“Mr. Kneebone’s man is in the shop,” said Rachel; “he’ll take it.”

“Can I trust him?” mused Jack.  “Yes; he’ll suspect nothing.  Give him this letter, child, and bid him take it to the Lodge at Newgate without loss of time.  Blueskin will go with you,—­for fear of a mistake.”

“You might trust me,” said Rachel, in an offended tone; “but never mind.”

And she left the room with Blueskin, who very politely offered her his arm.

Meanwhile, the combat between Kneebone and Mrs. Maggot had been brought to a termination.  When the woollen-draper was nearly worn out, the Amazon watched her opportunity, and hitting him on the arm, disabled it.

“That’s for Mrs. Wood,” she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp.

“I’m at your mercy, Poll,” rejoined Kneebone, abjectly.

“That’s for Winifred,” vociferated the Amazon, bringing the cudgel heavily upon his shoulder.

“Damnation!” cried Kneebone.

“That’s for myself,” rejoined Mrs. Maggot, dealing him a blow, which stretched him senseless on the floor.

“Bravo, Poll!” cried Jack, who having again pinioned Shotbolt, was now tracing a few hasty lines on a sheet of paper.  “You’ve given him a broken head, I perceive.”

“He’ll scarcely need a plaister,” replied Mrs. Maggot, laughing.  “Here, Bess, give me the cord, and I’ll tie him to this chest of drawers.  I don’t think he’ll come to himself too soon.  But it’s best to be on the safe side.”

“Decidedly so,” replied Edgeworth Bess; “and I’ll take this opportunity, while Jack’s back is turned,—­for he’s grown so strangely particular,—­of easing him of his snuff-box.  Perhaps,” she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the before-named article, “he has a pocket-book.”

“Hush!” replied Mrs. Maggot; “Jack will hear you.  We’ll come back for that by and by, and the dressing-gown.”

At this moment, Rachel and Blueskin returned.  Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them.

“Have you sent off the note?” inquired Jack.

“We have, Captain,” replied Blueskin.  “I say we, because Miss Rachel and I have struck up a match.  Shall I bring off anything?” he added, looking eagerly round.

“No,” replied Jack, peremptorily.

Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt’s face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows.  He, next, seized the unlucky jailer, and forced him along, while Blueskin expedited his movements by administering a few kicks behind.

When they got to the door, Jack opened it, and, mimicking the voice of the jailer, shouted, “Now, my lads, all’s ready?”

“Here we are,” cried the chairmen, hurrying out of the court with their swinging vehicle, “where is he?”