“Well, then--I was in Newgate at the time that all London was astounded by certain discoveries relative to this same Tom Rainford--all brought about in consequence of a dreadful murder committed by that very Benjamin Bones whom you heard the gipsy mention. The story is too long to tell you now; but you shall have it shortly in its fullest details--for it may regard our interests more nearly than you at present imagine. One fact I must however state,--which is that Thomas Rainford was a famous highwayman who was hanged, and that by some means which never transpired, he was rescued from death--resuscitated, in fine. He received the royal pardon for all the deeds he had committed in opposition to the laws; and what afterwards became of him I knew not----” “Because you had to leave England in pursuance of your sentence, I suppose, mother?” added Perdita, enquiringly. “Precisely so. And now chance throws us in the way of an old crone who, in the audible musings of dotage, informs us that this same Tom Rain is actually living under a feigned name--aye, and at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. It is clear that the gipsy had never heard of the wondrous fact that Rainford appeared in London disguised as a Blackamoor, only a few months after his execution, as I may call it: it is evident that the circumstance of his having survived the scaffold was unknown to her and to her companions. Thus was she struck with amazement and surprise, as well she might be under such circumstances, when she beheld him in Lord Ellingham’s carriage. But gipsies go so little into great cities and towns--hold so little intercourse with any save their own people--and are so little curious in respect to matters which do not immediately concern themselves, that it is not surprising if the old gipsy had never heard reported the well-known fact of Rainford’s resuscitation.” “Then you presume that this Rainford is now living, honourably and respectably, in London, under the name of Hatfield,” said Perdita, enquiringly; “and you mean to use your knowledge of his real name to work out our particular aims?” “You now comprehend me, daughter,” returned the old woman; “and you may perhaps begin to understand how his nephew shall become bound to you by silken cords.” “I have set my mind upon that handsome young man,” said Perdita, emphatically; “and believe me, I shall omit nothing that will tend to gratify my passion.” “Wanton--voluptuous, even as I was,” muttered the harridan to herself;--“aye, licentious and depraved as was her father!” “What are you mumbling to yourself, mother?” demanded Perdita. “Something about me, I warrant.” “No harm--no harm,” responded the wretch, hastily. “But, to return to the subject of our conversation, Perdita; what do you think of our prospects now?--knowing all we do of this Mr. Hatfield, and able as we are to overwhelm him, his titled wife, and his nephew in disgrace, if we choose to utter a single word.”