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About seven o’clock on the same night, Jonathan Wild’s two janizaries, who had been for some time in attendance in the hall of his dwelling at the Old Bailey, were summoned to the audience-chamber. A long and secret conference then took place between the thief-taker and his myrmidons, after which they were severally dismissed.

Left alone, Jonathan lighted a lamp, and, opening the trap-door, descended the secret stairs. Taking the opposite course from that which he had hitherto pursued when it has been necessary to attend him in his visits to the lower part of his premises, he struck into a narrow passage on the right, which he tracked till he came to a small door, like the approach to a vault. Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance.

On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze.

“Drink this,” cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. “You’ll feel better after it.”

Mechanically raising the potion to her lips, the poor creature swallowed it without hesitation.

“Is it poison?” she asked.

“No,” replied Jonathan, with a brutal laugh. “I’m not going to get rid of you just yet. It’s gin — a liquor you used to like. You’ll find the benefit of it by and by. You’ve a good deal to go through to-night.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, “are you come to renew your terrible proposals?”

“I’m come to execute my threats,” replied Wild. “To-night you shall be my wedded wife.”

“I will die first,” replied Mrs. Sheppard.

“You may die afterwards as soon as you please,” retorted Jonathan; “but live till then you shall. I’ve sent for the priest.”

“Mercy!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, vainly trying to discover a gleam of compassion in the thief-taker’s inexorable countenance — “Mercy! mercy!”

“Pshaw!” rejoined Jonathan. “You should be glad to be made an honest woman.”

“Oh! let me die,” groaned the widow. “I have not many days — perhaps, not many hours to live. But kill me rather than commit this outrage.”

“That wouldn’t answer my purpose,” replied Jonathan, savagely. “I didn’t carry you off from old Wood to kill you, but to wed you.”

“What motive can you have for so vile a deed?” asked Mrs. Sheppard.

“You know my motive well enough,” answered Jonathan. “However, I’ll refresh your memory. I once might have married you for your beauty — now I marry you for your wealth.”

“My wealth,” replied Mrs. Sheppard. “I have nothing.”

“You are heiress to the Trenchard property,” rejoined Jonathan, “one of the largest estates in Lancashire.”

“Not while Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland live.”

“Sir Rowland is dead,” replied Jonathan, gloomily. “Thames Darrell only waits my mandate to follow him. Before our marriage there will be no life between you and the estates.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard.

“Look here,” cried Jonathan, stooping down and taking hold of a ring in the floor, with which by a great effort he raised up a flag. “In this pit,” he added, pointing to the chasm below, “your brother is buried. Here your nephew will speedily be thrown.”

“Horrible!” cried Mrs. Sheppard, shuddering violently. “But your dreadful projects will recoil on your own head. Heaven will not permit the continuance of such wickedness as you practise.”

“I’ll take my chance,” replied Jonathan, with a sinister smile. “My schemes have succeeded tolerably well hitherto.”

“A day of retribution will assuredly arrive,” rejoined Mrs. Sheppard.

“Till then, I shall remain content,” returned Wild. “And now, Mrs. Sheppard, attend to what I’m about to say to you. Years ago, when you were a girl and in the bloom of your beauty, I loved you.”

“Loved me! You!”

“I loved you,” continued Jonathan, “and struck by your appearance, which seemed above your station, inquired your history, and found you had been stolen by a gipsy in Lancashire. I proceeded to Manchester, to investigate the matter further, and when there ascertained, beyond a doubt, that you were the eldest daughter of Sir Montacute Trenchard. This discovery made, I hastened back to London to offer you my hand, but found you had married in the mean time a smock-faced, smooth-tongued carpenter named Sheppard. The important secret remained locked in my breast, but I resolved to be avenged. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows — would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery — and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father.”

“And terribly you have kept your vow,” replied Mrs. Sheppard.

“I have,” replied Jonathan. “But I am now coming to the point which most concerns you. Consent to become my wife, and do not compel me to have recourse to violence to effect my purpose, and I will spare your son.”

Mrs. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul.

“Swear that you will do this,” she cried.

“I swear it,” rejoined Jonathan, readily.

“But what is an oath to you!” cried the widow, distrustfully. “You will not hesitate to break it, if it suits your purpose. I have suffered too much from your treachery. I will not trust you.”

“As you please,” replied Jonathan, sternly. “Recollect you are in my power. Jack’s life hangs on your determination.”

“What shall I do?” cried Mrs. Sheppard, in a voice of agony.

“Save him,” replied Jonathan. “You can do so.”

“Bring him here — let me see him — let me embrace him — let me be assured that he is safe, and I am yours. I swear it.”

“Hum!” exclaimed Jonathan.

“You hesitate — you are deceiving me.”

“By my soul, no,” replied Jonathan, with affected sincerity. “You shall see him to-morrow.”

“Delay the marriage till then. I will never consent till I see him.”

“Yon ask impossibilities,” replied Jonathan, sullenly. “All is prepared. The marriage cannot — shall not be delayed. Yon must be mine to-night.”

“Force shall not make me yours till Jack is free,” replied the widow, resolutely.

“An hour hence, I shall return with the priest,” replied Jonathan, striding towards the door.

And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door.

“An hour hence, I shall be beyond your malice,” said Mrs. Sheppard, sinking backwards upon the pallet.