"Do you hear me call? Come here," | cried Sikes, whistling. The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped to attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl, and started back. charge of fraud and robbery. I am resolute and immoveable. If you are deter mined to be the same, your blood be upon your own head." "By what authority am I kidnapped in the street and brought here by these dogs?" asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men, who stood beside him. "Come back," said the robber, stamping on the ground. The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running noose, and called him again. "By mine," replied Mr. Brownlow. The dog advanced, retreated, paused"These persons are indemnified by me. an instant, turned, and scoured away at his hardest speed. The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and he resumed his journey. CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. Monks aud Mr. Brownlow at length meet. Their conversation, and the intelligence that interrupts it. THE twilight was beginning to close in when Mr. Brownlow alighted from a hackney coach at his own door, and knocked softly. The door being opened, a sturdy man got out of the coach, and stationed himself on one side of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too, and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man, and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks. If you complain of being deprived of your liberty, you had power and opportunity to retrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to remain quiet. I say again, throw yourself for protection upon the law. I will appeal to the law too; but when you have gone too far to recede, do not sue to me for leniency, when the power will have passed into other hands, and do not say I plunged you down the gulf into which you rushed yourself." Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides. He hesitated. "You will decide quickly," said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and composure. "If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign you to a punishment, the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, you know the way. If not, and you appeal to my forbearance, and the mercy of those you have deeply injured, seat yourself without a word in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days." Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still. "You will be prompt," said Mr. Brown"A word from me, and the alternative is gone for ever." low. way They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow preceding them, led the into a back room. At the door of this apartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The two men looked to the old gentleman as if for instructions. "He knows the alternative," said Mr. Brownlow. "If he hesitates, or moves a finger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of the police, and impeach him as a felon in my name.' "How dare you say this of me?"—asked Monks. "How dare you urge me to it, young man?"-replied Mr. Brownlow, confronting him with a steady look. "Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you by all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that the instant you set foot in the street, that instant I will have you apprehended on a Still the man hesitated. "I have not the inclination to parley further," said Mr. Brownlow, "and as advocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right." "Is there " demanded Monks with a faltering tongue, "is there—no middle course?" "None; emphatically none." Monks looked at the old gentleman with an anxious eye, but reading in his countenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the room, and shrugging his shoulders, sat down. "Lock the door on the outside," said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants, "and come when I ring." The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together. "This is pretty treatment, sir,” said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, "from my father's oldest friend." "It was because I was your father's oldest friend, young man," returned Mr. Brownlow. "It is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him and that fair creature of his blood and kindred, who rejoined her God in youth and left me here a solitary lonely man-it is because he knelt with me beside his only sister's death-bed, when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would but Heaven willed it other wise—have made her my young wifeit is because my seared heart clung to him from that time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died-it is because old recollections and associations fill my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him-it is all these things that move me to treat you gently now. Yes, Edward Leeford, even now—and blush for your unworthiness, who bear the name." "What has the name to do with it?" asked the other after contemplating, half in silence and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. "What is the name to me?" "Nothing," replied Mr. Brownlow, "nothing to you. But it was her's, and even at this distance of time, brings back to me, an old man, the glow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very glad you have changed it-very-very. "This is all mighty fine," said Monks (to retain his assumed designation) after a long silence, during which he had jerked himself, in sullen defiance, to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat shading his face with his hand. "But what do you want with me?" "You have a brother," said Mr. Brownlow rousing himself, "a brother, the whisper of whose name in your ear, when I came behind you in the street, was in itself almost enough to make you accompany me hither in wonder and alarm." "I have no brother," replied Monks. "You know I was an only child. Why do you talk to me of brothers? You know that as well as I." "Attend to what I do know and you may not," said Mr. Brownlow. "I shall interest you bye and bye. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which family pride and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition forced your unhappy father, when a mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural issue," returned Mr. Brownlow. "I don't care for hard names," inter rupted Monks, with a jeering laugh. "You know the fact, and that's enough for me." "But I also know," pursued the old gentleman, "the misery, the slow torture, the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union: I know how listlessly and wearily each of that wretched pair dragged on their heavy chain through a world that was poisoned to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded by open taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and hate to loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, carried each a galling fragment of which nothing but death could break the rivets, to hide it in new society, beneath the gayest looks they could assume. Your mother succeeded; she forgot it soon- - but it rusted and cankered at your father's heart for years.' "Well, they were separated," said Monks," and what of that?" "When they had been separated for some time," returned Mr. Brownlow, "and your mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly forgotten the young husband, ten good years her junior, who with prospects blighted lingered on at home, he fell among new friends; this circumstance you know al ready." "Not I," said Monks, turning away his eyes, and beating his foot upon the ground, as a man who is determined to deny everything, "Not I." "Your manner no less than your ac tions assures me that you have never forgotten it, or cease to think of it with bitterness," returned Mr. Brownlow. speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven years old, and your father but one-and-thirty-for he was, 1 repeat, a boy when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events that cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will you spare it and disclose to me the truth?" other a mere child of two or three years but savouring more of disagreeable surld." "What's that to me ?" asked Monks. 66 They resided," said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption, "in a part of the country to which your father, in his wanderings, had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed each other. Your father was gifted as few men are he had his sister's soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same." The old gentleman paused. Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed on the floor; seeing this he immediately resumed 66 The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter, the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion, of a guileless, untried girl." "Your tale is of the longest," observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair. It is a true tale of grief, and trial, and sorrow, young man," returned Mr. Brownlow," and such tales usually are. If it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations, to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed- -as others are often, it is no uncommon case-died, and to repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning, left his panacea for all griefs -money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went, was seized with mortal illness there, was followed the moment the intelligence reached Paris by your mother, who carried you with her; he died the day after her arrival, leaving no will-no will-so that the whole property fell to her and you." At this point of the recital, Monks held his breath and listened with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused he changed his position, with the air of one who has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands. "Before he went abroad, as he passed through London on his way," said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other's face, "he came to me." "I never heard of that," interposed Monks, in a tone to appear incredulous, prise. "He came to me, and left with me among other things a picture-a portrait painted by himself-a likeness of this poor girl-which he did not wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward in his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow, talked in a wild and distracted strain of ruin and dishonour worked by him, confided to me his intention to convert his whole property at any loss into money, and having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition, to fly the country-I guessed too well he would not fly alone-and never see it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that covered one most dear to both, even from me he withheld any more particular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me-once again for the last time on earth. Alas! that was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more." I went," said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, "I went, when all was over, to the scene of his-I will not use the term the world would use, for harshness or favour are now alike to him-of his guilty love; resolved, if my fears were realized, that erring child should find one heart and home open to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why or whither, none could tell." Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph. "When your brother," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other's chair, "when your brother-a feeble, ragged, neglected child-was cast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy-" "What!" cried Monks, starting. 66 By me," said Mr. Brownlow-"I told you I should interest you before long. I say by me-I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although, for aught he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to the picture I have spoken of struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him, in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. "You you can't prove anything against me," stammered Monks. "I defy you to do it." own words to your accomplice the Jew, No, no, no," returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. 66 "We shall see," returned the old gentleman, with a searching glance. "I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery, if anybody could, and as when I had last heard of you, you were on your own estate in the West Indies-whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother's death, to escape the consequences of vicious courses here,-I made the voyage. You had left it months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done; sometimes for days together, and sometimes not for months, keeping, to all appear ance, the same low haunts, and mingling with the same infamous herd who had No, no," interposed Monks. “I—I been your associates when a fierce ungo--know nothing of that. I was going to vernable boy. I wearied them with new inquire the truth of the story when you applications; I paced the streets by night overtook me. I didn't know the cause; and day; but, until two hours ago, all my thought it was a common quarrel." efforts were fruitless, and I never saw "It was the partial disclosure of your you for an instant." secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole ?" "And now you do see me," said Monks, rising boldly, "what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words; justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's. Brother! you don't even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don't even know that." "I did not," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but within this last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connexion, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to his father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs-proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your "Every word," cried the old gentleman, every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage, and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally, if not really a party." I "That I promise, too." "Remain quietly here until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that, also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that," said Mr. Brownlow. "Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world, you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal, and the possibilities of evading it-torn by his fears on the one hand, and his hatred on the other-the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman -Mr. Losberne-entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. He will be taken to-night." of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creaturewhich way have they taken?" "Drive straight to the office, and you will be in time," replied Mr. Losberne. "I will remain here." The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly un "The murderer ?" asked Mr. Brown- controllable. low. "His "Yes, yes," replied the other. dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be there under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he can never escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by government tonight." "I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow, "and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?" "Harry?" 66 "As soon as he had seen your friend here safe in a coach with you, he turned off to where he heard this;" replied the doctor; and mounting his horse, sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them." "The Jew," said Mr. Brownlow. "What of him?" "When I last heard, he had not been taken; but he will be, or is by this time. They're sure of him." "Have you made up your mind?" asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks. "Yes," he replied. be secret with me?" 66 You-you-will "I will. Remain here till I return; it is your only hope of safety." They left the room, and the door was again locked. "What have you done?" asked the doctor, in a whisper. "All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the villany, which, by these lights, became plain as day. Write, and appoint the evening after to morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there a few hours before, but shall require rest, and especially the young lady, who may have greater need CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. The pursuit and escape. NEAR to that part of the Thames on which the church of Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest, and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers, and the smoke of close-built, low-roofed houses, there exists at the present day, the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown by name to the great mass of its inhabitants. To reach this place, the visiter has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of water-side people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops, the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman's door, and stream from the house parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the very raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous wagons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving at length in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he had passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed, half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars, that time and dust have almost eaten away, and every ima ginable sign of desolation and neglect. In such a neighbourhood, beyond Dockhead, in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a |