Having seen the chairmen concealed in the entry, Shotbolt proceeded to Mr. Kneebone’s habitation, the shutters of which were closed, and knocked at the door.  The summons was instantly answered by a shop-boy.

“Is your master at home?” inquired the jailer.

“He is,” replied a portly personage, arrayed in a gorgeous yellow brocade dressing-gown, lined with cherry-coloured satin, and having a crimson velvet cap, surmounted by a gold tassel, on his head.  “My name is Kneebone,” added the portly personage, stepping forward.  “What do you want with me?”

“A word in private,” replied the other.

“Stand aside, Tom,” commanded Kneebone.  “Now Sir,” he added, glancing suspiciously at the applicant “your business?”

“My business is to acquaint you that Jack Sheppard has escaped, Mr. Kneebone,” returned Shotbolt.

“The deuce he has!  Why, it’s only a few hours since I beheld him chained down with half a hundred weight of iron, in the strongest ward at Newgate.  It’s almost incredible.  Are you sure you’re not misinformed, Sir?”

“I was in the Lodge at the time,” replied the jailer.

“Then, of course, you must know.  Well, it’s scarcely credible.  When I gave him an invitation to supper, I little thought he’d accept it.  But, egad!  I believe he will.”

“I’m convinced of it,” replied Shotbolt; “and it was on that very account I came here.”  And he proceeded to unfold his scheme to the woollen-draper.

“Well, Sir,” said Kneebone, when the other concluded, “I shall certainly not oppose his capture, but, at the same time, I’ll lend you no assistance.  If he keeps his word, I’ll keep mine.  You must wait till supper’s over.”

“As you please, Sir,—­provided you don’t let him off.”

“That I’ll engage not to do.  I’ve another reason for supposing he’ll pay me a visit.  I refused to sign a petition in his behalf to the Recorder; not from any ill-will to him, but because it was prepared by a person whom I particularly dislike—­Captain Darrell.”

“A very sufficient reason,” answered the jailer.

“Tom,” continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, “don’t go home.  I may want you.  Light the lantern.  And, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don’t mind it.”

“Not in the least, Sir,” replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them.

“Now, step this way, Mr. What’s-your-name?”

“Shotbolt, Sir,” replied the jailer.

“Very well, Mr. Slipshod; follow me.”  And he led the way to an inner room, in the middle of which stood a table, covered with a large white cloth.

“Jack Sheppard knows this house, I believe, Sir,” observed Shotbolt.

“Every inch of it,” replied the woollen-draper.  “He ought to do, seeing that he served his apprenticeship in it to Mr. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied.  His name is carved upon a beam up stairs.”