“Nothing whatever,” rejoined the thief-taker, coldly.  “But it is much to me.  Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—­an object of hatred.  I owed his father a grudge:  that I settled long ago.  I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son.  I could make away with him at once, as you are about to make away with your nephew, Sir Rowland,—­but that wouldn’t serve my turn.  To be complete, my vengeance must be tardy.  Certain of my prey, I can afford to wait for it.  Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest.  I’ve watched this lad—­this Sheppard—­from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose.  I have suffered him to be brought up decently—­honestly; because I would make his fall the greater, and deepen the wound I meant to inflict upon his mother.  From this night I shall pursue a different course; from this night his ruin may be dated.  He is in the care of those who will not leave the task assigned to them—­the utter perversion of his principles—­half-finished.  And when I have steeped him to the lips in vice and depravity; when I have led him to the commission of every crime; when there is neither retreat nor advance for him; when he has plundered his benefactor, and broken the heart of his mother—­then—­but not till then, I will consign him to the fate to which I consigned his father.  This I have sworn to do—­this I will do.”

“Not unless your skull’s bullet-proof,” cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—­fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—­only burnt the priming.  The blaze, however, was sufficient to reveal to the thief-taker the features of his intended assassin.  They were those of the Irish watchman.

“Ah!  Terry O’Flaherty!” vociferated Jonathan, in a tone that betrayed hot the slightest discomposure.  “Ah!  Terry O’Flaherty!” he cried, shouting after the Irishman, who took to his heels as soon as he found his murderous attempt unsuccessful; “you may run, but you’ll not get out of my reach.  I’ll put a brace of dogs on your track, who’ll soon hunt you down.  You shall swing for this after next sessions, or my name’s not Jonathan Wild.  I told you, Sir Rowland,” he added, turning to the knight, and chuckling, “the devil never deserts me.”

“Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay,” said Trenchard, sternly,—­“to the boy.”

“The boy’s not at my house,” replied Wild.

“Where is he, then?” demanded the other, hastily.