The Mysteries of London, v. 1/4

"I returned home. 'Well,' said my father, 'what luck this morning?'—'None,' I replied.—'And what do you mean to do, lad?'—'To become a smuggler, a body-snatcher, or any thing else that you choose,' was my reply; 'and the sooner we begin, the better, for I am sick and tired of being good.'

"So I became a smuggler and a resurrection man.

"You have heard, perhaps, that Deal is famous for its boatmen and pilots. It is also renowned for the beauty of the sailors' daughters. One of those lovely creatures captivated my heart—for I can even talk sentimentally when I think of those times; and she seemed to like me in return. Her name was Katharine Price—Kate Price, as she was called by her acquaintance; and a prettier creature the sun never shone upon. She was good and virtuous, too—and she alone understood my real disposition, which, even now that I had embarked in lawless pursuits, still panted to be good and virtuous also. At this time I was nineteen, and she was one year younger. We loved in secret—and we met in secret; for her parents would not for one moment have listened to the idea of our union. My hope was to obtain a good sum of money by one desperate venture in the contraband line, and run away with Kate to some distant part of the country, where we could enter upon some way of business that would produce us an honest livelihood. This hope sustained us!

"At this time there were a great many sick sailors in Deal Hospital, and numerous funerals took place in the burial-ground of that establishment. My father and I determined to have up a few of the corpses, for we always knew where to dispose of as many subjects as we could obtain. By these means I proposed to raise enough money to purchase in France the articles that I meant to smuggle into England and thereby obtain the necessary funds for carrying out the plans upon which Kate and myself were resolved.

"Good luck attended upon my father and myself in respect to the body-snatching business. We raised thirty pounds; and with that we set sail for France in the boat which we always hired for our smuggling expeditions. We landed at Calais, and made our purchases. We bought an immense quantity of brandy at tenpence a quart; gloves at eightpence a pair; three watches at two pound ten each; and some eau-de-cologne, proportionately cheap. Our thirty pounds we calculated would produce us a hundred and twenty. We put out to sea again at about ten o'clock at night. The wind was blowing stiff from the nor'-east; and by the time we had been an hour at sea it increased to a perfect hurricane. Never shall I forget that awful night. The entire ocean was white with foam; but the sky above was as black as pitch. We weathered the tempest until we reached the shore about a mile to the south'ard of Walmer, at a place called Kingsdown. We touched the beach—I thought every thing was safe. A huge billow broke over the stem of the lugger; and in a moment the boat was a complete wreck. My father leapt on shore from the bow at the instant this catastrophe took place: I was swallowed up along with the ill-fated bark. I was, however, an excellent swimmer; and I combated, and fought, and struggled with the ocean, as a man would wrestle with a savage animal that held him in his grasp. I succeeded in gaining the beach; but so weak and enfeebled was I that my father was compelled to carry me to our hovel, close by.

"I was put to bed: a violent fever seized upon me—I became delirious—and for six weeks I lay tossing upon a bed of sickness.

"At length I got well. But what hope remained for me? We were totally ruined—so was the poor fisherman whose boat was wrecked upon that eventful night. I wrote a note to Kate to tell her all that had happened, and to make an appointment for the following Sunday evening, that we might meet and talk over the altered aspect of affairs. Scarcely had I despatched this letter to the care of Kate's sister-in-law, who was in our secret, and managed our little correspondence, when my father came in and asked me if I felt myself well enough to accompany him on a little expedition that evening. I replied in the affirmative. He then told me that a certain surgeon for whom we did business, and who resided in Deal, required a particular subject which had been buried that morning in Walmer Churchyard. I did not ask my father any more questions; but that night I accompanied him to the burial-ground between eleven and twelve o'clock. The surgeon had shown my father the grave in the afternoon; and we had a cart waiting in a lane close by. The church is in a secluded part, surrounded by trees, and at some little distance from any habitations. There was no danger of being meddled with:—moreover, we had often operated in the same ground before.

"The surgeon and my father did not notice my emotions, but settled their accounts. The medical man then offered us each a glass of brandy. I drank mine with avidity, and then accompanied my father from the spot—uncertain whether to rush back and claim the body, or not. But I did not do so.

