

“Are you Mr. Jonathan Wild?” asked the attendant, in great trepidation.

“I am, Charcoal. But don’t let my name frighten you. Though,” said the thief-taker, with a complacent smile, “all the world seems to tremble at it. Obey my orders, and you’ve nothing to fear. About them quickly. Lead the lad to suppose that he’ll be introduced to Lady Trafford. You understand me, Charcoal.”

The attendant did not understand him. He was confounded by the presence in which he found himself. But, not daring to confess his want of comprehension, he made a profound reverence, and retired.