"No," replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. "I will struggle no longer with destiny. Too much blood has been shed already."
"This comes of fine feelings!" muttered Jonathan, contemptuously. "Give me your thorough-paced villain. But I shan't let him off thus. I'll try a strong dose.—Am I to understand that you intend to plead guilty, Sir Rowland?" he added. "If so, I may as well execute my warrant."
"Stand off, Sir!" exclaimed Trenchard, starting suddenly backwards.
"I knew that would bring him to," thought Wild.
"Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland.
"At present under the care of his preserver—one Owen Wood, a carpenter, by whom he was brought up."
"Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?"
"The same."
"A boy from his shop was here a short time ago. Could it be him you mean?"
"No. That boy was the carpenter's apprentice, Jack Sheppard. I've just left your nephew."