All the turnkeys rose to salute the thief-taker, whose habitually-sullen countenance looked gloomier than usual. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him.
"No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge.
"No," replied Jonathan, moodily. "I've been deceived by false information. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it. I hope this is all. I begin to fear I might be purposely go out of the way. Nothing has gone wrong here?"
"Nothing whatever," replied Ireton. "Jack is just gone back to the Condemned Hold. His two wives have been here."
"Ha!" exclaimed Jonathan, with a sudden vehemence that electrified the chief turnkey; "what's this! a spike gone! 'Sdeath! the women, you say, have been here. He has escaped."
"Impossible, Sir," replied Ireton, greatly alarmed.
"Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. It's certain. I'll lay my life he's gone. Come with me to the Condemned Hold directly, and, if I find my fears confirmed, I'll—"
He was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of the black, who rushed precipitately into the room, letting fall the heavy bunch of keys in his fright.
"O Massa Ireton! Massa Wild!" ejaculated Caliban, "Shack Sheppart gone!"
"Gone? you black devil!—Gone?" cried Ireton.