upon a large board in the ground. “Here’s the door. This is the way the old thief brings in all his heavy plunder, which he stows in out-of-the-way holes in his infernal dwelling. I’ve seen him often do it.”
While making these remarks, Blueskin contrived, by means of a chisel which he chanced to have about him, to lift up the board, and, introducing his fingers beneath it, with Jack’s assistance speedily opened it altogether, disclosing a dark hole, into which he leapt.
“Follow me, Thames,” cried Jack, dropping into the chasm.
They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. It was fastened inside. But, taking the chisel from Blueskin, Jack quickly forced back the bolt.
As they entered the room beyond, a fierce growl was heard.
“Let me go first,” said Blueskin; “the dogs know me. Soho! boys.” And, walking up to the animals, which were chained to the wall, they instantly recognised him, and suffered the others to pass without barking.
Groping their way through one or two dark and mouldy-smelling vaults, the party ascended a flight of steps, which brought them to the hall. As Jack conjectured, no one was there, and, though a lamp was burning on a stand, they decided upon proceeding without it. They then swiftly mounted the stairs, and stopped before the audience-chamber. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound. He, next cautiously tried the door, but found it fastened inside.
“I fear we’re too late,” he whispered to Thames. “But, we’ll soon see. Give me the chisel, Blueskin.” And, dexterously applying the implement, he forced open the lock.
They then entered the room, which was perfectly dark.
“This is strange,” said Jack, under his breath. “Sir Rowland must be gone. And, yet, I don’t know. The key’s in the lock, on the inner side. Be on your guard.”
“I am so,” replied Thames, who had followed him closely.
“Shall I fetch the light, Captain?” whispered Blueskin.
“Yes,” replied Jack. “I don’t know how it is,” he added in a low voice to Thames, as they were left alone, “but I’ve a strange foreboding of ill. My heart fails me. I almost wish we hadn’t come.”
As he said this, he moved forward a few paces, when, finding his feet glued to the ground by some adhesive substance, he stooped to feel what it was, but instantly withdrew his hand, with an exclamation of horror.
“God in Heaven!” he cried, “the floor is covered with blood. Some foul murder has been committed. The light! — the light!”
Astounded at his cries, Thames sprang towards him. At this moment, Blueskin appeared with the lamp, and revealed a horrible spectacle — the floor deluged with blood — various articles of furniture upset — papers scattered about — the murdered man’s cloak, trampled upon, and smeared with gore — his hat, crushed and similarly stained — his sword — the ensanguined cloth — with several other ghastly evidences of the slaughterous deed. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor.
“Sir Rowland is murdered!” cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue.
“It is plain he has been destroyed by his perfidious accomplice,” rejoined Thames. “Oh God! how fearfully my father is avenged!”
“True,” replied Jack, sternly; “but we have our uncle to avenge. What’s this?” he added, stooping to pick up a piece of paper lying at his feet — it was Jonathan’s memorandum. “This is the explanation of the bloody deed.”
“Here’s a pocket-book full of notes, and a heavy bag of gold,” said Blueskin, examining the articles on the floor.
“The sum which incited the villain to the murder,” replied Jack. “But he can’t be far off. He must be gone to dispose of the body. We shall have him on his return.”
“I’ll see where these footsteps lead to,” said Blueskin, holding the light to the floor. “Here are some more papers, Captain.”
“Give them to me,” replied Jack. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “a letter, beginning ‘dearest Aliva,’— that’s your mother’s name, Thames.”
“Let me see it,” cried Thames, snatching it from him. “It is addressed to my mother,” he added, as his eye glanced rapidly over it, “and by my father. At length, I shall ascertain my name. Bring the light this way — quick! I cannot decipher the signature.”
Jack was about to comply with the request, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred. Having traced the footsteps to the wall, and perceiving no outlet, Blueskin elevated the lamp, and discovered marks of bloody fingers on the boards.
“He must have gone this way,” muttered Blueskin. “I’ve often heard of a secret door in this room, though I never saw it. It must be somewhere hereabouts. Ah!” he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon a small knob in the wall, “there’s the spring!”
He touched it, and the door flew open.
The next moment, he was felled to the ground by Jonathan Wild, who sprang into the room, followed by Abraham bearing the link. A single glance served to show the thief-taker how matters stood. From the slight sounds that had reached him in his place of confinement, he was aware that some persons had found their way to the scene of slaughter, and in a state of the most intense anxiety awaited the result of their investigation, prepared for the worst. Hearing the spring touched, he dashed through on the instant, and struck down the person who presented himself, with his bludgeon. On beholding the intruders, his fears changed to exultation, and he uttered a roar of satisfaction as he glared at them, which could only be likened to the cry of some savage denizen of the plains.
On his appearance, Jack levelled a pistol at his head. But his hand was withheld by Thames.
“Don’t fire,” cried the latter. “It is important not to slay him. He shall expiate his offences on the gibbet. You are my prisoner, murderer.”
“Your prisoner!” echoed Jonathan, derisively. “You mistake — you are mine. And so is your companion — the convict Sheppard.”
“Waste not another word with him, Thames,” cried Jack. “Upon him!”
“Yield, villain, or die!” shouted Thames, drawing his sword and springing towards him.
“There’s my answer!” rejoined Wild, hurling the bludgeon at him, with such fatal effect, that striking him on the head it brought him instantly to the ground.
“Ah! traitor!” cried Jack, pulling the trigger of his pistol.
Anticipating this, Wild avoided the shot by suddenly, ducking his head. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall.
Before he could fire a second shot, Jack had to defend himself from the thief-taker, who, with his drawn hanger, furiously assaulted him. Eluding the blow, Jack plucked his sword from the scabbard, and a desperate conflict began.
“Pick up that blade, Nab,” vociferated Wild, finding himself hotly pressed, “and stab him. I won’t give him a chance.”
“Cowardly
