“Thus, my dear friend,” said the physician, counting the names of the persons upon his fingers, “you have disposed of Tidmarsh in Alderney--the Bunces are to go to Sark--Splint is bound as an emigrant to the Far West--and Joshua Pedler is on the Eddystone rock.” “And Pedler is the only one who is unaccompanied by an agent of mine,” observed the Black; “because Matilda is a good young woman; and I can rely upon her. Moreover I should tell you that I procured a license for them; and Wilton saw them legally married at Plymouth, before they embarked for the Light-house.” “I congratulate you upon the success of your projects thus far,” said the physician. “It is truly wonderful how admirably you have managed thus to redeem and satisfactorily dispose of some of the greatest villains that ever lurked in the low dens of this metropolis. But now, my friend, I wish to hear something of that arch-miscreant, Old Death.” At this moment the door opened; and one of the Black’s dependants entered the room. “The woman Bunce, sir,” he said, “is most anxious to communicate something to you before she quits London. She declares that she has a secret preying upon her mind----” “A secret?” exclaimed the Black. “Yes, sir--a secret which she says she must reveal to you, as it is too heavy for her heart to bear. She cried a great deal, and implored me to come to you.” “Doctor,” said the Blackamoor, after a few moments’ profound reflection, “you know wherefore I do not wish that woman to behold my features--even though they be thus disguised. During her incarceration I never spoke to her save through the trap of her dungeon door; and since she has been an inmate of the house I have not visited her. It will be as well to continue this precaution: do you, then, hasten to her and receive the confession, whatever it be, which she has to make.” “Willingly,” replied Lascelles; and he followed the servant from the room. CHAPTER CXII. THE CONVERSATION CONCLUDED. Upwards of a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when Dr. Lascelles returned to the apartment in which he had left the Blackamoor. “Yes,” exclaimed the physician, throwing himself into the chair which he had recently occupied; “that woman is indeed penitent--truly penitent!” “What proof have you acquired of this fact, doctor?” demanded the Black. “The confession which she has just made to me--or rather the motive which induced her to make it,” answered Lascelles. “But not to keep you in suspense, my dear friend, she has revealed something which only confirms a suspicion that you yourself had long ago entertained, if I remember right.” “And that suspicion----” “Is relative to Jacob Smith,” added Lascelles. “Ah! the woman has confessed it?” exclaimed the Blackamoor. “She has confessed that Jacob Smith is her own son, and that Benjamin Bones is his father,” replied the physician, in a solemn tone.