“Jack!” exclaimed Thames.  “Is it you?”

“It is,” replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords.  “I might return the question.  Were it not for your voice, I don’t think I should know you.  You are greatly altered.”

Captivity had, indeed, produced a striking alteration in Thames.  He looked like the shadow of himself—­thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—­his beard unshorn—­nothing could be more miserable.

“I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met,” he said; “though how long ago that is, I scarcely know.  Night and day have been alike to me.”

“Six weeks have elapsed since that fatal night,” replied Jack.  “During the whole of that time I have been a close prisoner in Newgate, whence I have only just escaped.”

“Six weeks!” exclaimed Thames, in a melancholy tone.  “It seems like six long months to me.”

“I do not doubt it,” returned Jack; “none but those who have experienced it can understand the miseries of imprisonment.”

“Do not speak of it,” rejoined Thames, with a look of horror.  “Let us fly from this frightful place.”

“I will conduct you to the outlet,” replied Jack; “but I cannot leave it till I have ascertained whether my mother also is a prisoner here.”

“I can answer that,” replied Thames.  “She is.  The monster, Wild, when he visited my dungeon last night, told me, to add to my misery, that she occupied a cell near me.”

“Arm yourself with that ruffian’s weapons,” replied Jack, “and let us search for her.”

Thames complied.  But he was so feeble, that it seemed scarcely possible he could offer any effectual resistance in case of an attack.

“Lean on me,” said Jack.

Taking the light, they then proceeded along the passage.  There was no other door in it, and Jack therefore struck into another entry which branched off to the right.  They had not proceeded far when a low moan was heard.

“She is here,” cried Jack, darting forward.

A few steps brought him to the door of the vault in which his mother was immured.  It was locked.  Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it.  He was therefore obliged to use the iron bar, which he did with as much caution as circumstances would permit.  At the first blow, Mrs. Sheppard uttered a piercing scream.

“Wretch!” she cried, “you shall not force me to your hateful purpose.  I will never wed you.  I have a weapon—­a knife—­and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart.”

“Oh God!” exclaimed Jack, paralysed by her cries.  “What shall I do?  If I persist, I shall destroy her.”

“Get hence,” continued Mrs. Sheppard, with a frenzied laugh.  “You shall never behold me alive.”

“Mother!” cried Jack, in a broken voice.  “It is your son.”

“It is false,” cried Mrs. Sheppard.  “Think not to deceive me, monster.  I know my son’s voice too well.  He is in Newgate.  Hence!”