as if still under the
influence of some unaccountable alarm; "what can ail him?"

"_I_ know what ails him, your honour," rejoined the groom, riding up as
he spoke; "he's seen somethin' not o' this world."

"Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of
some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt."

"May be," returned the man gravely.

"Take him home, Saunders," said Sir Rowland, resigning his faulty steed
to the attendant's care, "I shall not require you further. Strange!" he
added, as the groom departed; "Bay Stuart has carried me through a
hundred dangers, but never played me such a trick before."

"And never should again, were he mine," rejoined Jonathan. "If the best
nag ever foaled were to throw me in this unlucky spot, I'd blow his
brains out."

"What do you mean, Sir?" asked Trenchard.

"A fall against Newgate is accounted a sign of death by the halter,"
replied Wild, with ill-disguised malignity.

"Tush!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, angrily.

"From that door," continued the thief-taker, pointing to the gloomy
portal of the prison opposite which they were standing, "the condemned
are taken to Tyburn. It's a bad omen to be thrown near that door."

"I didn't suspect you of so much superstition, Mr. Wild," observed the
knight, contemptuously.

"Facts convince the most incredulous," answered Jonathan, drily. "I've
known several cases where the ignominious doom I've mentioned has been
foretold by such an accident as has just befallen you. There was Major
Price--you must recollect him, Sir Rowland,--he stumbled as he was
getting out of his chair at that very gate. Well, _he_ was executed for
murder. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched
off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. It was a pity
he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. Another
instance was that of Toby Tanner--"

"No more of this," interrupted Trenchard; "where is the boy?"

"Not far hence," replied Wild. "After all our pains we were near losing
him, Sir Rowland."

"How so?" asked the other, distrustfully.

"You shall hear," returned Jonathan. "With the help of his comrade, Jack
Sheppard, the young rascal made a bold push to get out of the
round-house, where my janizaries had lodged him, and would have
succeeded too, if, by good luck,--for the devil never deserts so useful
an agent as I am, Sir Rowland,--I hadn't arrived in time to preve