"For some days I wandered about scarcely knowing what I did—and certainly not caring what became of me. One morning I was roving amidst the fields, when I heard a loud voice exclaim, 'I say, you fellow there, open the gate, will you?' I turned round, and recognised the baronet on horseback. He had a large hunting whip in his hand.—'Open the gate!' said I; 'and whom for?' 'Whom for!' repeated the baronet; 'why, for me, to be sure, fellow.'—'Then open it yourself,' said I. The baronet was near enough to me to reach me with his whip; and he dealt me a stinging blow across the face. Maddened with pain, and soured with vexation, I leapt over the gate and attacked the baronet with a stout ash stick which I carried in my hand. I dragged him from his horse, and thrashed him without mercy. When I was tired, I walked quietly away, he roaring after me that he would be revenged upon me as sure as I was born.

"Next day I was arrested and taken before a magistrate. The baronet appeared against me, and—to my surprise—swore that I had assaulted him with a view to rob him, and that he had the greatest difficulty in protecting his purse and watch. I told my story and showed the mark of the baronet's whip across my face. The justice asked me if I could bring forward my witnesses to character. The baronet exclaimed, 'How can he? he has been in Dover Castle for smuggling.'—'Never!' I cried emphatically.—'Well, your father has, then,' said the baronet. This I could not deny.—'Oh! that's just the same thing!' cried the magistrate; and I was committed to gaol for trial at the next Maidstone assizes.

"For three months I lay in prison. I was not, however, completely hardened yet; nor did I associate with those who drank, and sang, and swore. I detested vice in all its shapes; and I longed for an opportunity to be good. It may seem strange to you, who know me now, to hear me speak thus;—but you are not aware what I was then!

"I was tried, and found guilty. The next two years of my life I passed at the hulks at Woolwich, dressed in dark grey, and wearing a chain round my leg. Even there I did not grow so corrupted, but that I sought for work the moment I was set at liberty again. I resolved not to return home to my parents, for I detested the ways into which they had led me. Turned away from the hulks one fine morning at ten o'clock, without a farthing in my pocket nor the means of obtaining a morsel of bread, my prospects were miserable enough. I could not obtain any employment in Woolwich: evening was coming on—and I was hungry. Suddenly I thought of enlisting. Pleased with this idea, I went to the barracks, and offered myself as a recruit. The regiment stationed there was about to embark for the East Indies in a few days and wanted men. Although certain of being banished, as it were, to a most unhealthy climate for twenty-one years, I preferred that to the life of a vagabond or a criminal in England. The sergeant was delighted with me, because I could read and write well; but the surgeon would not pass me. He said to me, 'You have either been half-starved for a length of time, or you have undergone a long imprisonment, for your flesh is as flabby as possible.' Thus was this hope destroyed.

"Now what pains had the law taken to make me good—even supposing, that I was really bad at the time of my condemnation? The law locked me up for two years, half-starved me, and yet exacted from me as much labour as a strong, healthy, man could have performed: then the law turned me out into the wide world, so weak, reduced, and feeble, that even the last resource of the most wretched—namely, enlisting in a regiment bound for India—was closed against me!

"Well—that night I wandered into the country and slept under a hedge. On the following morning I was compelled to satisfy the ravenous cravings of my hunger with Swedish turnips plucked from the fields. This food lay so cold upon my stomach that I felt ready to drop with illness, misery, and fatigue. And yet, in this Christian land, even that morsel, against which my heart literally heaved, was begrudged me. I was not permitted to satisfy my hunger with the food of beasts. A constable came up and took me into custody for robbing the turnip field. I was conducted before a neighbouring justice of the peace. He asked me what I meant by stealing the turnips? I told him that I had fasted for twenty-four hours, and was hungry. 'Nonsense, hungry!' he exclaimed; 'I'd give five pounds to know what hunger is! you kind of fellows eat turnips by way of luxury, you do—and not because you're hungry.' I assured him that I spoke the truth.—'Well, why don't you go to work?' he demanded.—'So I will, sir, with pleasure, if you will give me employment,' I replied.—'Me give you employment,' he shouted; 'I wouldn't have such a fellow about me, if he'd work for nothing. Where did you sleep last night?'—'Under a hedge, sir,' was my answer.—'Ah! I thought so,' he exclaimed: 'a rogue and vagabond evidently.' And this excellent specimen of the 'Great unpaid' committed me forthwith to the treadmill for one month as a rogue and vagabond.

"The treadmill is a horrible punishment: it is too bad even for those that are really rogues and vagabonds. The weak and the strong take the same turn, without any distinction; and I have seen men fall down fainting upon the platform, with the risk of having their legs or arms smashed by the wheel, through sheer exhaustion. Then the miserable fare that one receives in prison renders him more fit for an hospital than for the violent labour of the treadmill.

"That day came. I was turned adrift, as before, without a shilling and without a crust. That alone was as bad as branding the words rogue and vagabond upon my forehead. How could I remain honest, even if I had any longer been inclined to do so, when I could not get work and had no money—no bread—no lodging? The legislature does not think of all this. It fancies that all its duty consists in punishing men for crimes, and never dreams of adopting measures to prevent them from committing crimes at all. But I now no more thought of honesty: I went out of prison a confirmed ruffian. I had no money—no conscience—no fear—no hope—no love—no friendship—no sympathy—no kindly feeling of any sort. My soul had turned to the blackness of hell!

"The very first thing I did was to cut myself a good tough ash stick with a heavy knob at one end. The next thing I did was to break into the house of the very justice who had sentenced me to the treadmill for eating a raw turnip; and I feasted jovially upon the cold fowl and ham which I found in his larder. I also drank success to my new career in a bumper of his fine old wine. This compliment was due to him: he had made me what I was!

"I carried off a small quantity of plate—all that I could find, you may be sure—and took my departure from the house of the justice. As I was hurrying away from this scene of my first exploit, I passed by a fine large barn, also belonging to my friend the magistrate. I did not hesitate a moment what to do. I owed him a recompense for my month at the treadmill; and I thought I might as well add Incendiary to my other titles of Rogue and Vagabond. Besides, I longed for mischief—the world had persecuted me quite long enough, the hour of retaliation had arrived. I fired the barn and scampered away as hard as I could. I halted at a distance of about half a mile, and turned to look. A bright column of flame was shooting up to heaven! Oh! how happy did I feel at that moment. Happy! this is not the word! I was mad—intoxicated—delirious with joy. I literally danced as I saw the barn burning. I was avenged on the man who would not allow me to eat a cold turnip to save me from starving:—that one cold turnip cost him dear! The fire spread, and communicated with his dwelling-house; and there was no adequate supply of water. The barn—the stacks—the out-houses—the mansion were all destroyed. But that was not all. The only daughter of the justice—a lovely girl of nineteen—was burnt to death. I read the entire account in the newspapers a few days afterwards!

"And the upper classes wonder that there are so many incendiary fires: my only surprise is, that there are so few! Ah! the Lucifer-match is a fearful weapon in the hands of the man whom the laws, the aristocracy, and the present state of society have ground down to the very dust. I felt all my power—I knew all my strength—I was aware of all my importance as a man, when I read of the awful extent of misery and desolation which I had thus caused. Oh! I was signally avenged!

"I now bethought me of punishing the baronet in the same manner. He had been the means of sending me for two years to the hulks at Woolwich. Pleased with this idea, I jogged merrily on towards Walmer. It was late at night when I reached home. I found my mother watching by my father's death-bed, and arrived just in time to behold him breathe his last. My mother spoke to me about a decent interment for him. I laughed in her face. Had he ever allowed any one to sleep quietly in his grave? No. How could he then hope for repose in the tomb? My mother remonstrated: I threatened to dash out her brains with my stout ash stick; and on the following night I sold my father's body to the surgeon who had anatomised poor Kate Price! This was another vengeance on my part.

