“Indeed!” said Shotbolt.  “Where can I hide myself?” he added, glancing round the room in search of a closet.

“Under the table.  The cloth nearly touches the floor.  Give me your staff.  It’ll be in your way.”

“Suppose he brings Blueskin, or some other ruffian with him,” hesitated the jailer.

“Suppose he does.  In that case I’ll help you.  We shall be equally matched.  You’re not afraid, Mr. Shoplatch.”

“Not in the least,” replied Shotbolt, creeping beneath the table; “there’s my staff.  Am I quite hidden?”

“Not quite;—­keep your feet in.  Mind you don’t stir till supper’s over.  I’ll stamp twice when we’ve done.”

“I forgot to mention there’s a trifling reward for his capture,” cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth.  “If we take him, I don’t mind giving you a share—­say a fourth—­provided you lend a helping hand.”

“Curse your reward!” exclaimed Kneebone, angrily.  “Do you take me for a thief-catcher, like Jonathan Wild, that you dare to affront me by such a proposal?”

“No offence, Sir,” rejoined the jailer, humbly.  “I didn’t imagine for a moment that you’d accept it, but I thought it right to make you the offer.”

“Be silent, and conceal yourself.  I’m about to ring for supper.”

The woollen-draper’s application to the bell was answered by a very pretty young woman, with dark Jewish features, roguish black eyes, sleek glossy hair, a trim waist, and a remarkably neat figure:  the very model, in short, of a bachelor’s housekeeper.

“Rachel,” said Mr. Kneebone, addressing his comely attendant; “put a few more plates on the table, and bring up whatever there is in the larder.  I expect company.”

“Company!” echoed Rachel; “at this time of night?”

“Company, child,” repeated Kneebone.  “I shall want a bottle or two of sack, and a flask of usquebaugh.”

“Anything else, Sir?”

“No:—­stay! you’d better not bring up any silver forks or spoons.”

“Why, surely you don’t think your guests would steal them,” observed Rachel, archly.

“They shan’t have the opportunity,” replied Kneebone.  And, by way of checking his housekeeper’s familiarity, he pointed significantly to the table.

“Who’s there?” cried Rachel.  “I’ll see.”  And before she could be prevented, she lifted up the cloth, and disclosed Shotbolt.  “Oh, Gemini!” she exclaimed.  “A man!”

“At your service, my dear,” replied the jailer.

“Now your curiosity’s satisfied, child,” continued Kneebone, “perhaps, you’ll attend to my orders.”

Not a little perplexed by the mysterious object she had seen, Rachel left the room, and, shortly afterwards returned with the materials of a tolerably good supper;—­to wit, a couple of cold fowls, a tongue, the best part of a sirloin of beef, a jar of pickles, and two small dishes of pastry.  To these she added the wine and spirits directed, and when all was arranged looked inquisitively at her master.