he exclaimed, with a sudden start, as
his glance fell upon the portrait; "how came this into your possession,
boy?"

"Why don't you answer, sirrah?" cried Wild, in a savage tone, and
striking him with the silver staff. "Can't you speak?"

"I don't choose," replied Thames, sturdily; "and your brutality shan't
make me."

"We'll see that," replied Jonathan, dealing him another and more violent
blow.

"Let him alone," said Trenchard authoritatively, "I have another
question to propose. Do you know whoso portrait this is?"

"I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to
be the portrait of my father."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the knight, in astonishment. "Is your father alive?"

"No," returned Thames; "he was assassinated while I was an infant."

"Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard.

"My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the
presence of his murderer."

"That's me," interposed Jonathan; "a thief-taker is always a murderer in
the eyes of a thief. I'm almost sorry your suspicions are unfounded, if
your father in any way resembled you, my youngster. But I can tell you
who'll have the pleasure of hanging your father's son; and that's a
person not a hundred miles distant from you at this moment--ha! ha!"

As he said this, the door was opened, and Charcam entered, accompanied
by a dwarfish, shabby-looking man, in a brown serge frock, with coarse
Jewish features, and a long red beard. Between the Jew and the attendant
came Jack Sheppard; while a crowd of servants, attracted by the news,
that the investigation of a robbery was going forward, lingered at the
doorway in hopes of catching something of the proceedings.

When Jack was brought in, he cast a rapid glance around him, and
perceiving Thames in the custody of Jonathan, instantly divined how
matters stood. As he looked in this direction, Wild gave him a
significant wink, the meaning of which he was not slow to comprehend.

"Get it over quickly," said Trenchard, in a whisper to the thief-taker.

Jonathan nodded assent.

"What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was
looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on.

"Jack Sheppard," returned the boy, fixing his eyes upon a portrait of
the Earl of Mar. "Who's that queer cove in the full-bottomed wig?"

"Attend to me, sirrah," rejoined Wild, sternly. "Do you know this
picture?" he added, with another significant