While these rumours were circulating throughout the metropolis, Old Death was preparing for the reception of visitors at his abode in Horsemonger Lane.

The aged miscreant, assisted by the old woman who acted as his housekeeper, arranged bottles, glasses, pipes, and tobacco on the table—made up a good fire so that the kettle might boil by the time the guests should arrive—and carefully secured the shutters of the window in order to prevent the sounds of joviality from penetrating beyond that room.

When these preparations were completed, the old woman was despatched to the nearest cook's-shop to procure a quantity of cold meat for the supper; and shortly after her return with the provender, the visitors made their appearance—arriving singly, at short intervals.

The housekeeper was dismissed to her own room: and the four men, having seated themselves at the table, began to mix their grog according to their taste.

"I s'pose you've heard the news, Mr. Bones?" said Jeffreys.

"About your late master and his wife—eh?" asked Old Death.

"Just so. They're in a pretty pickle—ain't they?" exclaimed Jeffreys, with a chuckle. "We little thought last night, when we was a talking over the whole business and dividing the swag, that the corpse would so soon turn up again. But, I say," he added, now breaking out into a horrible laugh, and turning towards Tim the Snammer and Josh Pedler, "it was rather curious, though, that I should have had a hand in burying that there feller which you made away with."

"And still more curious," replied Tim, "that we should have done for a stranger, while the master of the house his-self escaped altogether. But 'tis no use talking of that there now. I wish it hadn't happened. It was however done in a hurry——"

"Never mind the little windpipe-slitting affair," said Josh Pedler impatiently. "We got the swag—Old Death here smashed the screens^[37]—and that's all we ought to think of. Twelve hundred between us wasn't such a bad night's work—although it did lead us to do a thing we never did afore."

"And now my late master is certain sure to be scragged for it," exclaimed Jeffreys; "for no one could believe such a tale as he must tell in his defence. Well—I'm not sorry for him: he is a harsh, reserved, sullen kind of a chap. But there's one thing I'm precious sorry for——"

"What's that?" demanded Old Death.

"Why—he promised me fifty pounds, to be paid this evening at seven o'clock," answered Jeffreys; "on condition that I'd leave his service at an instant's notice: and the blunt isn't of course forthcoming."

"Never mind that—don't make yourself uneasy, my boy," said Old Death, with a significant chuckle. "You've got plenty of money for the present: and the business which we've met to talk about, will put ever so much more into your pocket."

"Well—let's to business, then," exclaimed Jeffreys. "The fact is, I shan't go out to service no more; for, since I'm reglarly in with you fellers now, I shall stick to you."

"And I can always find you employment, lads," observed Old Death. "Come—help yourselves: we shall get on so much more comfortable when we're a little warmed with good liquor."

"The cunning old file!" exclaimed Tim the Snammer, laughing and winking at his comrade, Josh Pedler; "he wants to make us half lushy so as to get us to undertake anythink, no matter how desperate, on his own terms."

"'Pon my word, Tim," said Old Death, affecting a pleasant chuckle, which however sounded like the echo of a deep-toned voice in a cavern, "you are too hard upon me. I don't mean any such thing. I'll treat you liberally whatever you do for me."

"And so you ought, old boy," returned Tim Splint: "for you know how I suffered by you—and how cursed shabby you behaved towards me."

"We agreed yesterday to let bygones be bygones," said Benjamin Bones, somewhat sternly. "Do you mean to keep to that arrangement? or am I to consider that you still bear me a grudge?"

"No—no," cried Tim. "What I said was only in fun. So tip us your hand, old boy. There! Now we'll each brew another glass—and you shall explain your business, while we blow a cloud."

The fresh supplies of grog were duly mixed: Jeffreys, Josh Pedler, and Tim Splint lighted their pipes;—and Old Death addressed them in the following manner:—

"There is a man in London who has done me a most serious injury—an injury so great that I can never cease to feel its consequences as long as I live. In a word," continued Old Death, his features becoming absolutely hideous with the workings of evil passions, "he discovered my secret stores—he destroyed all the treasures, the valuables, and the possessions which I had been years and years in accumulating."

"Destroyed them!" cried Tim Splint. "Stole them, you mean?"

