“Do you happen to know Jonathan Wild, master?” inquired Jack, altering his tone, and assuming a more respectful demeanour. “I've seen him some years ago, I believe,” answered Wood; “and, though he must be much changed by this time, I dare say I should know him again.” “A short man, isn't he, about your height, Sir,--with a yellow beard, and a face as sly as a fox's?” “Hem!” replied Wood, coughing slightly to conceal a smile; “the description's not amiss. But why do you ask?” “Because--” stammered the boy. “Speak out--don't be alarmed,” said Wood, in a kind and encouraging tone. “If you've done wrong, confess it, and I'll forgive you!” “I don't deserve to be forgiven!” returned Jack, bursting into tears; “for I'm afraid I've done very wrong. Do you know this, Sir?” he added, taking a key from his pocket. “Where did you find it!” asked Wood. “It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild.” “Where did _he_ get it?” inquired Wood, in surprise. “That I can't say. But he promised to give me a couple of guineas if I'd ascertain whether it fitted your locks.” “Zounds!” exclaimed Wood; “it's my old master-key. This key,” he added, taking it from the boy, “was purloined from me by your father, Jack. What he intended to do with it is of little consequence now. But before he suffered at Tyburn, he charged your mother to restore it. She lost it in the Mint. Jonathan Wild must have stolen it from her.” “He must,” exclaimed Jack, hastily; “but only let me have it till to-morrow, and if I don't entrap him in a snare from which, with all his cunning, he shall find it difficult to escape, my name's not Jack Sheppard.”