"Not many hours elapsed before I set fire to the largest barn upon the baronet's estate. I waited in the neighbourhood and glutted myself with a view of the conflagration. The damage was immense. The next day I composed a song upon the subject, which I have never since forgotten. You may laugh at the idea of me becoming a poet; but you know well enough that I received some trifle of education—that I was not a fool by nature—and that in early life I was food of reading. The lines were these:—

"THE INCENDIARY'S SONG.

"The baronet suspected that I was the cause of the fire, as I had just returned to the neighbourhood; and he had me arrested and taken before a justice; but there was not a shadow of proof against me, nor a pretence to keep me in custody. I was accordingly discharged, with an admonition 'to take care of myself'—which was as much as to say, 'If I can find an opportunity of sending you to prison, I will.'

"Walmer and its neighbourhood grew loathsome to me. The image of Kate Price constantly haunted me; and I was moreover shunned by every one who knew that I had been at the hulks. I accordingly sold off all the fishing tackle, and other traps, and came up to London with the old Mummy.

"I need say no more."

"And there's enough in your history to set a man a-thinking," exclaimed the waiter of the boozing-ken; "there is indeed."

The clock struck mid-day when Holford entered the parlour of the boozing-ken.

"Well, young blade," cried the Cracksman, "you haven't kept us waiting at all, I suppose?"

"And do you fancy that I could wake myself up again in a minute when I had once laid down?" demanded the lad, sulkily.

"I hope you may, my lad, for your sake," cried the Resurrection Man. "At all events the five quids will keep you from starving for the next two months to come; so mind and be punctual this evening at nine."

"I shall not fail," answered Holford; and with these words he departed.

"Well, blow me, if I can make out now what you're up to," exclaimed the Cracksman, as soon as he and his companion in infamy were alone together.

"You never thought that I should be fool enough to give him five coolers for doing nothing but humbug us?" said the Resurrection Man. "No—no: catch a weasel asleep—but not Tony Tidkins! Don't you see that he has been making fools of us? I remember what a devil of a hurry he was in to get me away from the palace, when I lighted upon him in the pantry, and, altogether, I am convinced he has been doing his best to stall us off from the business."

"So I think," said the Cracksman.

"Well," resumed the Resurrection Man, "we'll just try what a few days of the pit under the staircase in my crib will do for him. I have mended up the hole that opens into the saw-pit next door; and there is no chance of his escaping. We must make him drink a glass at the Dark House, and drug the grog well, and we needn't fear about being able to get him up into my street."

"Ah! now I understand you," observed the Cracksman: "only see what it is to have a head like your'n. The pit will soon make him tell us the real truth."

"And if not—if he remains obstinate—" mused the Resurrection Man, aloud;—"why—in that case—"

"We shall know what to do with him," added the Cracksman.

And the two miscreants exchanged glances of horrible significancy.

ON the same day that the above conversation took place in the parlour of the boozing-ken on Saffron Hill, Markham was seated in his library, with several books before him. His countenance was pale, and bore the traces of recent illness; and an air of profound melancholy reigned upon his handsome features. He endeavoured to fix his attention on the volume beneath his eyes; but his thoughts were evidently far away from the subject of his studies. At length, as if to compose his mind, he turned abruptly towards his writing-desk, and took thence a note which he had already perused a thousand times, and every word of which was indelibly stamped upon his memory.

We can suppose a traveller upon Saara's burning desert,—sinking beneath fatigue, and oppressed by a thirst, the agony of which becomes maddening. Presently he reaches a well: it is deep and difficult of access;—nevertheless, the traveller's life or death reposes at the bottom of that well. In like manner did Markham's only hope lay in that letter.

No wonder, then, that he read it so often; no marvel that he referred to it when his mind was afflicted, and when the wing of his spirit was oppressed by the dense atmosphere of despair.

And yet the contents of that letter were simple and laconic enough:

"Yes—Isabella is saved!" said Markham to himself, as his eyes wandered over the contents of that most welcome note, which he had received some days previously: "it is impossible to mistake the meaning of that last sentence. She is saved—and I have been the instrument of her salvation! I have rescued her from an union with a profligate, an adventurer, a man of infamous heart! Surely—surely her parents will admit that I have paid back a portion of the debt of gratitude which their kindness imposed upon me! Yes—the countess herself seems to hold out a hope of reconciliation;—that note bids me hope! It is more than coldly polite—it is confidential:—it gives me to understand the results of my own letter denouncing the miscreant George Montague Greenwood."

