Jack, meanwhile, was carried to Newgate. Austin could scarcely credit his senses when he beheld him. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. Mrs. Spurling had retired for the night. Jack appealed to the new auditors, and again detailed his story, but with no better success than heretofore. His statement was treated with derision. Having seen him heavily ironed, and placed in the Condemned Hold, Jonathan recrossed the street.
He found Abraham on guard as he had left him.
“Has any one been here?” he asked.
“No von,” replied the Jew.
“That's well,” replied Wild, entering the house, and fastening the door. “And now to dispose of our dead. Why, Nab, you shake as if you'd got an ague?” he added, turning to the Jew, whose teeth chattered audibly.
“I haven't quite recovered the fright I got in the Vell-Hole,” replied Abraham.
On returning to the audience-chamber, Jonathan found the inanimate body of Thames Darrell lying where he had left it; but, on examining it, he remarked that the pockets were turned inside out, and had evidently been rifled. Startled by this circumstance, he looked around, and perceived that the trap-door,—which has been mentioned as communicating with a secret staircase,—was open. He, next, discovered that Blueskin was gone; and, pursuing his scrutiny, found that he had carried off all the banknotes, gold, and letters,—including, what Jonathan himself was not aware of,—the two packets which he had abstracted from the person of Thames. Uttering a terrible imprecation, Jonathan snatched up the link, and hastily descended the stairs, leaving the Jew behind him. After a careful search below, he could detect no trace of Blueskin. But, finding the cellar-door open, concluded he had got out that way.
Returning to the audience-chamber in a by-no-means enviable state of mind, he commanded the Jew to throw the body of Thames into the Well Hole.
“You musht do dat shob yourself, Mishter Vild,” rejoined Abraham, shaking his head. “No prize shall indushe me to enter dat horrid plashe again.”
“Fool!” cried Wild, taking up the body, “what are you afraid of? After all,” he added, pausing, “he may be of more use to me alive than dead.”