o his heels as soon as he found
his murderous attempt unsuccessful; "you may run, but you'll not get out
of my reach. I'll put a brace of dogs on your track, who'll soon hunt
you down. You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name's not
Jonathan Wild. I told you, Sir Rowland," he added, turning to the
knight, and chuckling, "the devil never deserts me."

"Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay," said
Trenchard, sternly,--"to the boy."

"The boy's not at my house," replied Wild.

"Where is he, then?" demanded the other, hastily.

"At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a
sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side,
and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to
be committed. You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland.
He's safe enough now. I left him in charge of Quilt Arnold and Rykhart
Van Galgebrok--the skipper I spoke of--with strict orders to shoot him
if he made any further attempt at escape; and they're not lads--the
latter especially--to be trifled with. I deemed it more prudent to send
him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search
after him by his adoptive father--the carpenter Wood. If you choose, you
can see him put on board the Zeeslang yourself, Sir Rowland. But,
perhaps, you'll first accompany me to my dwelling for a moment, that we
may arrange our accounts before we start. I've a few necessary
directions to leave with my people, to put 'em on their guard against
the chance of a surprise. Suffer me to precede you. This way, Sir
Rowland."

The thief-taker's residence was a large dismal-looking, habitation,
separated from the street by a flagged court-yard, and defended from
general approach by an iron railing. Even in the daylight, it had a
sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining
houses, as if afraid of their society. In the obscurity in which it was
now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy
to make it resemble one as much as possible. The windows were grated,
the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a
cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer,
with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance
and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. The clanking of
chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have