Unmindful of the terrors of the night, unscared by the danger that threatened him, Rowland consigned his sister's husband and his sister's child to the waves." "Bring your story to an end, Sir," said Trenchard who had listened to the recital with mingled emotions of rage and fear. "I have nearly done," replied the stranger.--"As Rowland's whole crew perished in the tempest, and he only escaped by miracle, he fancied himself free from detection. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. During this period Sir Montacute has been gathered to his fathers. His title has descended to Rowland: his estates to Aliva. The latter has, since, been induced to unite herself to Sir Cecil, on terms originating with her brother, and which, however strange and unprecedented, were acquiesced in by the suitor." Sir Rowland looked bewildered with surprise. "The marriage was never consummated," continued the imperturbable stranger. "Sir Cecil is no more. Lady Trafford, supposed to be childless, broken in health and spirits, frail both in mind and body, is not likely to make another marriage. The estates must, ere long, revert to Sir Rowland." "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. "You are complimentary, Sir Rowland," returned the other, with a grim smile. "If you _are_ human," rejoined Trenchard, with stern emphasis, "I insist upon knowing whence you derived your information?" "I might refuse to answer the question, Sir Rowland. But I am not indisposed to gratify you. Partly, from your confessor; partly, from other sources." "My confessor!" ejaculated the knight, in the extremity of surprise; "has _he_ betrayed his sacred trust?" "He has," replied the other, grinning; "and this will be a caution to you in future, how you confide a secret of consequence to a priest. I should as soon think of trusting a woman. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience." "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. "I'm surprised you've not asked that question before, Sir Rowland. It would have saved me much circumlocution, and you some suspense. My name is Wild--Jonathan Wild." And the great thief-taker indulged himself in a chuckle at the effect produced by this announcement. He was accustomed to such surprises, and enjoyed them. Sir Rowland laid his hand upon his sword. "Mr. Wild," he said, in a sarcastic tone, but with great firmness; "a person of your well-known sagacity must be aware that some secrets are dangerous to the possessor."