“At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe,” answered Jonathan, “a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he’s to be committed.  You need have no apprehensions about him, Sir Rowland.  He’s safe enough now.  I left him in charge of Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok—­the skipper I spoke of—­with strict orders to shoot him if he made any further attempt at escape; and they’re not lads—­the latter especially—­to be trifled with.  I deemed it more prudent to send him to the Dark House than to bring him here, in case of any search after him by his adoptive father—­the carpenter Wood.  If you choose, you can see him put on board the Zeeslang yourself, Sir Rowland.  But, perhaps, you’ll first accompany me to my dwelling for a moment, that we may arrange our accounts before we start.  I’ve a few necessary directions to leave with my people, to put ’em on their guard against the chance of a surprise.  Suffer me to precede you.  This way, Sir Rowland.”

The thief-taker’s residence was a large dismal-looking, habitation, separated from the street by a flagged court-yard, and defended from general approach by an iron railing.  Even in the daylight, it had a sombre and suspicious air, and seemed to slink back from the adjoining houses, as if afraid of their society.  In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan’s fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible.  The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate.  The clanking of chains, the grating of locks, and the rumbling of bolts must have been music in Jonathan’s ears, so much pains did he take to subject himself to such sounds.  The scanty furniture of the rooms corresponded with their dungeon-like aspect.  The walls were bare, and painted in stone-colour; the floors, devoid of carpet; the beds, of hangings; the windows, of blinds; and, excepting in the thief-taker’s own audience-chamber, there was not a chair or a table about the premises; the place of these conveniences being elsewhere supplied by benches, and deal-boards laid across joint-stools.  Great stone staircases leading no one knew whither, and long gloomy passages, impressed the occasional visitor with the idea that he was traversing a building of vast extent; and, though this was not the case in reality, the deception was so cleverly contrived that it seldom failed of producing the intended effect.  Scarcely any one entered Mr. Wild’s dwelling without apprehension, or quitted it without satisfaction.  More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London.  The garrets were said to be tenanted by coiners, and artists employed in altering watches