“If the Captain _is_ taken to Tyburn, be near the place of execution--at the end of the Edgeware Road.” “I will.” “In case of need you will lend a helping hand?” “Yes--yes.” “Swear it!” “I do.” “Enough!” rejoined Blueskin. And he departed, just as Wood, who had become alarmed by Thames's long absence, made his appearance with a blunderbuss in his hand. Hastily acquainting him with the treasures he had unexpectedly obtained, Thames returned to the room to apprize Winifred of his good fortune. The packets were hastily broken open; and, while Wood was absorbed in the perusal of the despatch addressed to him by Sir Rowland, Thames sought out, and found the letter which he had been prevented from finishing on the fatal night at Jonathan Wild's. As soon as he had read it, he let it fall from his grasp. Winifred instantly picked it up. “You are no longer Thames Darrell,” she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; “but the Marquis de Chatillon.” “My father was of the blood-royal of France,” exclaimed Thames. “Eh-day! what's this?” cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. “Who--who is the Marquis de Chatillon?” “Your adopted son, Thames Darrell,” answered Winifred. “And the Marchioness is your daughter,” added Thames. “O, Lord!” ejaculated Wood. “My head fairly turns round. So many distresses--so many joys coming at the same time are too much for me. Read that letter, Thames--my lord marquis, I mean. Read it, and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders to you all the estates in Lancashire. You've nothing to do but to take possession.” “What a strange history is mine!” said Thames. “Kidnapped, and sent to France by one uncle, it was my lot to fall into the hands of another,--my father's own brother, the Marshal Gaucher de Chatillon; to whom, and to the Cardinal Dubois, I owed all my good fortune.” “The ways of Providence are inscrutable,” observed Wood. “When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found. Little did I imagine at the time that it was my own father to whom he referred.” “I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers,” observed Wood. “Wasn't he in some way connected with the Jacobite plots?” “He was,” replied Thames. “He had been many years in this country before his assassination took place. In this letter, which is addressed to my ill-fated mother, he speaks of his friendship for Sir Rowland, whom it seems he had known abroad; but entreats her to keep the marriage secret for a time, for reasons which are not fully developed.” “And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend,” remarked Wood. “Crime upon crime.” “Unconsciously, perhaps,” replied Thames. “But be it as it may, he is now beyond the reach of earthly punishment.” “But Wild still lives,” cried Wood.