“Alas! that one so highly born should submit to such a degradation?” groaned the knight.

“I see nothing surprising in it,” rejoined Jonathan.  “In the first place, she had no knowledge of her birth; and, consequently, no false pride to get rid of.  In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea.  Distress like hers might palliate far greater offences than she ever committed.  With the same inducements we should all do the same thing.  Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her.”

Jack Sheppard again sought his pistol, and was only withheld from levelling it at the thief-taker’s head, by the hope that he might gather some further information respecting his mother.  And he had good reason before long to congratulate himself on his forbearance.

“What proof have you of the truth of this story?” inquired Trenchard.

“This,” replied Jonathan, taking a paper from a portfolio, and handing it to the knight, “this written evidence, signed by Martha Cooper, the gipsy, by whom the girl was stolen, and who was afterwards executed for a similar crime.  It is attested, you will observe, by the Reverend Mr. Purney, the present ordinary of Newgate.”

“I am acquainted with Mr. Purney’s hand-writing,” said Jack, advancing, “and can at once decide whether this is a forgery or not.”

“Look at it, then,” said Wild, giving him the portfolio.

“It’s the ordinary’s signature, undoubtedly,” replied Jack.

And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket.

“And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?” cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment.  “I’ll not believe it.”

“Others may, if you won’t,” muttered Jack, retiring.  “Thank Heaven!  I’m not basely born.”

“Now, mark me,” said Jonathan, “and you’ll find I don’t do things by halves.  By your father, Sir Montacute Trenchard’s will, you are aware,—­and, therefore, I need not repeat it, except for the special purpose I have in view,—­you are aware, I say, that, by this will, in case your sister Aliva, died without issue, or, on the death of such issue, the property reverts to Constance and her issue.”

“I hear,” said Sir Rowland, moodily.

“And I,” muttered Jack.

“Thames Darrell once destroyed,” pursued Jonathan.  “Constance—­or, rather, Mrs. Sheppard—­becomes entitled to the estates; which eventually—­provided he escaped the gallows—­would descend to her son.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Jack, drawing in his breath, and leaning forward with intense curiosity.

“Well, Sir?” gasped Sir Rowland.

“But this need give you no uneasiness,” pursued Jonathan; “Mrs. Sheppard, as I told you, is in Bedlam, an incurable maniac; while her son is in the New Prison, whence he will only be removed to Newgate and Tyburn.”