“Did you discover any trace of footsteps?” inquired Jack eagerly.
“There were some marks near the window; but whether recently made or not could not be ascertained,” replied Winifred.
“Oh God!” exclaimed Jack, in a tone of the bitterest anguish. “My worst fears are realized. She is in Wild’s power.”
“I ought to add,” continued Winifred, “that one of her shoes was picked up in the garden, and that prints of her feet were discovered along the soft mould; whether made in flying from any one, or from rushing forth in distracted terror, it is impossible to say. My father thought the latter. He has had the whole country searched; but hitherto without success.”
“I know where she will be found, and how,” rejoined Jack with a shudder.
“I have something further to tell you,” pursued Winifred. “Shortly after your last visit to Dollis Hill, my father was one evening waylaid by a man, who informed him that he had something to communicate respecting Thames, and had a large sum of money, and some important documents to deliver to him, which would be given up, provided he would undertake to procure your liberation.”
“It was Blueskin,” observed Jack.
“So my father thought,” replied Winifred; “and he therefore instantly fired upon him. But though the shot took effect, as was evident from the stains on the ground, the villain escaped.”
“Your father did right,” replied Jack, with some bitterness. “But if he had not fired that shot, he might have saved Thames, and possessed himself of papers which would have established his birth, and his right to the estates of the Trenchard family.”
“Would you have had him spare my mother’s murderer?” cried Winifred.
“Ho, no,” replied Jack. “And yet — but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. Listen to me, Winifred.”
And he hastily related the occurrences in Jonathan Wild’s house.
The account of the discovery of Sir Rowland’s murder filled Winifred with alarm; but when she learnt what had befallen Thames — how he had been stricken down by the thief-taker’s bludgeon, and left for dead, she uttered a piercing scream, fainted, and would have fallen, if Jack had not caught her in his arms.
Jack had well-nigh fallen too. The idea that he held in his arms the girl whom he had once so passionately loved, and for whom he still retained an ardent but hopeless attachment, almost overcame him. Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips. It was the first — and the last!
At this juncture, the handle of the door was tried, and the voice of Mr. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance.
“What’s the matter?” he cried. “I thought I heard a scream. Why is the door fastened? Open it directly!”
“Are you alone?” asked Jack, mimicking the voice of Kneebone.
“What for?” demanded Wood. “Open the door, I say, or I’ll burst it open.”
Carefully depositing Winifred on a sofa, Jack then extinguished the light, and, as he unfastened the door, crept behind it. In rushed Mr. Wood, with a candle in his hand, which Jack instantly blew out, and darted down stairs. He upset some one — probably Mr. Bird — who was rushing up stairs, alarmed by Mr. Wood’s cries: but, regardless of this, he darted along a passage, gained the shop, and passed through an open door into the street.
And thus he was once more free, having effected one of the most wonderful escapes ever planned or accomplished.
CHAPTER 22.
FAST AND LOOSE.
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!”