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Updated: May 22, 2025
Sally led the fellow to the window overlooking the Black Ditch and told him the story. "Are you bamboozling me, you jade?" growled Rofflash. "It would be like you." "I daresay it would if it were worth my while but it isn't. Look for yourself. Can't you see the deep foot-prints in the mud?" The waning moon gave sufficient light to show the black slimy surface of the ditch.
The crafty Rofflash had contrived to have two strings to his bow. Dorrimore would pay him to help abduct Lavinia, and Sally would do the same for his good offices concerning Vane. He had certainly succeeded in the latter case, but as to Lavinia, the certainty was not so evident. She was nowhere to be seen.
He recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink, very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him. Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler. Archibald Dorrimore, his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices. Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very bad luck.
"Why Archie," rejoined the lady laughingly and making him a mocking curtsey, "were you looking for me? Faith, I'm glad of it. A bottle of Mountain port would be exactly to my taste." "Was that your gallant who left you just now?" "One of them," said Sally coolly. Dorrimore turned angrily to Rofflash. "What the devil does this mean? Have you tricked me?" "I'll swear I haven't.
The gleaming steel danced, he grew confused, faltered, and then came a cold biting sensation in his chest, he fell and knew no more. "An ugly thrust, Mr. Dorrimore," growled Rofflash five minutes afterwards. "What's to be done?" "Is he dead?" asked Dorrimore anxiously. "I'd no intention of going as far as that, but it was the fool's own fault. He was rushing upon me when my point touched him.
Jarvis?" "Sure, sir; 'tis he yonder with the lantern-jawed phizog." "Aye. Watch your chance when he's not talking to the rest and bid him look where I'm sitting. There's a shilling ready for you if you don't blunder." The landlord nodded and waddled towards the man he had pointed out. Jeremy Rofflash, it may be remarked, was a born spy and informer. His blood was tainted with treachery.
At the sight of the young gallant's spirit a number of the mob instantly ranged themselves on his side. Others came on like infuriated animals on the off chance of Captain Jeremy Rofflash rewarding them for their services. "You'd better show these ruffians a clean pair of heels," whispered a friendly voice in the young man's ear.
Rofflash swaggered out and as he made his way to the bridge he pondered deeply over the mystery of woman. Here was Sally Salisbury, a "flaunting extravagant quean," always over head and ears in debt, refusing a chance to put money in her purse just because she had a fancy for a man who maybe was as poor as a church mouse. Yet, as regarded men generally, Sally was a daughter of the horseleech!
Rofflash descended the uneven loose bricks of the narrow winding staircase into the dungeon-like apartment. The stone floor was not much above the level of the river at high tide and a lancet window on each side of the bridge admitted a glimmer of light in the day time. It was now pitch dark.
Vane he could see was well on the way towards forgetfulness, but Captain Jeremy wasn't one to run any risks, so he held aloof from the party, and waited while the landlord went about his errand. Presently Jarvis looked in the direction of the fireplace, and Rofflash beckoned him and laid his fingers on his lip in token of silence. Jarvis quietly slipped away and joined Rofflash.
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