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Updated: May 22, 2025
Who did that?" and he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. "At your service, sir. Give me the credit of it. Captain Jeremy Rofflash isn't the man to let the chance of a little pretty sword play go by." The speaker was the man who acted as Dorrimore's coachman. He was every inch a braggadocio.
Could she have listened to what he was saying she would have heard the words: "By gad, it's the very wench. I'll swear 'tis. Perish me if this isn't the best day's work I've done for many a day. If I don't make Mr. Archibald Dorrimore fork out fifty guineas my name isn't Jeremy Rofflash." Shortly after Lavinia set out on her way to Grub Street.
The witnesses one of them a lying wretch who ought to be whipped at the cart's tail from Newgate to Charing Cross, by name Jeremy Rofflash were scoundrelly common informers of the lowest type. Lancelot's father, a Whig clergyman and strong supporter of King George, appeared in court to speak on behalf of his son's character, and the lad was acquitted.
"Mind your own business," she snapped. "Why, that's what I'm doing and my business is yours. But if you're fool enough to chuck away a handful of guineas, why do it. All I can say is that my man would give you anything you like to ask if you'd open your mouth and tell him where your man is." "Then I won't. That's my answer, Jeremy Rofflash. Put it in your pipe and smoke it."
She was convinced Rofflash was in the house though she had not seen him actually enter. It angered her to think that Mountchance who could have told her anything was as good as dead. She called upon the crowd to search for the murderer but they turned a deaf ear to her entreaties.
Rofflash swearing that he'd do his best, took his departure and left the lady, like Archibald Dorrimore, to drink herself into insensibility. "The devil looks after his own," chuckled Rofflash as he swaggered down the Strand. "It'll go hard if I don't squeeze fifty guineas out of that idiot Dorrimore over to-morrow night's work!
It was then that Vane caught sight of Rofflash. "You're the fellow whom I knocked down on London Bridge on a certain night some little time ago," said he. "The very same," rejoined Rofflash with a grin which made his ugly face still uglier. "You took me unawares.
When I see him I shall believe him, not before. You must work it so that he comes." "Hang me, Sally, but that's a hard nut to crack." "Not too hard for your tiger's teeth. I'll double those five guineas if you bring it off." Rofflash relished the proposition, but he pretended to find difficulties and held out for higher pay. To Sally money was as water. She agreed to make the ten into fifteen.
Rofflash watched her face, what he could see of it, for she had not unmasked, and noted the slight quiver of the lips and the rise and fall of her bosom. "Faith mistress," he chuckled with a drunken leer, "if you're not as crazy over the beggarly scribbler as my young gallant is over the Fenton girl who lives in the Old Bailey at a coffee house, forsooth!
Its ancient privileges which made it a sanctuary for all that was vile and criminal had not been entirely swept away. Rofflash knew of more than one infamous den to which Lavinia could be conveyed, and nobody be the wiser. The abduction plot had failed for the present and Rofflash, to pacify Dorrimore, went on another tack. In this he was personally interested.
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