"By my faith! this is the right thing, Paterson," said the attorney. "We
may be sure the strength of this was never tested by a gauger's proof.
Take another thimbleful. We've twelve miles and a heavy pull to go
through ere we reach Rookwood. After all, we made but a poor night's
work of it, Master Constable. Cursed stupid in us to let him escape. I
only wish we had such another chance. Ah, if we had him within reach
now, how we would spring upon him--secure him in an instant. I should
glory in the encounter. I tell you what, Paterson, if ever he is taken,
I shall make a point of attending his execution, and see whether he dies
game. Ha, ha! You think he's sure to swing, Paterson, eh?"

"Why, yes," replied the chief constable. "I wish I was as certain of my
reward as that Turpin will eventually figure at the scragging-post."

"Your reward!" replied Coates. "Make yourself easy on that score, my
boy; you shall have your dues, depend upon it. Nay, for the matter of
that, I'll give you the money now, if you think proper."

"Nothing like time present," said Paterson. "We'll make all square at
once."

"Well, then," said Coates, taking out a pocket-book, "you shall have the
hundred I promised. You won't get Turpin's reward, the three hundred
pounds; but that can't be helped. You shall have mine--always a man of
my word, Paterson," continued the attorney, counting out the money. "My
father, the thief-taker, was a man of his word before me."

"No doubt," said the chief constable; "I shall always be happy to serve
you."

"And then there's that other affair," said the attorney, mysteriously,
still occupied in doling out his bank-notes, "that Luke Bradley's case;
the fellow, I mean, who calls himself Sir Luke Rookwood--ha, ha! A rank
impostor! Two fives, that makes fifty: you want another fifty, Paterson.
As I was saying, we may make a good job of that--we must ferret him out.
I know who will come down properly for that; and if we could only tuck
him up with his brother blade, why it would be worth double. He's all
along been a thorn in my Lady Rookwood's side; he's an artful
scoundrel."

"Leave him to me," said Paterson; "I'll have him in less than a week.
What's your charge against him?"

"Felony, burglary, murder, every description of crime under the
heavens," said Coates. "He's a very devil incarnate. Dick Turpin is as
mild as milk compared with him. By-the-by, now I think of it, this Jem,
Conkey Jem, as folks call him