“Well, Sir,” said Kneebone, when the other concluded, “I shall certainly not oppose his capture, but, at the same time, I'll lend you no assistance. If he keeps _his_ word, I'll keep _mine_. You must wait till supper's over.” “As you please, Sir,--provided you don't let him off.” “That I'll engage not to do. I've another reason for supposing he'll pay me a visit. I refused to sign a petition in his behalf to the Recorder; not from any ill-will to him, but because it was prepared by a person whom I particularly dislike--Captain Darrell.” “A very sufficient reason,” answered the jailer. “Tom,” continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, “don't go home. I may want you. Light the lantern. And, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don't mind it.” “Not in the least, Sir,” replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them. “Now, step this way, Mr. What's-your-name?” “Shotbolt, Sir,” replied the jailer. “Very well, Mr. Slipshod; follow me.” And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth. “Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir,” observed Shotbolt. “Every inch of it,” replied the woollen-draper. “He _ought_ to do, seeing that he served his apprenticeship in it to Mr. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs.” “Indeed!” said Shotbolt. “Where can I hide myself?” he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet. “Under the table. The cloth nearly touches the floor. Give me your staff. It'll be in your way.” “Suppose he brings Blueskin, or some other ruffian with him,” hesitated the jailer. “Suppose he does. In that case I'll help you. We shall be equally matched. You're not afraid, Mr. Shoplatch.” “Not in the least,” replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; “there's my staff. Am I quite hidden?” “Not quite;--keep your feet in. Mind you don't stir till supper's over. I'll stamp twice when we've done.” “I forgot to mention there's a trifling reward for his capture,” cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth. “If we take him, I don't mind giving you a share--say a fourth--provided you lend a helping hand.” “Curse your reward!” exclaimed Kneebone, angrily. “Do you take me for a thief-catcher, like Jonathan Wild, that you dare to affront me by such a proposal?” “No offence, Sir,” rejoined the jailer, humbly. “I didn't imagine for a moment that you'd accept it, but I thought it right to make you the offer.” “Be silent, and conceal yourself. I'm about to ring for supper.” The woollen-draper's application to the bell was answered by a very pretty young woman, with dark Jewish features, roguish black eyes, sleek glossy hair, a trim waist, and a remarkably neat figure: the very model, in short, of a bachelor's housekeeper.