While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it—torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other—the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman, Mr. Losberne, entered the room in violent agitation. “The man will be taken,” he cried. “He will be taken to-night!” “The murderer?” asked Mr. Brownlow. “Yes, yes,” replied the other. “His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction; I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he can never escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night.” “I will give fifty more,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?” “Harry—as soon as he had seen your friend here safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this,” replied the doctor, “and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them.” “The Jew”—said Mr. Brownlow; “what of him?” “When I last heard he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They’re sure of him.” “Have you made up your mind?” asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks. “Yes,” he replied. “You—you—will be secret with me?” “I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety.” They left the room, and the door was again locked. “What have you done?” asked the doctor in a whisper. “All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl’s intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend’s inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villany which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after to-morrow at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there a few hours before, but shall require rest, and especially the young lady, who _may_ have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?” “Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,” replied Mr. Losberne. “I will remain here.” The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable. CHAPTER XLVIII. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE. NEAR to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists, at the present day, the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants.