“I can at least, protect myself,” replied Wild, with, provoking calmness.  “I am accounted a fair shot, as well as a tolerable swordsman, and I will give proof of my skill in both lines, should occasion require it.  I have had a good many desperate engagements in my time, and have generally come off victorious.  I bear the marks of some of them about me still,” he continued, taking off his wig, and laying bare a bald skull, covered with cicatrices and plates of silver.  “This gash,” he added, pointing to one of the larger scars, “was a wipe from the hanger of Tom Thurland, whom I apprehended for the murder of Mrs. Knap.  This wedge of silver,” pointing to another, “which would mend a coffee-pot, serves to stop up a breach made by Will Colthurst, who robbed Mr. Hearl on Hounslow-Heath.  I secured the dog after he had wounded me.  This fracture was the handiwork of Jack Parrot (otherwise called Jack the Grinder), who broke into the palace of the Bishop of Norwich.  Jack was a comical scoundrel, and made a little too free with his grace’s best burgundy, as well as his grace’s favourite housekeeper.  The Bishop, however, to show him the danger of meddling with the church, gave him a dance at Tyburn for his pains.  Not a scar but has its history.  The only inconvenience I feel from my shattered noddle is an incapacity to drink.  But that’s an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine.  The hardest bout I ever had was with a woman—­Sally Wells, who was afterwards lagged for shoplifting.  She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand.  Thus, you see, I’ve never hesitated and never shall hesitate to expose my life where anything is to be gained.  My profession has hardened me.”

And, with this, he coolly re-adjusted his peruke.

“What do you expect to gain from this interview, Mr. Wild!” demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution.

“Ah! now we come to business,” returned Jonathan, rubbing his hands, gleefully.  “These are my terms, Sir Rowland,” he added, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight.

Trenchard glanced at the document.

“A thousand pounds,” he observed, gloomily, “is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured.”

“You would purchase it at the price of your head,” replied Jonathan, knitting his brows.  “Sir Rowland,” he added, savagely, and with somewhat of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, “if it were my pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath.  You are wholly in my power.  Your name, with the fatal epithet of ‘dangerous’ attached to it, stands foremost on the list of Disaffected now before the Secret Committee.  I hold a warrant from Mr. Walpole for your apprehension.”

“Arrested!” exclaimed Trenchard, drawing his sword.