Austin readily complied with her request. As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager. Unconscious that his movements were watched, Shotbolt, meanwhile, hastened towards Wych Street. On the way, he hired a chair with a couple of stout porters, and ordered them to follow him. Arrived within a short distance of his destination, he came to a halt, and pointing out a dark court nearly opposite the woollen-draper's abode, told the chairmen to wait there till they were summoned. “I'm a peace-officer,” he added, “about to arrest a notorious criminal. He'll be brought out at this door, and may probably make some resistance. But you must get him into the chair as fast as you can, and hurry off to Newgate.” “And what'll we get for the job, yer hon'r?” asked the foremost chairman, who, like most of his tribe at the time, was an Irishman. “Five guineas. Here's a couple in hand.” “Faix, then we'll do it in style,” cried the fellow. “Once in this chair, yer hon'r, and I'll warrant he'll not get out so aisily as Jack Sheppard did from the New Pris'n.” “Hold your tongue, sirrah,” rejoined Shotbolt, not over-pleased by the remark, “and mind what I tell you. Ah! what's that?” he exclaimed, as some one brushed hastily past him. “If I hadn't just left him, I could have sworn it was Mrs. Spurling's sooty imp, Caliban.” Having seen the chairmen concealed in the entry, Shotbolt proceeded to Mr. Kneebone's habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door. The summons was instantly answered by a shop-boy. “Is your master at home?” inquired the jailer. “He is,” replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head. “My name is Kneebone,” added the portly personage, stepping forward. “What do you want with me?” “A word in private,” replied the other. “Stand aside, Tom,” commanded Kneebone. “Now Sir,” he added, glancing suspiciously at the applicant “your business?” “My business is to acquaint you that Jack Sheppard has escaped, Mr. Kneebone,” returned Shotbolt. “The deuce he has! Why, it's only a few hours since I beheld him chained down with half a hundred weight of iron, in the strongest ward at Newgate. It's almost incredible. Are you sure you're not misinformed, Sir?” “I was in the Lodge at the time,” replied the jailer. “Then, of course, you must know. Well, it's scarcely credible. When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he'd accept it. But, egad! I believe he _will_.” “I'm convinced of it,” replied Shotbolt; “and it was on that very account I came here.” And he proceeded to unfold his scheme to the woollen-draper.