A certain unmistakable likeness in Oliver to a lady’s portrait that was on the wall of the room struck Mr. Brownlow.  What connection could there be between the original of the portrait, and this poor child?

But before Mr. Brownlow had heard Oliver’s story he had lost the boy.  For Fagin, horribly uneasy lest Oliver should be the means of betraying his late companions, resolved to get him back as quickly as possible.  To accomplish his evil purpose, Nancy, a young woman who belonged to Fagin’s gang, and who had seen Oliver, was prevailed upon to undertake the commission.

Now, the very evening before Oliver was to tell his story to Mr. Brownlow, the boy, anxious to prove his honesty, had set out with some books on an errand to the bookseller at Clerkenwell Green.

“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, “that you have brought these books back, and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him.  This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shillings change.”

“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” replied Oliver eagerly.

He was walking briskly along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel, when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud, “Oh, my dear brother!” He had hardly looked up when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.

“Don’t!” cried Oliver, struggling.  “Let go of me.  Who is it?  What are you stopping me for?”

The only reply to this was a great number of loud lamentations from the young woman who had embraced him.

“I’ve found him!  Oh, Oliver, Oliver!  Oh, you naughty boy to make me suffer such distress on your account!  Come home, dear, come.  Oh, I’ve found him!  Thank gracious goodness heavens, I’ve found him!”

The young woman burst out crying, and a couple of women standing by asked what was the matter.

“Oh, ma’am,” replied the young woman, “he ran away from his parents, and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters, and almost broke his mother’s heart.”

“Young wretch!” said one woman.

“Go home, do, you little brute,” said the other.

“I’m not,” replied Oliver, greatly alarmed.  “I don’t know her.  I haven’t any sister or father or mother.  I’m an orphan; I live at Pentonville.”

“Oh, only hear him, how he braves it out,” cried the young woman.  “Make him come home, or he’ll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!”

“What the devil’s this?” said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels.  “Young Oliver!  Come home to your poor mother, you young dog!”

“I don’t belong to them.  I don’t know them!  Help, help!” cried Oliver, struggling in the man’s powerful grasp.

“Help!” repeated the man.  “Yes, I’ll help you, you young rascal!  What books are these?  You’ve been a-stealin’ ’em, have you?  Give ’em here!”

With these words the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.