“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
