When Mrs. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild kneeling beside the body of Blueskin.  He was holding the ring to the light, and narrowly examining the inscription.

“Trenchard,” he muttered; “Aliva Trenchard—­they were right, then, as to the name.  Well, if she survives the accident—­as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—­this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair.”

“Is the poor lady alive?” asked Mrs. Sheppard, eagerly.

“’Sblood!” exclaimed Jonathan, hastily thrusting the ring into his vest, and taking up a heavy horseman’s pistol with which he had felled Blueskin,—­“I thought you’d been senseless.”

“Is she alive?” repeated the widow.

“What’s that to you?” demanded Jonathan, gruffly.

“Oh, nothing—­nothing,” returned Mrs. Sheppard.  “But pray tell me if her husband has escaped?”

“Her husband!” echoed Jonathan scornfully.  “A husband has little to fear from his wife’s kinsfolk.  Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he’s not capsized by the squall, (for it’s blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—­ha! ha!  I tracked ’em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn’t refused to take me.  However, as things have turned up, it’s fortunate that I came back.”

“It is, indeed,” replied Mrs. Sheppard; “most fortunate for me.”

“For you!” exclaimed Jonathan; “don’t flatter yourself that I’m thinking of you.  Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I’d have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn’t suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn’t incurred my displeasure.  I never forgive an injury.  Your husband could have told you that.”

“How had he offended you?” inquired the widow.

“I’ll tell you,” answered Jonathan, sternly.  “He thwarted my schemes twice.  The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—­Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—­he betrayed me.  I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my word.”

“You were so,” replied Mrs Sheppard; “and for that wicked deed you will one day be brought to the gallows yourself.”

“Not before I have conducted your child thither,” retorted Jonathan, with a withering look.

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Sheppard, paralysed by the threat.

“If that sickly brat lives to be a man,” continued Jonathan, rising, “I’ll hang him upon the same tree as his father.”

“Pity!” shrieked the widow.

“I’ll be his evil genius!” vociferated Jonathan, who seemed to enjoy her torture.