“A youth called Ned Warbeck. I met him on the road: he has been to this inn once to-night, has he not landlord?” “I believe he has,” was the innkeeper’s answer. “But where is this Bob Bertram, then?” said Captain Jack impatiently. “_There!_” said Redgill, pointing to where Bob Bertram sat. “I know him, so does the landlord, and so does that thin-legged groom in the corner.” But they held their peace. “Scoundrel!” said Bob Bertram, rising instantly. “Scoundrel!” he said, and fired at the informer. Redgill anticipated something of this sort, and dodged so cleverly that the shot missed its aim. In a second, Bob Bertram was surrounded by Captain Jack’s party. He fought most manfully to get loose from his assailants, but they were too numerous for him. Besides that, his confinement and anxiety for the past few days had weakened him very much, so that he did not at the moment possess one-third of his ordinary strength. Old Bates was the first who dared to assail Bob, but a well-directed blow, clean from the shoulder, knocked the red-nosed rascal off his legs. Right manfully did Bob fight, but it was all to no purpose. He was bound with cords; resistance was hopeless and useless. He cast a look at Redgill—a glance that was filled with venom and scorn. “Villain!” he said. “We have met before, bloodthirsty scoundrel! Do you remember the night of my father’s murder, red-handed knave? You shall not always triumph; _my_ day will come.” “What does the rogue say?” Redgill remarked, coolly. “Oh, never mind _him_, sir,” said Captain Jack, recognizing in Redgill the young man who had escaped from the carriage and given him the purse of gold, “never mind him, _sir_; he’s only raving. All your great criminals rave and rant when officers lay their hands upon ’em; it’s quite natural, just like pigs when they’re going to be killed—they always squeal most then. Lor, bless yer, sir, we’ve had lots of criminals in hand in our time, ain’t we, Bates?” “I believe yer,” said that worthy. Turning to Bob, who was bound now with cords he said, “What d’yer mean by calling this ’ere gentleman names for, eh? Why, we knows him well,” said Bates, in allusion to Redgill. “If you do,” said Bob, “take care of him; _he_ is the man who murdered my father, not me; his name is Bolton.” “Quite mistaken,” said Captain Jack; “his name ain’t nothing of the sort—it is Mr. Phillip Redgill.” “Quite true,” said Phillip, with a smile of contempt. “And, now that I have assisted you in recapturing this vile murderer, I will mount and journey to London.” “Quite right.” “Many thanks, my noble captain.” “A pleasant journey.” “Don’t forget our appointment,” said Redgill to Jack. “I suppose he is——” “Dead as a herring,” whispered Captain Jack. “I shot the old ’un through the head, but we couldn’t do much with the young ’un, though, so had to hook it.” “Young ’un?” said Redgill, in surprise. “What young ’un do you allude to?”