"No—destroyed them—wantonly destroyed them—destroyed them all—all!" yelled forth Old Death, his usually sepulchral voice becoming thrilling and penetrating with hyena-like rage. "The miscreant!—the fiend! All—all was destroyed! Thousands and thousands of pounds' worth of valuables wantonly—wilfully—methodically destroyed! I did not see the work of ruin: but I know that it must have taken place—because the man of whom I speak is what the world calls honourable! Perdition take such honour!"

"But of what use was all that property to you, since you didn't convert it into money?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"Of what use?" cried Old Death, again speaking in that yelling tone which manifested violent emotions. "Is there no use in keeping precious things to look at—to gloat upon—to calculate their value? To be sure—to be sure there is," he continued, with a horrible chuckle. "But of that no matter. It is sufficient for you to know that I was deprived in one hour—in one minute, as you may say—of that property which had been accumulating for years. And the house, too, which was mine so long—which I had purchased on account of its conveniences,—even those premises this man of whom I speak, made me sell him. But I swore to have vengeance on him—I told him so when we parted—and I will keep my word!"

"Who is this person that you speak of?" asked Tim the Snammer.

"The Earl of Ellingham," was the reply.

"He is a great and a powerful nobleman, I suppose," observed Tim. "It will be difficult and dangerous to do him any harm."

"What's a nobleman more than another?" cried John Jeffreys. "I for one will undertake any thing that our friend Mr. Bones may propose."

"And so will I—if we're well paid," added Josh Pedler. "But there's one thing I must mention while I think on it. Don't none of you ever speak about that affair down at Torrings's, you know—the cut-throat business, I mean—before my blowen, Matilda. I like to have a little comfort at home; and a woman's tongue is the devil, when it's set a wagging in the blowing-up way."

"We'll mind our p's and q's before 'Tilda," said Tim the Snammer. "It isn't likely that any of us would be such fools as to talk of that business to women, or to others besides ourselves. But let Mr. Bones continue his explanations."

"I have told you enough," resumed Old Death, "to convince you that this Earl of Ellingham deserves no mercy at my hands: and if I say that I will give each of you a hundred pounds—yes, a hundred pounds each—to do my bidding in all things calculated to accomplish my vengeance on that man,—if I make you this promise, I suppose you will not refuse to enlist yourselves in my employ. But, mark you!" he added hastily, and with a sinister knitting of the brows; "before you give me your answer, bear in mind that my vengeance is to be terrible—terrible in the extreme!"

"You mean to have the Earl murdered, I suppose?" said John Jeffreys.

"Murdered—killed!—no—no," exclaimed Old Death; "that would be a vengeance little calculated to appease me! He must live to know—to feel that I am avenged," added the malignant old villain. "He must experience such outrages—such insults—such ignominy,—that he may writhe and smart under them like a worm under the teeth of the harrow. He must be made aware whence the blow comes—by whose order it is dealt—and wherefore it is levelled against him. Will you, then, for one week devote yourselves to my service? If you agree, I will at once give you an earnest of the sums promised as your recompense: if you refuse, there is an end of the matter—and I must look out elsewhere."

"But you haven't told us what we are to do to earn our reward," said Josh Pedler.

"There is no murder in the case," observed Old Death, emphatically.

"Then I for one consent without another minute's hesitation," exclaimed Josh Pedler.

"And me too," said Tim the Snammer.

"And I'm sure I'm not going to hang back," cried John Jeffreys.

"Good!" continued Benjamin Bones. "Though you've all got plenty of money in your pockets, there's no harm in having more. I will give you each thirty pounds on account of the business I have now in hand," he added, taking his greasy pocket-book from the bosom of his old grey coat.

The specified amount was handed over to each of the three villains, who received the bank-notes with immense satisfaction.

"Three or four more things like Torrings's and this," observed Tim the Snammer, "and we shall be able to set up in business as genelmen for the rest of our lives."

"Now listen to me," resumed Old Death, his countenance expressing an infernal triumph, as if his vengeance were already more than half consummated. "In the first place I must tell you that I'm going to move to-morrow morning up to Bunce's house, in Earl Street, Seven Dials; and to-morrow night must you perform the first duty I require of you."

"And what's that?" demanded Josh Pedler.

"You know that a few weeks ago a certain person, named Thomas Rainford, was hanged at Horsemonger Lane Gaol," proceeded Old Death, glancing rapidly around from beneath his shaggy, overhanging brows.

