When Dykes made his appearance in the room just alluded to, he found Benjamin Bones rocking himself to and fro on the chair in which he was seated, while Bingham and the runners were partaking of refreshments at the table.

The old miscreant was horribly pale; end there was a wild glaring of the eyes which enhanced the ghastly expression of his countenance. The man was in fact hideous to behold.

Now that he had leisure for reflection, and that the excitement attending the perpetration of his bloody vengeance had passed away, he had become fearfully alive to the awful predicament in which be stood; nevertheless his entire aspect denoted dogged obduracy; and could he have recalled the past, it is more than probable that he would have played precisely the same part over again.

“Well, Mr. Dykes,” said Bingham, as the worthy thus addressed entered the room, “will you jine us here in a bit of grub? You see, we’re pitching into the cold jint like bricks; and the beer is fust-rate.”

“So is the pickles,” growled one of the runners, who was naturally of a surly disposition, and could not help speaking in a grunting tone even when best pleased.

“Come, sit down with us,” urged Mr. Bingham. “But, I say though, what have you done with Tom Rain?”

“Done with, him, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Dykes, swelling with the importance of a man who had astounding news to communicate: “what hasn’t he done for his-self, you mean?”

“Has he cut his throat—or taken poison?” demanded Old Death, eagerly.

“Not he!” cried Dykes. “Why—you cursed old fence, you’ve always got wicked notions in your head—you have. Mr. Rainford is a genelman, every inch of him—and I always knowed it. He’s got a power of slap-up friends as won’t leave him long in the lurch, I can tell you.”

And the officer bestowed a significant wink upon his listeners, whose curiosity he had now worked up to the highest pitch.

“What—what has he done?” gasped Old Death, terribly excited with suspense. “Do you mean to say——that is—has he——escaped?” he demanded, scarcely able to give utterance to the word; so fearful was he lest Tom Rain, against whom he cherished a fiend-like hatred, should not again figure upon the scaffold.

“Patience—patience,” said Mr. Dykes, taking a chair. “In the fust place, you must know, that in comes a lady—and who should she be but that very same Lady Hatfield as I’m sure Tom Rain robbed some months ago near Hounslow, although I couldn’t bring the thing home to him at the time——”

“Well—well,” muttered Old Death, the agony of whose suspense was perfectly excruciating.

“But fust I should tell you,” resumed Mr. Dykes, “that Miss de Medina comes in with her father and Lord Ellingham——”

Old Death gave vent to a savage growl.

“And now I understand all about that diamond affair, Bingham, you know,” continued the officer; “for, although one of the sisters is a corpse and her face is disfigured, I never in my life see such a likeness as there is between them.”

We should observe that Old Death had already learnt, from the communications which had been made in his presence by the runners who were first in charge of Tom Rain on this eventful evening, that it was not Esther de Medina whom he had slain, but Tamar—the wife of the man whom he considered to be his most mortal enemy.

“But as I was a-saying,” continued Dykes, “in comes Lady Hatfield; and, behold ye! she makes a regular set speech to prepare us all for what’s about to take place; and then she tells us plump that Tom Rain has received his Majesty’s free pardon!”

“No—no!” yelled forth Old Death: “it’s a lie—it’s a lie!”

“Hold your tongue, you cursed fence!” exclaimed Mr. Dykes, deeply indignant at having his word thus unceremoniously called in question. “Lady Hatfield had the paper with her, all reglar according to the stattit in that case made and purwided.”

“It’s a forgery—a rank forgery!” shrieked Benjamin Bones, his countenance becoming truly appalling with its hideous workings. “And you have let him go, upon that pretence——you——you have——”

And he fell back in his chair, gasping for breath.

“Wot an inweterate old scoundrel it is,” observed Bingham. “Here—give him a glass of beer, Bill; for, by goles, he’ll suffocate—and the scaffold will be cheated of its dues after all.”

