“Be pleased, then, in future not to let your surprise find vent in words,” rejoined Jonathan, sternly. “My servants, like Eastern mutes, must have eyes, and ears,--and _hands_, if need be,--but no tongues. You understand me, sirrah?” “Perfectly,” replied Jack. “I'm dumb.” “Your secret?” demanded Trenchard, impatiently. “I need not remind you, Sir Rowland,” replied Wild, “that you had two sisters--Aliva and Constance.” “Both are dead,” observed the knight, gloomily. “Not so;” answered Wild. “Constance is yet living.” “Constance alive? Impossible!” ejaculated Trenchard. “I've proofs to the contrary,” replied Jonathan. “If this is the case, where is she?” “In Bedlam,” replied the thief-taker, with a Satanic grin. “Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the knight, upon whom a light seemed suddenly to break. “You mentioned Mrs. Sheppard. What has she to with Constance Trenchard?” “Mrs. Sheppard _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.”