is_ Constance Trenchard," replied Jonathan, maliciously.

Here Jack Sheppard was unable to repress an exclamation of astonishment.

"Again," cried Jonathan, sternly: "beware!"

"What!" vociferated Trenchard. "My sister the wife of one condemned
felon! the parent of another! It cannot be."

"It _is_ so, nevertheless," replied Wild. "Stolen by a gipsy when
scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various
vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty,
with the dregs of society. It is useless to trace out her miserable
career; though I can easily do so if you require it. To preserve
herself, however, from destitution, or what she considered worse, she
wedded a journeyman carpenter, named Sheppard."

"Alas! that one so highly born should submit to such a degradation?"
groaned the knight.

"I see nothing surprising in it," rejoined Jonathan. "In the first
place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false
pride to get rid of. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and
assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. Distress like
hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed. With
the same inducements we should all do the same thing. Poor girl! she was
beautiful once; so beautiful as to make _me_, who care little for the
allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her."

Jack Sheppard again sought his pistol, and was only withheld from
levelling it at the thief-taker's head, by the hope that he might gather
some further information respecting his mother. And he had good reason
before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance.

"What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard.

"This," replied Jonathan, taking a paper from a portfolio, and handing
it to the knight, "this written evidence, signed by Martha Cooper, the
gipsy, by whom the girl was stolen, and who was afterwards executed for
a similar crime. It is attested, you will observe, by the Reverend Mr.
Purney, the present ordinary of Newgate."

"I am acquainted with Mr. Purney's hand-writing," said Jack, advancing,
"and can at once decide whether this is a forgery or not."

"Look at it, then," said Wild, giving him the portfolio.

"It's the ordinary's signature, undoubtedly," replied Jack.

And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived,
unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from
thence into his pocket.

"And