The runner, to whom the command was addressed, approached Old Death and offered him a tumbler of porter: but the savage monster repulsed it brutally, ferocious growls escaping from his breast.

“Well—leave him alone, then,” said Bingham.

The runner accordingly resumed his seat and his attack upon the cold viands at the same time.

“I tell you what it is, Mr. Ben Bones,” exclaimed Dykes: “I have seen a many free pardons—’specially where genelmen that got into trouble was concerned, for it’s seldom that a poor devil has interest enough to get such a thing—and I know precious well that the one I see just now, was as reglar as possible. It had the King’s own name—his sign-mangle, they call it—and his precious big seal—and the Home Secretary’s signatur underneath.”

“He will escape—he will escape yet!” yelled forth Old Death, clasping his hands together, as if in mortal agony. “The wretch—he will escape the gibbet—he—he——”

And again he gasped in so frightful a manner that his eyes seemed to be starting from his head, and his attenuated frame literally writhed in convulsive spasms.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a long pause, during which his shocking appearance had produced a dead silence of horror and amazement: “I have thought of something”—and he grinned malignantly. “Did you not say that men had been spirited away—in that Torrens’ affair——”

“To be sure I did,” answered Bingham, to whom the question was addressed: “and Tom Rain did it. Well, what about that, Mr. Dykes?”

“Why—that seems to be knocked on the head also,” was the reply: “though I have no doubt we shall get the reward, because we did our dooty in arresting him; and if so be that the Home Secretary chooses to grant him a pardon in that respect also——”

“He won’t—he won’t!” ejaculated Old Death, with feverish—nay, with hysterical excitement. “He does not dare do it! No—no—Tom Rain must swing for that, at all events! ’Tis as good as being accessory to the murder—’tis shielding the murderers! Ha! ah! he will swing for that—he will swing for that!”

“I’m blessed if he will, though,” said Dykes, bluntly; “for it seems that he’s got a paper signed by the King which will put him all to rights—and though I don’t exactly understand that part of the business, I’m pretty sure Tom Rain is in no danger. Lord Ellingham has got the matter in hand; and he has gone up to the Home Office. That’s why I left Mr. Rainford at liberty—just taking his word of honour that he wouldn’t bolt.”

“He’ll deceive you—he’ll run away—he’ll escape!” cried Old Death. “You are mad to trust him! Go—seize on him again—put hand-cuffs——”

“Yes—on you, in no time—if you don’t hold your tongue,” interrupted Mr. Dykes. “But ain’t all this a rummy business, though?” he demanded, turning towards Bingham and the subordinate officials. “The old Jew seems a most respectable gentleman—I’d take his bail for any amount, if I was a magistrate. And really his daughter is a sweet young o’oman: the Earl’s going to marry her, I’ll swear to it.”

“Mr. Dykes—Mr. Dykes,” whispered Old Death in his ear; and the officer, turning suddenly round again, perceived that the tall, gaunt form of the fence was close behind him.

“Well—what do you want?” demanded the functionary.

“One word—one word only,” murmured Bones, in a low, guttural, sepulchral tone, while his frame shook with nervous excitement: “one word, I say—only one word.”

“Now, then—what is it?” asked Dykes, suffering the old man to draw him towards the recess containing the door which opened into the laboratory.

“I must speak to you in private—I have something particular to tell you,” was the urgent and impatient reply. “Come into this room—I shan’t keep you a moment.”

“Well—I suppose I must humour you,” said the officer, in a surly tone. “One should look upon you as a dead man; for besides your nick-name, the law will soon make you one in right good earnest.”

With this brutal jest—brutal even in respect to so awful a miscreant as Old Death—the Bow Street functionary conducted him into the laboratory, where a light happened to be burning, and the door of which apartment Benjamin Bones closed cautiously behind them.

“Now, then—make haste, and tell us all you have got to say,” said Dykes, eyeing the old man suspiciously and in such a meaning fashion as to imply that any attempt at escape would assuredly prove abortive.