Richard's countenance brightened as he reasoned thus within himself. But in a few moments, a dark cloud again displaced that gleam of happiness.

"Enthusiastic visionary that I am!" he murmured to himself. "I construe common politeness into a ground of hope: I fancy that every bird I see—however ill-omened—is a dove of promise, with an olive-branch in its mouth! Alas! mine is a luckless fate—and God alone can tell what strange destinies yet await me."

He rose from his chair, and walked to the window. The rain, which had poured down in torrents all the morning, had ceased; and the afternoon was fine and unusually warm for the early part of January. He glanced towards the hill, whereon the two trees stood, and thought of his brother—that much-loved brother, of whose fate he was kept so cruelly ignorant!

While he was standing at the window, buried in profound thought, and with his eyes fixed upon the hill, he heard a light step near him; and in a moment Ellen Monroe was by his side.

"Do I intrude, Richard?" she exclaimed. "I knocked twice at the door; and not receiving any reply, imagined that there was no one here. I came to change a book. But you—you are thoughtful and depressed."

"I was meditating upon a topic which to me is always fraught with distressing ideas," answered Markham: "I was thinking of my brother!"

"Your brother!" ejaculated Ellen; and her countenance became ashy pale.

"Yes," continued Richard, not observing her emotion; "I would rather know the worst—if misfortunes have really overtaken him—than remain in this painful state of suspense. If he be prosperous, why should he stay away? if poor, why does he not seek consolation with me?"

"Perhaps," said Ellen, hesitatingly, "perhaps he is—in reality—much better off than—than—any one who feels interested in him."

"Against me!" cried the young lady, with a start, while at the same time a deep blush suffused her cheeks.

"Yes, against you," continued Richard, now glancing towards her. "You may think that I am joking—but I never was more serious in my life. For the few days that you have been in this house, you have been subject to intervals of profound depression."

"I!" repeated Ellen, the hue of her blushes becoming more intensely crimson, as her glances sank confusedly beneath those of Markham.

"Alas! Ellen," answered Richard, "I have myself been too deeply initiated in the mysteries of adversity and sorrow,—I have drunk too deeply of the cup of affliction,—I have experienced too much bitter, bitter anguish, not to be able to detect the presence of unhappiness in others. And by many signs, Ellen, have I discovered that you are unhappy. I speak to you as a friend—I do not wish to penetrate into your secrets;—but if there be any thing in which I can aid you—if there be aught wherein my poor services or my counsels may be rendered available,—speak, command me!"

"Oh! Richard," cried Ellen, tears starting into her eyes, "how kind—how generous of you thus to think of me—you who have already done so much for my father and myself!"

"Were you not the companion of my childhood, Ellen? and should I not be to you as a brother, and you to me as a sister? Let me be your brother, then—and tell me how I can alleviate the weight of that unhappiness which is crushing your young heart!"

"A brother!" exclaimed Ellen, almost wildly; "yes—you shall—you must be a brother to me! And I will be your sister! Ah! there is consolation in that idea!"—then, after a moment's pause, she added, "But the time is not yet come when I, as a sister, shall appeal to you as a brother for that aid which a brother alone can give! And until then—ask me no more—speak to me no farther upon the subject—I implore you!"

Ellen pressed Richard's hand convulsively, and then hurried from the room.

Markham had scarcely recovered from the astonishment into which these last words had thrown him,—words which, coming from the lips of a young and beautiful girl, were fraught with additional mystery and interest,—when Whittingham entered the library.

"A young lad, Master Richard," said the old butler, "has called about the situation which is wacated in our household. I took the percaution of leaving word yesterday with the people at a public of most dubitable respectability called the Servants' Arms, where I call now and then when I go into town; and it appears that this young lad having called in there quite perspicuously this morning heard of the place."

"Let him step in, Whittingham," said Markham. "I will speak to him—although, to tell you the truth, I do not admire a public-house recommendation."

