When order was once more restored, Markham addressed himself to the two champions who had avenged him in their own peculiar style, and not only thanked them for their well-meant though mistaken kindness, but also gave them munificent proofs of his bounty.
"And now," said Richard, turning towards Pocock, "are you willing to sign a declaration of my innocence?"
"On condition that the paper shall never be used against me," answered the engraver.
"Could I not this moment give you into custody to the police, upon your own confession of having forged the plate from which the bank-notes were printed?"
"Certainly: I was wrong to make any conditions. You are a man of honour."
Markham proceeded to draw up the declaration referred to; and Pocock signed it with a firm and steady hand.
This ceremony being completed, Richard placed Bank of England notes for fifty pounds in the engraver's hand.
"Accept this," he said, "as a token of my gratitude and a proof of my forgiveness; and, believe me, I regret that my means do not allow me to be more liberal. Endeavour to enter an honest path; and should you ever require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to me."
Pocock wept tears of gratitude and repentance—the only acknowledgment he could offer for this sudden and most welcome aid. His emotions choked his powers of utterance.
Markham hurried from the room, and took his departure from the establishment which possessed such an ominous name, but which had proved the scene of a great benefit to him that evening.
He was hurrying up Brick Lane in a northerly direction—that is to say, towards Church Street, when he was suddenly stopped by an individual whom he encountered in his way, and who carried a large life-preserver in his hand.
"I suppose you were tired of waiting for me," said the Resurrection Man—for it was he.
"I certainly imagined you would not come to-night," answered Richard.
"Well, better late than never. It is fortunate that we met: it will save you another journey to-morrow night, you know."
"Yes—I am glad that we have met, as my time is now too valuable to waste."
"In that case, we can either return to the Dark House, which is open all night; or you can give me the money in the street. You don't require any receipt, I suppose?"
"No: neither will you require to give me any."
"So I thought: honour among thieves, eh? Excuse the compliment. But, in the first place, have you got the tin?"
"I had the whole amount just now, in my pocket, when I first went to the Dark House."
"Then I suppose it is all there still?"
"Not all. I have parted with fifty pounds out of it."
"The deuce you have! And how came you to do that?" demanded the Resurrection Man gruffly. "I gave you fair warning that I would take nothing less than the entire sum."
"I obtained, in a most extraordinary manner, a proof of my innocence; and I think I purchased it cheaply at that rate. I would have given all I possessed in the world," added Markham, "to procure it."
"The devil!" cried the Resurrection Man, who grew uneasy at the cold and indifferent way in which Markham spoke. "Well, I suppose I must take what you have got left. You can easily leave the remainder for me at the Dark House."
"Not a shilling will you now obtain from me," ejaculated Richard firmly; "and I have waited to tell you so. I have made up my mind to reveal the entire truth, without reserve, to those from whom I was before foolishly and dishonourably anxious to conceal it."
"This gammon won't do for me," cried the Resurrection Man. "You want to stall me off; but I'm too wide awake. Give me the tin, or I'll start off to-morrow morning to Richmond, and see the count upon—you know what subject. Before I left that neighbourhood the other day, I made all the necessary inquiries about the people of the house which the young lady went into."
"You may save yourself that trouble also," said Markham; "for I shall reveal all that you would unfold. But, in a word, you may do what you choose."
"Come now," ejaculated the Resurrection Man, considerably crest-fallen; "assist an old companion in difficulties: lend me a hundred or so."
"No," returned Richard in a resolute manner; "had you asked me in the first instance to assist you, I would have done so willingly;—but you have endeavoured to extort a considerable sum of money from me—much more than I could spare; and I should not now be justified in yielding to the prayers of a man who has found that his base menaces have failed."
"You do not think I would have done what I said?" cried the Resurrection Man.
"I believe you to be capable of any villany. But we have already conversed too long. I was anxious to show you how a virtuous resolution would enable me to triumph over your base designs;—and I have now nothing more to say to you. Our ways lie in different directions, both at present and in future. Farewell."
With these words Markham continued his way up Brick Lane; but the Resurrection Man was again by his side in a moment.
"You refuse to assist me?" he muttered in a hoarse and savage tone.
"I do. Molest me no further."
"You refuse to assist me?" repeated the villain, grinding his teeth with rage: "then you may mind the consequences! I will very soon show you that you will bitterly—bitterly repent your determination. By God, I will be revenged!"
"I shall know how to be upon my guard," said Markham.
He then walked rapidly on, without looking behind him.
The Resurrection Man stood still for a moment, considering how to act: then, apparently struck by a sudden idea, he hastened stealthily after Richard Markham.
CHAPTER XLIII.
THE MUMMY.
THE district of Spitalfields and Bethnal Green was totally unknown to Markham. Indeed, his visit upon the present occasion was the first he had ever paid to that densely populated and miserable region.
It was now midnight; and the streets were nearly deserted. The lamps, few and far between, only made darkness visible, instead of throwing a useful light upon the intricate maze of narrow thoroughfares.
Markham's object was to reach Shoreditch as soon as possible; for he knew that opposite the church there was a cab-stand where he might procure a vehicle to take him home. Emerging from Brick Lane, he crossed Church Street, and struck into that labyrinth of dirty and dangerous lanes in the vicinity of Bird-cage Walk, which we alluded to at the commencement of the preceding chapter.
He soon perceived that he had mistaken his way; and at length found himself floundering about in a long narrow street, unpaved, and here and there almost blocked up with heaps of putrescent filth. There was not a lamp in this perilous thoroughfare: no moon on high irradiated his path;—black night enveloped every thing above and below in total darkness.
Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps behind him; and then he stopped, hoping to be overtaken by some one of whom he might inquire his way. But either his ears deceived him, or else the person whose steps he heard stopped when he did.
There was not a light in any of the houses on either side; and not a sound of revelry or sorrow escaped from the ill-closed casements.
Richard was