“Mr. Dykes, you are a good man—and a kind man—I know you are,” began Old Death, in a coaxing tone and with a manner indicating the most dreadful state of nervous excitement: “you would not like to see a poor, miserable old creature like myself sent to—to—the scaffold. No—no—you would not—you would not. But I know that it must be made worth your while—you understand me—and—and—I will give you all I have—yes, all I have—several thousand pounds—for I have got several thousands!” he added, with a ghastly grin. “But no one knows where they are except myself,—and you and I can go together to the place—and I will give you every guinea—yes, every guinea, Mr. Dykes—remember, every guinea I say—if you will agree to this.”

“Agree to what?” demanded Dykes, affecting not to comprehend the old villain.

“Oh! just as if you didn’t understand me, my dear friend—my good, kind friend!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, becoming more coaxing in his tone, which was as low and subdued as his sepulchral voice would admit. “Do consider for an instant—an old man like me to be in such trouble! You wouldn’t be happy if you had it on your mind that you had been the means—the actual means of sending such a wretched creature as myself to the scaffold? Speak to me, Mr. Dykes! Five thousand pounds—yes—five thousand pounds, in good gold guineas—if—if——”

“If what?” asked the officer, with the most provoking determination not to understand any thing that was not explained in unmistakeable words.

“If you—you will let me escape!” whispered Old Death, while his eyes seemed to penetrate to the very soul of the man towards whom he bent in a confidential way as he spoke.

“Now that’s English,” said Dykes, whose countenance gave not the least indication of the manner in which he intended to receive the proposition.

“And—and you will agree, won’t you?” asked Bones. “Remember—five thousand guineas—all to be paid in one lump—this very night——”

“Well, now—it can’t be done, old chap,” interrupted Dykes, in a cool—almost brutal manner, as if he were glad of the opportunity to encourage hope for a time, merely for the sake of destroying it with a rude hand and in an abrupt way.

“It can’t be done,” murmured Old Death, despair seizing upon him: “it can’t be done, you say?”—and his eyes glanced wildly around.

“Is this all you have to tell me?” demanded the officer. “Because, if so——”

“Five thousand guineas!—and he refuses it!” ejaculated Bones. “My God! what will become of me?—what will become of me?”

And still his looks wandered rapidly about the apartment.

“Now, then—let as go back into the next room, if you please,” said Dykes; “for I don’t see no use in staying here, wasting our time.”

At that instant Old Death’s eyes settled upon something on a shelf close at hand; and, suddenly springing aside, he seized upon a bottle—the particular object for which he had been searching with his eager glances.

Dykes, without even having a moment’s leisure to make a single conjecture relative to his intentions, but instinctively foreseeing that something wrong was contemplated, closed upon the old man in an instant.

With the speed of lightning did Benjamin Bones raise the bottle which his right hand grasped; and in leas than the twinkling of an eye would it have been smashed down upon the officer, who, seeing his danger, by a natural impulse held down his head—when a yell of agony burst from the lips of the old miscreant.

For, as he raised the bottle, the glass stopper fell out, and the burning vitriol streamed down on his head and over his countenance, a few drops only falling upon Dykes, and those principally on his clothes.

The officer instantaneously fell back; and Old Death threw himself on the floor, where he rolled in horrid agonies—writhing like a stricken snake, and shrieking franticly, “Oh! my eyes! my eyes!”

Bingham and the subordinate functionaries rushed in from the adjoining apartment; and, having assured themselves that Dykes was unhurt—although his escape from the burning fluid was truly miraculous—they turned their attention towards Old Death. One of them obtained water, and dashed it over him; but still he rolled and writhed—uttering dreadful cries, mingled with horrid imprecations—and rubbing his face madly with his hands. For the miserable wretch was burnt in an appalling manner; and his sight was gone!

