“No; he has escaped.”
“How know you this?”
“I just came from the village. All is in an uproar. Wildfire Ned, Sir Richard Warbeck’s adopted nephew, is the hero who released him.”
The thievish thief-takers were amazed at what they heard.
“And now,” said the stranger; “since your mission here is ended, return to town; do you hear me? Return this very hour and carry this strange news to the proper authorities. And mark me, Captain Jack, every one of you remember that if you do not track and discover the real murderer of Farmer Bertram in less than two months, I’ll report you to the king; your death-warrants are now in my pocket. See them,” said the stranger, exhibiting a bundle of printed forms. “Here is one for Captain Jack, another for this red-nosed ass on the floor—Bates, I mean—a third for Faulkner there; in fine, I have been kind enough to provide each of you with a passport into the other world. As you may observe, they only require my signature.”
“And who the devil are you?” gasped out one and all.
“I’ll let you see—but I had better write it on one of these death-warrants, say yours, Captain Jack, it will save me trouble afterwards. Landlord, pen and ink.”
“Do you know that name?” said the stranger, after writing it.
All the rascals looked at it in astonishment.
“The devil!” said Captain Jack.