"The very prince of highwaymen—a glorious fellow,—a man that I could have loved!" exclaimed Josh Pedler, in a tone the enthusiasm of which denoted his heart's sincerity.

"Well—well," said Old Death, impatiently: "but he's put out of the way—dead—and gone—and it's no use regretting him. I suppose," he added, "that if you saw Tom Rain's body here, you wouldn't mind spitting in the face of the corpse, or treating it with any other kind of indignity, if you was well rewarded for your pains!"

"Why—my respect for the man while he was living wouldn't make me such a fool to my own interests as to refuse to do what you say now that he's dead," answered Josh Pedler. "Besides, a dead body's a lump of clay, or earth—or whatever else you may choose to call it: at all events it can't feel any thing that's done to it. But what in the world has made you touch on such a queer subject?"

"Because it is with Tom Rain's body that you will have to come in contact to-morrow night!" responded Old Death, in a low, sepulchral voice, and now fixing his eyes as it were on all the three at the same time.

And those three men started with astonishment at this extraordinary and incomprehensible announcement.

"Yes," proceeded Benjamin Bones: "it is just as I tell you—for the late Thomas Rainford was the elder brother of the Earl of Ellingham, and was legitimately born!"

This declaration excited fresh surprise on the part of the three men to whom it was addressed.

"And therefore," continued the aged miscreant, his countenance contracting with savage wrinkles, "it must be by the desecration of the corpse of Tom Rain, that the Earl will be alike exposed to the whole world and goaded to desperation by the insult offered to the remains of his brother. Now do you begin to understand me? No! Well, then I will explain myself more fully. It is known that the Earl demanded of the Sheriff the corpse of the highwayman—that his request was complied with—and that the body was interred privately in consecrated ground. I set people to make enquiries; and it was only this morning—this very morning—I learnt that a coffin, with the name of Thomas Rainford on the plate, was buried in Saint Luke's churchyard. This intelligence my friend Tidmarsh gleaned from the sexton of that church. To-morrow night," added Old Death, "it is for you three to have up that coffin and convey it to the Bunces' house in Earl Street, Seven Dials."

"Do you want us to turn resurrectionists?" demanded Josh Pedler, in unfeigned surprise.

"I wish you to do what I direct, and what I am going to pay you well for," answered Benjamin Bones. "If you refuse, give me back my money, and I'll find others who will be less particular."

"Oh! I don't want to fly from the bargain," said Josh; "only you'll allow me the right of being astonished if I choose—or rather if I can't help it. As for the resurrection part of the business, I'd have up all the coffins in Saint Luke's churchyard on the same terms."

"I thought you were not the man to retreat from a bargain," observed Old Death. "Well—when you have brought the coffin to Earl Street, we'll take out the body, put a rope round its neck, and a placard on its breast: and that placard shall tell all the world that it is the corpse of Thomas Rainford, the famous highwayman who was executed at Horsemonger Lane Gaol, and who was the rightful Earl of Ellingham! This being done, it will be for you to convey the body to Pall Mall, just before daybreak, and place it on the steps of the hated nobleman's mansion."

"There will be danger and difficulty in performing that part of the task," said Tim the Snammer.

"Not at all," exclaimed Old Death. "A light spring cart will speedily convey the burthen to Pall Mall; and it will be but the work of a few moments to achieve the rest. Besides, at that hour in the morning there is no one abroad."

"All this can be managed easy enough," observed Jeffreys. "I don't flinch, for one. Is that every thing we shall have to do?"

"No—no," replied Ben Bones, with a grim smile: "I can't quite give three hundred pounds for one night's work. But since we are on the subject, I may as well explain to you what else I require in order to render my vengeance complete."

The three men replenished their glasses and their pipes; and Old Death then proceeded to address them in the following manner:—

"From certain information which I have received, I am confident that the Earl of Ellingham experiences a great friendship towards Esther de Medina, who was, I am pretty certain, Rainford's mistress."

It must be remembered that Benjamin Bones knew nothing of those incidents which have revealed to the reader the existence of Tamar—her beautiful sister's counterpart.

"This Esther de Medina is now in London, having been absent for a short time with her father. Another important point is that the newspapers some weeks ago announced the intended marriage of the Earl of Ellingham and Lady Hatfield. We are therefore aware of these two facts—that the Earl is attached to Esther de Medina as a friend, and to Lady Hatfield as her future husband."

