“You are free,” said he, “that grating forms a ladder, by which you may descend in safety.  I learned the trick of the place from one Paul Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine.  He used to call it his fire-escape—­ha! ha!  I’ve often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account.  And now, Sir, have I kept faith with you?”

“You have,” replied Darrell.  “Here is my purse; and I trust you will let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service.”

“It matters not who I am,” replied Jonathan, taking the money.  “As I said before, I have little reliance upon professions of gratitude.”

“I know not how it is,” sighed Darrell, “but I feel an unaccountable misgiving at quitting this place.  Something tells me I am rushing on greater danger.”

“You know best,” replied Jonathan, sneeringly; “but if I were in your place I would take the chance of a future and uncertain risk to avoid a present and certain peril.”

“You are right,” replied Darrell; “the weakness is past.  Which is the nearest way to the river?”

“Why, it’s an awkward road to direct you,” returned Jonathan.  “But if you turn to the right when you reach the ground, and keep close to the Mint wall, you’ll speedily arrive at White Cross Street; White Cross Street, if you turn again to the right, will bring you into Queen Street; Queen Street, bearing to the left, will conduct you to Deadman’s Place; and Deadman’s Place to the water-side, not fifty yards from Saint Saviour’s stairs, where you’re sure to get a boat.”

“The very point I aim at,” said Darrell as he passed through the outlet.

“Stay!” said Jonathan, aiding his descent; “you had better take my lantern.  It may be useful to you.  Perhaps you’ll give me in return some token, by which I may remind you of this occurrence, in case we meet again.  Your glove will suffice.”

“There it is;” replied the other, tossing him the glove.  “Are you sure these bars touch the ground?”

“They come within a yard of it,” answered Jonathan.

“Safe!” shouted Darrell, as he effected a secure landing.  “Good night!”

“So,” muttered Jonathan, “having started the hare, I’ll now unleash the hounds.”

With this praiseworthy determination, he was hastening down stairs, with the utmost rapidity, when he encountered a female, whom he took, in the darkness, to be Mrs. Sheppard.  The person caught hold of his arm, and, in spite of his efforts to disengage himself, detained him.

“Where is he?” asked she, in an agitated whisper.  “I heard his voice; but I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of giving the alarm.”

“If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back window,” replied Jonathan.

“Thank Heaven!” she gasped.

“Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say,” observed Jonathan, sarcastically.  “You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child’s neck twisted.”