“Once there,” proceeded Wild, without noticing the interruption, “he's as good as in his grave. The constable, Sharples, is in my pay. I can remove the prisoner at any hour of the night I think fit: and I _will_ remove him. You must, know, Sir Rowland--for I've no secrets from you--that, in the course of my business I've found it convenient to become the owner of a small Dutch sloop; by means of which I can transmit any light ware,--such as gold watches, rings, and plate, as well as occasionally a bank or goldsmith's note, which has been _spoken with_ by way of the mail,--you understand me?--to Holland or Flanders, and obtain a secure and ready market for them. This vessel is now in the river, off Wapping. Her cargo is nearly shipped. She will sail, at early dawn to-morrow, for Rotterdam. Her commander, Rykhart Van Galgebrok, is devoted to my interests. As soon as he gets into blue water, he'll think no more of pitching the boy overboard than of lighting his pipe. This will be safer than cutting his throat on shore. I've tried the plan, and found it answer. The Northern Ocean keeps a secret better than the Thames, Sir Rowland. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang.” “Poor child!” muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; “the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. I hear the splash in the water--I see the white object floating like a sea-bird on the tide--it will not sink!” “'Sblood!” exclaimed Jonathan, in a tone of ill-disguised contempt; “it won't do to indulge those fancies now. Be seated, and calm yourself.” “I have often conjured up some frightful vision of the dead,” murmured the knight, “but I never dreamed of an interview with the living.” “It'll be over in a few minutes,” rejoined Jonathan, impatiently; “in fact, it'll be over too soon for me. I like such interviews. But we waste time. Have the goodness to affix your name to that memorandum, Sir Rowland. I require nothing, you see, till my share of the contract is fulfilled.” Trenchard took up a pen. “It's the boy's death-warrant,” observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. “I cannot sign it,” returned Trenchard. “Damnation!” exclaimed Wild with a snarl, that displayed his glistening fangs to the farthest extremity of his mouth, “I'm not to be trifled with thus. That paper _must_ be signed, or I take my departure.” “Go, Sir,” rejoined the knight, haughtily. “Ay, ay, I'll go, fast enough!” returned Jonathan, putting his hands into his pockets, “but not alone, Sir Rowland.” At this juncture, the door was flung open, and Charcam entered, dragging in Thames, whom he held by the collar, and who struggled in vain to free himself from the grasp imposed upon him.