It may also be proper to remind the reader that as Old Death knew nothing more of the position in which the nobleman and Georgiana stood with regard to each other, than what he had gleaned from the fashionable intelligence in the public prints,—so he was completely ignorant of all the circumstances which had tended to break off the alliance thus announced.

"Now," resumed the malignant old fiend, his eyes glistening with demoniac spite, as he glanced rapidly from Josh Pedler to Tim the Snammer, and from Tim the Snammer to John Jeffreys,—"now, it is my intention to wound the heart of that hated Earl—that detested nobleman, through the medium of his best affections! Yes—by torturing those ladies, I shall torture him: by subjecting them to frightful inflictions I shall punish him with awful severity. For to-morrow night, my good friends, your occupation is chalked out: for the night after, the task will be to inveigle Esther de Medina to the house in Earl Street; and on the night after that, Lady Hatfield must also be enticed thither. How these points are to be accomplished, I will tell you when the time for action comes."

"And what do you mean to do with the two ladies when you get them there?" demanded Tim the Snammer.

"What will I do to them?" repeated Old Death, his features animated with a malignity so horrible—so reptile-like, that he was at the moment a spectacle hideous to contemplate: "what will I do to them? I will tell them all I have endured—all I have suffered at the hands of the hated—the abhorred Earl of Ellingham;—and you three will be at hand to hold them tight—to bind them—to gag them,—so that I, with a wire heated red, may——"

"What?" demanded Jeffreys impatiently.

"Blind them!" returned Old Death, sinking his voice to a whisper, which sounded hollow and sepulchral.

The three villains—villains as they were—started at the frightful intention thus announced to them.

"Yes—I will put out their beautiful eyes," said Benjamin Bones, clenching his fists with feverish excitement: "then I will leave them bound hand and foot in the house, and will send a letter to the Earl to tell him where he may seek for them! Will not such vengeance as this be sweet? Did you ever hear of a vengeance more complete? The Earl I leave unhurt, save in mind—and there he will be cruelly lacerated! But he must have his eyes to see that those whom he loves are blind—he must be spared his powers of vision, that he may read in the newspapers the account of those indignities which will have been shown to the corpse of his elder brother!"

And, as he feasted his imagination with these projects of diabolical vengeance, the horrible old man chuckled in his usual style,—as if it were a corpse that so chuckled!

The three miscreants, whom he had taken into his service, expressed their readiness to assist him in all his nefarious plans; for the reward he had promised them was great, and the earnest they had received was most exhilirating to their evil spirits.

The infernal project having been fully discussed, and it having been agreed that Tidmarsh should proceed with one of the three villains in the morning to Saint Luke's churchyard, to point out the precise spot where the coffin bearing the name of Thomas Rainford had been interred,—all preliminaries, in a word, having been thus settled, the old housekeeper was summoned to place the supper upon the table.

The meal was done hearty justice to; and when the things were cleared away, Old Death, who was anxious to conciliate his friends as much as possible by a show of liberality, commissioned John Jeffreys to compound a mighty jorum of punch, the ingredients for which were bountifully supplied from the cupboard, the wash-hand basin serving as a bowl.

And now the four villains—four villains as hardened and as ready for mischief as any to be found in all London—dismissed from their minds every matter of "business," and set to work to do justice to the punch.

"Come—who'll sing us a song?" exclaimed Tim the Snammer.

"Don't let us have any singing, my dear friend," said Old Death: "we shall alarm the neighbours—and it's better to be as quiet as possible."

"Well, we must do something to amuse ourselves," insisted Timothy Splint. "If we get talking, it will only be on things of which we all have quite enough in our minds; and so I vote that some one tells us a story: I'm very fond of stories—particklerly when they're true."

"I'll tell you a true story, if you like," said Jeffreys: "for I don't mind about smoking any more. In fact, I'll give you my own history—and a precious curious one it is, too."

"Do," said Josh Pedler. "But mind and don't introduce no lies into it—that's all."

"Every word is as true as gospel," observed Jeffreys.

The glasses were replenished—Old Death snuffed the candles with his withered, trembling hand—and Jeffreys then commenced his narrative, which, as in former instances, we have modelled into a readable shape.