We must pause for a single moment to explain his design—that design which so signally failed and brought down such frightful consequences upon himself. Perceiving that all hope of being able to bribe Mr. Dykes was frustrated, he thought of the only alternative that could possibly be attempted—an escape. At the same instant that this last idea was formed, it flashed to his mind that Dr. Lascelles had been accustomed to keep many deadly poisons and ardent fluids in the laboratory. His eyes wandered round in search of them; and they lighted upon a large bottle, labelled “Vitriol.” To break it over the officer’s head, and escape in the confusion that must ensue by means of the little chamber which had once been his bed-room, and which, as the reader may recollect, had two doors—one opening from the laboratory, and the other into apartments beyond,—this was the hastily conceived but discomfitted design of Old Death!

The desperate project had failed—and in a desperate manner, too: for the miscreant had received mortal injuries—and his sufferings were horrible. A pint of vitriol had streamed over his head—penetrating beneath his clothes, all down his neck and chest—burning him horribly, even to his very eyes in their sockets!

Rainford, alarmed by the hideous yells which had reached him in another part of the spacious house, rushed into the laboratory to ascertain the cause, having begged Mr. de Medina and Esther to await his return. At the same instant that he entered by one door, Jacob Smith made his appearance by another; and Dykes hastily explained what had occurred. Rainford accordingly issued immediate orders to transport the dying man to a bed-chamber; and fortunately, at this crisis, Dr. Lascelles arrived at the house.

The physician had been alarmed by the rumours which prevailed relative to the incidents that had occurred in Red Lion Street: but a few words, rapidly exchanged with Tom Rain, relieved the doctor of all apprehensions on account of his friend—and all his attention was now devoted to Old Death.

But though the laboratory promptly supplied all the remedies needed in such a case, their application was vain. They gave relief, it is true: but they could not arrest the rapid advances which death was making upon the wretched old man.

“Jacob,” cried the doctor: “Jacob Smith, I say,” he repeated more impatiently, the lad not having heard his first summons; “hand me that bottle, and——”

“Jacob Smith!” cried Old Death, his moanings suddenly ceasing at the mention of that name: “is he here? Then let me tell him——My God! this burning sensation——Jacob—Jacob—my poor boy——Oh! my eyes—my eyes——doctor, do something to my eyes—they are like red hot coals in my head——Jacob—I—I—am your——father!”

“My father!” almost shrieked the lad, in the wildness of his amazement at these tidings: then, falling on his knees by the bed-side, he exclaimed, “Oh! if you are indeed my parent——”

“I am—I am, Jacob,” exclaimed the dying wretch: “but these tortures——why do they tear my flesh with pincers?—why do they put hot skewers into my eyes? Doctor—doctor——take away the red-hot iron——lift me out of the fire——take me away, I say—save me—save me—I am in flames—I am burning——My God! I am burning!”

“Father—father,” cried Jacob, in a tone of agonising appeal; “compose yourself—think of all your sins—repent——”

“Will no one snatch me from the fire?” yelled forth Old Death, writhing and tossing upon the bed in mortal pains: “perdition seize ye, wretches—I am burning—I am in flames—my eyes scorch me—my flesh is all seared over with red-hot irons——Oh! it is hell—it is hell! Yes—I am in hell——My God! this is my punishment! Oh! send me back to the world again—let me retrieve the past—let me live my existence once more—I will be good—I will not sin! No—no—for hell is terribly—terrible—and these fires——Oh! horror—horror—snakes of flame have seized upon me——they are gnawing at my heart—they have thrust their fiery stings into my eyes—they wind themselves round and round me—horror—horror—there—I feel them now—Oh! mercy—mercy——mercy——mer——”

“This is frightful!” whispered Tom Rain to Dr. Lascelles; and all the others present at the dreadful scene; shuddered from head to foot.

Jacob Smith buried his face in his hands and sobbed convulsively.

The dying man still continued to rave, and shriek, and yell for a short time longer: but his powers of articulation rapidly failed—his writhings grew less violent, until they ceased altogether,—and in a few minutes, the dark spirit which had never spared and never pitied human creature, fled for ever!