backwards, he darted suddenly through the door.
“After him,” cried Wild; “he mustn’t escape. Dead or alive, I’ll have him. Bring the link.”
And, followed by Abraham, he rushed out of the room.
Just as Jack got half way down the stairs, and Wild and the Jew reached the upper landing, the street-door was opened by Langley and Ireton, the latter of whom carried a lantern.
“Stop him!” shouted Jonathan from the stair-head, “stop him! It’s Jack Sheppard!”
“Give way!” cried Jack fiercely. “I’ll cut down him who opposes me.”
The head turnkey, in all probability, would have obeyed. But, being pushed forward by his subordinate officer, he was compelled to make a stand.
“You’d better surrender quietly, Jack,” he cried; “you’ve no chance.”’
Instead of regarding him, Jack glanced over the iron bannisters, and measured the distance. But the fall was too great, and he abandoned the attempt.
“We have him!” cried Jonathan, hurrying down the steps. “He can’t escape.”
As this was said, Jack turned with the swiftness of thought, and shortening his sword, prepared to plunge it into the thief-taker’s heart. Before he could make the thrust, however, he was seized behind by Ireton, who flung himself upon him.
“Caught!” shouted the head-turnkey. “I give you joy of the capture, Mr. Wild,” he added, as Jonathan came up, and assisted him to secure and disarm the prisoner. “I was coming to give you intelligence of a comical trick played by this rascal, when I find him here — the last place, I own, where I should have expected to find him.”
“You’ve arrived in the very nick of time,” rejoined Jonathan; “and I’ll take care your services are not overlooked.”
“Mr. Ireton,” cried Jack, in accents of the most urgent entreaty, “before you take me hence, I implore you — if you would further the ends of justice — search this house. One of the most barbarous murders ever committed has just been perpetrated by the monster Wild. You will find proofs of the bloody deed in his room. But go thither at once, I beseech you, before he has time to remove them.”
“Mr. Ireton is welcome to search every room in my house if he pleases,” said Jonathan, in a tone of bravado. “As soon as we’ve conveyed you to Newgate, I’ll accompany him.”
“Mr. Ireton will do no such thing,” replied the head-turnkey. “Bless your soul! d’ye think I’m to be gammoned by such nonsense. Not I. I’m not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think.”
“For mercy’s sake go up stairs,” implored Sheppard. “I have not told you half. There’s a man dying — Captain Darrell. Take me with you. Place a pistol at my ear, and shoot me, if I’ve told you false.”
“And, what good would that do?” replied Ireton, sarcastically. “To shoot you would be to lose the reward. You act your part capitally, but it won’t do.”
“Won’t you go?” cried Jack passionately. “Mr. Langley, I appeal to you. Murder, I say, has been done! Another murder will be committed if you don’t prevent it. The blood will rest on your head. Do you hear me, Sir? Won’t you stir!”
“Not a step,” replied Langley, gruffly.
“Off with him to Newgate!” cried Jonathan. “Ireton, as you captured him, the reward is yours. But I request that a third may be given to Langley.”
“It shall be, Sir,” replied Ireton, bowing. “Now come along, Jack.”
“Miscreants!” cried Sheppard, almost driven frantic by the violence of his emotions; “you’re all in league with him.”
“Away with him!” cried Jonathan. “I’ll see him fettered myself. Remain at the door, Nab,” he added, loitering for a moment behind the others, “and let no one in, or out.”
Jack, meanwhile, was carried to Newgate. Austin could scarcely credit his senses when he beheld him. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. Mrs. Spurling had retired for the night. Jack appealed to the new auditors, and again detailed his story, but with no better success than heretofore. His statement was treated with derision. Having seen him heavily ironed, and placed in the Condemned Hold, Jonathan recrossed the street.
He found Abraham on guard as he had left him.
“Has any one been here?” he asked.
“No von,” replied the Jew.
“That’s well,” replied Wild, entering the house, and fastening the door. “And now to dispose of our dead. Why, Nab, you shake as if you’d got an ague?” he added, turning to the Jew, whose teeth chattered audibly.
“I haven’t quite recovered the fright I got in the Vell-Hole,” replied Abraham.
On returning to the audience-chamber, Jonathan found the inanimate body of Thames Darrell lying where he had left it; but, on examining it, he remarked that the pockets were turned inside out, and had evidently been rifled. Startled by this circumstance, he looked around, and perceived that the trap-door — which has been mentioned as communicating with a secret staircase — was open. He, next, discovered that Blueskin was gone; and, pursuing his scrutiny, found that he had carried off all the banknotes, gold, and letters — including, what Jonathan himself was not aware of — the two packets which he had abstracted from the person of Thames. Uttering a terrible imprecation, Jonathan snatched up the link, and hastily descended the stairs, leaving the Jew behind him. After a careful search below, he could detect no trace of Blueskin. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way.
Returning to the audience-chamber in a by-no-means enviable state of mind, he commanded the Jew to throw the body of Thames into the Well Hole.
“You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild,” rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. “No prize shall indushe me to enter dat horrid plashe again.”
“Fool!” cried Wild, taking up the body, “what are you afraid of? After all,” he added, pausing, “he may be of more use to me alive than dead.”
Adhering to this change of plan, he ordered Abraham to follow him, and, descending the secret stairs once more, carried the wounded man into the lower part of the premises. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door.
“Go to the pump, Nab,” he said, when this was done, “and fill a pail with water. We must wash out those stains up stairs, and burn the cloth. Blood, they say, won’t come out. But I never found any truth in the saying. When I’ve had an hour’s rest, I’ll be after Blueskin.”
CHAPTER 15.
HOW BLUESKIN UNDERWENT THE PEINE FORTE ET DURE.