Whittingham made no reply, but opening the door, exclaimed, "Step in here, young man; step in here."

And Henry Holford stood in the presence of Richard Markham.

Whittingham retired.

"I believe you are in want of a young lad, sir," said Holford, "to assist in the house."

"I am," answered Markham. "Have you over served in that capacity before?"

"No, sir; but if you would take me and give me a trial, I should feel very much obliged. I have neither father or mother, and am totally dependant upon my own exertions."

These words were quite sufficient to command the attention and sympathy of the generous-hearted Richard. The lad was moreover of superior manners, and well-spoken; and there was something in his appeal to Markham which was very touching.

"What have you been before, my good lad?"

"To tell you the truth, sir," was the reply, "I have been a simple pot-boy in a public-house."

"And of course the landlord will give you a character?"

"Yes—for honesty and industry, sir; but—"

"But what?"

"I do not think it is of any use to apply to the landlord for a character, because—"

"Because what?" demanded Markham, seeing that the young man again hesitated. "If you can have a character for honesty and industry, you need not be afraid of any thing else that could be said of you."

"The truth is, sir," answered Holford, "I absented myself without leave, and remained away for two or three days: then, when I returned this morning at a very early hour I refused to give an account of my proceedings. That is the whole truth, sir; and if you will only give me a trial—"

"There is something very straightforward and ingenuous about you," said Markham: "perhaps you would have no objection to tell me how you were occupied during your absence."

"That, sir, is impossible! But I declare most solemnly that I did nothing for which I can reproach myself—unless," added Holford, "it was in leading a couple of villains to believe that I would do a certain thing which I never once intended to do."

"Really your answers are so strange," cried Richard, "that I know not what to say to you. It however appears from your last observation that two villains tempted you to do something wrong—that you lead them to believe you would fall into their plans—and that you never meant to fulfil your promise."

"It is all perfectly true, sir. They proposed a certain scheme in which I was to be an agent: I accepted the office they assigned to me, because it suited my disposition, and promised to gratify my curiosity in a way where it was deeply interested."

"And how did you explain your conduct to the two men whom you speak of?" inquired Richard, not knowing what to think of the young lad, but half inclining to believe that his bruin was affected.

"I invented certain excuses, sir," was Holford's reply, "which completely damped their ardour in the matter alluded to. And now, sir, will you give me a trial? I feel convinced you will: had I not thought so from the very beginning, I should not have spoken so freely as I have done."

"I am disposed to assist you—I am desirous to meet your wishes," said Markham. "Still, your representations are rather calculated to awaken fears than clear up doubts concerning you. What guarantee can you offer that you will never see those two villains again? what security—"

"Sir," said Holford, "your own manner is so frank and kind—so very condescending, indeed, to a poor lad like me—that I would not deceive you for the world. I had promised to meet those men to-night—for the last time—"

"To meet them again?"

"Ah! young man," cried Markham, "this is most imprudent—if not actually criminal! and where was this precious interview to take place?"

"At the Dark-House, sir—"

"The Dark-House!" ejaculated Markham: "what—a low tavern in Brick Lane, Spitalfields?"

"The same, sir."

"And the names of the two men?" demanded Richard hastily.

"Their right names and those by which they are commonly known amongst their own set, are very different," said Holford.

"How are they known? what are they called in their own infamous sphere?" cried Markham, his impatience amounting almost to a fever: "speak!"

"I do not know whether I shall be doing right," said Holford, hesitating,—"perhaps I have already told you too much—"

"Speak, I say!" cried Richard, taking Holford by the collar of his jacket; "speak. You do not know—you cannot guess how necessary it is for me to have my present suspicions cleared up! Speak—I swear no harm shall happen to you: on the contrary—I will reward you, if it should turn out as I suppose. Once more, who are these villains?"

"They are called—"

"What? speak—speak!"

"The Resurrection Man—"

"Ah!"

"And the Cracksman."

"Then I am right—my suspicions are confirmed!" ejaculated Markham, relinquishing his hold upon Holford's jacket, and throwing himself upon a chair. "Sit down, my good lad—sit down: you and I have not done with each other yet."

