Instead of going straight down Holborn to the jail, as all expected,
their leaders took the way to Clerkenwell, and pouring down a quiet
street, halted before a locksmith's house--the Golden Key.
'Beat at the door,' cried Hugh to the men about him. 'We want one of his
craft to-night. Beat it in, if no one answers.'
The shop was shut. Both door and shutters were of a strong and sturdy
kind, and they knocked without effect. But the impatient crowd raising
a cry of 'Set fire to the house!' and torches being passed to the front,
an upper window was thrown open, and the stout old locksmith stood
before them.
'What now, you villains!' he demanded. 'Where is my daughter?'
'Ask no questions of us, old man,' retorted Hugh, waving his comrades
to be silent, 'but come down, and bring the tools of your trade. We want
you.'
'Want me!' cried the locksmith, glancing at the regimental dress he
wore: 'Ay, and if some that I could name possessed the hearts of mice,
ye should have had me long ago. Mark me, my lad--and you about him do
the same. There are a score among ye whom I see now and know, who are
dead men from this hour. Begone! and rob an undertaker's while you can!
You'll want some coffins before long.
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