Heedless of her cries, Jonathan passed a handkerchief tightly over her son's mouth, and forced him out of the room.
When he returned, a moment or so afterwards, he found Sir Rowland standing by the lifeless body of his sister. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side.
"This is your work," said the knight, sternly.
"Not entirely," replied Jonathan, calmly; "though I shouldn't be ashamed of it if it were. After all, you failed in obtaining the secret from her, Sir Rowland. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves."
"Peace!" cried the knight, fiercely.
"No offence," returned Jonathan. "I was merely about to observe that I am in possession of her secret."
"You!"
"Didn't I tell you that the fugitive Darrell gave me a glove! But we'll speak of this hereafter. You can purchase the information from me whenever you're so disposed. I shan't drive a hard bargain. To the point however. I came back to say, that I've placed your nephew in a coach; and, if you'll be at my lock in the Old Bailey an hour after midnight, you shall hear the last tidings of him."
"I will be there," answered Trenchard, gloomily.
"You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know."