"Yes--that's my name and profession," said the man. "My godfathers and godmothers called me Anthony, and my parents had previously blessed me with the honourable appellation of Tidkins: so you may know me as Anthony Tidkins, the Resurrection Man." "And are you really----" began Richard, with a partial shudder; "are you really a----" "A body-snatcher?" cried Anthony; "of course I am--when there's any work to be done; and when there isn't, then I do a little in another line." "And what may that be?" demanded Markham. This time the Resurrection Man _did_ look his interlocutor full in the face; but it was only for a moment; and he again averted his glance in a sinister manner, as he jerked his thumb towards the wall of the yard, and exclaimed, "Crankey Jem on t'other side will tell you if you ask him. They would not put us together: no--no," he added, with a species of chuckle; "they know a trick worth two of that. We shall both be tried together: fifteen years for him--freedom for me! That's the way to do it." With these words the Resurrection Man turned upon his heel, and walked away to the farther end of the yard. We shall now take leave of Markham for the present: when we again call the reader's attention to his case, we shall find him standing in the dock of the Central Criminal Court, to take his trial upon the grave accusation of passing forged notes. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE DUNGEON. Return we now to Bill Bolter, the murderer, who had taken refuge in the subterranean hiding-place of the Old House in Chick Lane. Heavily and wearily did the hours drag along. The inmate of that terrible dungeon was enabled to mark their lapse by the deep-mouthed bell of St. Sepulchre's Church, on Snow Hill, the sound of which boomed ominously at regular intervals upon his ear. That same bell tolls the death-note of the convict on the morning of his execution at the debtors' door of Newgate. The murderer remembered this, and shuddered. A faint--faint light glimmered through the little grating at the end of the dungeon; and the man kept his eyes fixed upon it so long, that at length his imagination began to conjure up phantoms to appal him. That small square aperture became a frame in which hideous countenances appeared; and then, one gradually changed into another--horrible dissolving views that they were! But chiefly he beheld before him the tall gaunt form of his murdered wife--with one eye smashed and bleeding in her head:--the other glared fearfully upon him. This phantasmagoria became at length so fearful and so real in appearance, that the murderer turned his back towards the little grating through which the light struggled into the dungeon in two long, narrow, and oblique columns. But then he imagined that there were goblins behind him; and this idea soon grew as insupportable as the first;--so he rose, and groped his way up and down that narrow vault--a vault which might become his tomb!