Stranica 257 [257]
195
meditating with dark and evil looks on
this proposal, and the possibilities of evad¬
ing it—torn by his fears on the one hand,
and his hatred on the other—the door
was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman
—Mr. Losberne—entered the room in
violent agitation.
“The man will be taken,” he cried.
‘¢ He will be taken to-night.”
“The murderer?” asked Mr. Brown¬
low.
“ Yes, yes,” replied the other. “ His
dog has been seen lurking about some
old haunt, and there seems little doubt
that his master either is, or will be there
under cover of the darkness. Spies are
hovering about in every direction. I have
spoken to the men who are charged with
his capture, and they tell me he can
never escape. A reward of a hundred
pounds is proclaimed by government to¬
night.”
“T will give fifty more," said Mr.
Brownlow, “and proclaim it with my own
lips upon the spot, if I can reach it.
Where is Mr. Maylie?"
“ Harry ?”
6 As soon as he had seen your friend
here safe in a coach with you, he turned
off to where he heard this;” replied the
doctor; ‘* and mounting his horse, sallied
forth to join the first party at some place
in the outskirts agreed upon between
. them.”
“The Jew,”
6 What of him?”
c When I last heard, he had not been
taken; but he will be, or is by this time.
They’re sure of him.”
“Have you made up your mind?”
asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of
Monks.
“ Yes,” he replied.
be secret with me?”
“T will. Remain here till I return; it
is a only hope of safety.”
hey left the room, and the door was
again locked.
“ What have you done?” asked the
doctor, in a whisper.
6 All that I could hope to do, and even
more. Coupling the poor girl’s intelli¬
gence with my previous knowledge, and
the result of. our
on the spot, I left him no loophole of
escape, and laid bare the villany, which,
= these lights, became plain as day.
rite, and appoint the evening after to¬
morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We
shall be down there a few hours before,
but shall require rest, and especially the
young lady, who may have greater need
said Mr. Brownlow.
6 You—you—will
of firmness than either you or I can quite
foresee just now. But my blood boils to
avenge this poor murdered creature— "
which way have they taken?"
“ Drive straight to the office, and you
will be in time,” replied Mr. Losberne.
“| will remain here.”
The two gentlemen hastily separated ;
each in a fever of excitement wholly un¬
controllable.
ad
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
The pursuit and escape.
Near to that part of the Thames on
which the church of Rotherhithe abuts,
where the buildings on the banks are dir¬
tiest, and the vessels on the river black¬
est with the dust of colliers, and the
smoke of close-built, low-roofed houses,
there exists at the present day, the fil¬
thiest, the strangest, the most extraordi¬
nary of the many localities that are hid¬
den in London, wholly unknown by name
to the great mass of its inhabitants.
To reach this place, the visiter has to
penetrate through a maze of close, nar¬
row, and muddy streets, thronged by the
roughest and poorest of water-side people,
and devoted to the traffic they may be
supposed to occasion. ‘The cheapest and
least delicate provisions are heaped in the
shops, the coarsest and commonest arti¬
cles of wearing apparel dangle at the
salesman’s door, and stream from the
house parapet and windows. Jostling
with unemployed labourers of the lowest
class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, bra¬
zen women, ragged children, and the
very raff and refuse of the river, he
makes his way with difficulty along, as¬
sailed by offensive sights and smells from
the narrow alleys which branch off on
the right and left, and deafened by the
clash of ponderous wagons that bear great
piles of merchandise from the stacks of
warehouses that rise from every corner.
Arriving at length in streets remoter and
less-frequented than those through which
he had passed, he walks beneath totter¬
ing house-fronts projecting over the pave¬
ment, dismantled walls that seem to
totter as he passes, chimneys half crush¬
ed, half hesitating to fall, windows guard¬
ed by rusty iron bars, that time and dust
have almost eaten away, and every ima¬
ginable sign of desolation and neglect.
In such a neighbourhood, beyond Dock¬
head, in the rough of Southwark,
stands Jacob’s Island, surrounded by a