"Why—Thomas Rainford, to be sure!" cried the highwayman, laughing—yet with a certain chuckling irony that sounded ominously on the old fence's ears. "And I need not tell you," he continued after a few moments' pause, "that I am rather a desperate character, who would as soon shoot you in the open street—aye, or in the midst of a crowd, too—if you attempted any treachery towards me, as I would ease a gentleman of his purse upon the lonely road. But we are wasting time: give me your pocket-book." Old Death's courage had gradually oozed away during this strange colloquy; and he now mechanically obeyed the command so imperiously addressed to him. But suddenly recollecting himself, as he was about to hand the pocket-book to the highwayman, he said, "There is one letter here—just one letter—which I should like to keep about my own person." "Well—take that one letter," returned Tom; "and beware how you endeavour to secrete any thing else." Old Death's hand trembled as he unfastened the clasp of the greasy old pocket-book; and, when he had opened it, he sighed deeply, as his eyes alighted first on a roll of Bank-notes. Then he turned the papers over—one after another; and clouds gathered thickly and more thickly upon his countenance. "This is strange—very strange!" he muttered, as he fumbled about with the letters and memoranda. "What is strange?" demanded Rainford. "That I cannot find the letter I want," returned Old Death, with increasing agitation. "Surely I cannot have lost it? And yet—I remember now—I was referring to it this afternoon—and——Oh! yes—I recollect—I put it into my pocket——" But the search in his pockets was vain: the letter was nowhere to be found. "Come—there's enough of delay and such-like nonsense," exclaimed the highwayman, snatching the pocket-book from his hand. Again Rainford quitted the room, locking the door behind him; and in a couple of minutes he returned, saying, "Your pocket-book is safe where no one will meddle with it till we come back. It is now past eleven: let us set off. Come—you go first!" Old Death led the way, and Tom Rain followed, the latter conveying some pleasant intimation, as he closed the front-door behind him, about an ounce of lead in the other's back if he showed the slightest sign of treachery. CHAPTER XXIX. THE MYSTERIES OF OLD DEATH'S ESTABLISHMENT. From the back of the Sessions House on Clerkenwell Green, towards Smithfield Market, runs a thoroughfare the upper portion of which is known by the name of Turnmill Street, and the lower part as Cow-Cross Street.