The young man appeared alarmed by Richard's exclamations and manners, and seemed undecided whether to remain where he was or attempt to escape.

Richard divined what was passing in the lad's bosom, and hastened to reassure him.

"Sit down—and fear nothing. I swear most solemnly that no harm shall happen to you, be you who or what you may: for I cannot suppose that you are a participator in the crimes of these miscreants. You would not have come to me to tell me all this—Oh! no; Providence has sent you hither this day."

Holford took a seat, wondering how this extraordinary scene was to terminate.

"Are you aware of the pursuits of those two men whom you have named—I mean the full extent of the atrocity of their pursuits?" demanded Richard, after a few moments' pause.

"I know that they are body-snatchers and burglars, sir," answered Holford: "indeed it was a burglary of which they would have made me the instrument; but, oh! sir—believe me, I am incapable of such a crime; and the representations I have made to them have induced them to abandon all idea of it."

"And you are not aware, then," continued Richard, "that they are more than body-snatchers and burglars?"

"More, sir!" repeated Holford in a tone of unfeigned surprise: "Oh! no, sir—how can they be more than that?"

"They are more—far more," rejoined Markham, with a shudder: "they are murderers!"

"Murderers!" ejaculated Holford, starting from his chair with mingled emotions of horror and alarm.

"Yes—murderers of the most diabolical and cold-blooded description," said Markham. "But it is too long a tale to tell you now. Let it suffice for you to know that I was myself upon the point of becoming a victim to that most infernal of all miscreants, the Resurrection Man; and I should conceive that the other whom you named is in all respects as bad as he!"

"Murderers!" repeated Holford, his mental eyes fixed, by a horrible and snake-like fascination, upon the fearful idea now suddenly engendered in his imagination.

"Murderers," echoed Markham solemnly; "and through you must they be surrendered up to justice!"

"Through me!" cried Holford.

"Yes—through you. If you be really imbued with such honourable feelings as you ere now professed, you will not hesitate for one moment in discharging this duty towards society."

"But it would be an odious act of treachery on my part," said Holford, "let the men be what they may."

"If you manifest such a reluctance to rid the metropolis of two murderers," cried Markham angrily, "I shall conceive that you are more intimately connected with them than you choose to admit. But if you imagine that these villains are more innocent than I describe them—if you fancy that some motive prompts me to exaggerate their infamy, I will tell you that no language can enhance their guilt—no vengeance be too severe. Have you not heard that men have disappeared in a most strange and mysterious manner within the last year, at the eastern end of the metropolis,—disappeared without leaving a trace behind them,—men who were not in that situation which hurries the despairing wretch on to suicide? You must have heard of this! If not, learn the dismal fact now from my lips! But the assassins—the dark and secret assassins of these numerous victims, are the wretches whom we shall this night lodge in the grasp of justice!"

"As you will, sir," said Holford, awe-inspired by the solemnity of Markham's voice, and the impressiveness of his manner. "I was to meet them at the Dark-House at nine o'clock: do you take measures to secure them."

"Most assuredly I will," returned Markham emphatically. "And when I think of all that you have told me, my good lad," continued Richard, "I am inclined to believe that you yourself would have been a victim to those wretches."

"Me!" exclaimed Holford, horror-struck at the mere idea.

"Yes—such is now my conviction. They made an appointment with you at the Dark-House, to give you a sum of money you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Foolish boy! Do such men pay their agents or accomplices who fail to fulfil their designs, or who deceive them? do such men part with their money so readily—that money which they encounter so many perils to obtain? And that Dark-House—the place of your appointment,—that Dark-House is in the immediate neighbourhood of the head-quarters of their crimes! Yes—there cannot be a doubt: you also were to be a victim!"

"My God! what a fearful danger have I incurred!" ejaculated Holford, shuddering from head to foot, as Markham thus addressed him; then, when he called to mind the ferocity with which the Cracksman menaced him with his knife, and the coaxing manner in which the Resurrection Man had engaged him to form the appointment for the evening, he felt convinced that the dread suspicion was a correct one.