“I didn't suspect you of so much superstition, Mr. Wild,” observed the knight, contemptuously. “Facts convince the most incredulous,” answered Jonathan, drily. “I've known several cases where the ignominious doom I've mentioned has been foretold by such an accident as has just befallen you. There was Major Price--you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,--he stumbled as he was getting out of his chair at that very gate. Well, _he_ was executed for murder. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. Another instance was that of Toby Tanner--” “No more of this,” interrupted Trenchard; “where is the boy?” “Not far hence,” replied Wild. “After all our pains we were near losing him, Sir Rowland.” “How so?” asked the other, distrustfully. “You shall hear,” returned Jonathan. “With the help of his comrade, Jack Sheppard, the young rascal made a bold push to get out of the round-house, where my janizaries had lodged him, and would have succeeded too, if, by good luck,--for the devil never deserts so useful an agent as I am, Sir Rowland,--I hadn't arrived in time to prevent him. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham Mendez, received a blow on the head from one of the lads that will deprive me of his services for a week to come,--if, indeed it does not disable him altogether. However, if I've lost one servant, I've gained another, that's one comfort. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands.” “What is this to me, Sir?” said Trenchard, cutting him short.