Opening…

Chapter I

OAKFIELD FARMHOUSE――THE BURGLARY――DESPERATE ENCOUNTER――VILLAGERS TO THE RESCUE.

Our first scene opens at a picturesque-looking farmhouse situated on the outskirts of a pretty little village within a few miles of Hull. Oakfield Farmhouse――so called from a number of patriarchal oaks poising their lofty heads in the rear of the establishment――was in the occupation of two substantial yeomen named respectively John and Richard Ashbrook, their only sister Maude being mistress of the bright and cheerful abode.

In the earlier portion of the day our two Yorkshire farmers had been out on a shooting expedition. They brought back with them two friends――fellow-sportsmen. They were driven home by the rain, which fell in torrents, and rendered further sport impracticable.

“I knowed how it would be,” said Richard Ashbrook to his companions. “These beastly river fogs always bring wet, and the clouds have been as ‘bengy’ (full of rain) for some time――as bengy as could be.”

When the party reached Oakfield their garments were saturated with wet, and clung to them like a second skin.

“I have got a fire in the big bedroom――a good blazing fire――for I guessed how it would be,” said Maude Ashbrook, as she received her guests at the door. “You’ll all of you have to change your things. Mercy on us, you are dripping wet, John!” she exclaimed, placing her hand on her brother’s shoulder.

“Our friends will stop and have a morsel of something to eat and drink for the matter o’ that,” observed Richard.

“Indeed no――I think not,” said Mr. Jamblin, one of the farmer’s companions.

“Ah, but he will,” returned the farmer. “None of yer think nots. Come, friends, get thee in. We don’t intend to part with thee so easily.”

Mr. Jamblin smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed. The other friend of the farmer’s, a Mr. Cheadle by name, followed Jamblin.

After dinner had been served, “clean glasses and old corks” were festively proposed by the host. Some bottles of genuine spirits and a box of Havannas were placed on the board; an animated discussion on things agricultural and political followed, while ever and anon Jamblin and Cheadle would rise from their seats, repair to the window, and, flattening their noses against the panes thereof, would endeavour to distinguish a star in the sky, or the first beams of the rising moon.

But the sky remained black and gloomy, and continual pattering of the rain was distinctly heard.

“It’s no good, my fine fellows,” observed Richard Ashbrook. “You are in for it. The rain has set in for good, so you had better make up your minds to stop where you are. ‘Any port in a storm,’ as my uncle the captain used to say. Nobody will ever expect you home, such a night as this.”

“You are very kind, Ashbrook, but――――”

“Oh, bother your buts! I tell you I’ve got a couple of beds for ye. They are small iron bedsteads, both in the same room; but you don’t mind roughing it for one night, surely.”

The farmer’s two friends accepted the offer, and prepared themselves to pass the hours merrily. This they had no difficulty in doing.

Several games of whist were played, after which the host was called upon for a song. He was not quite in tune, but that did not matter. The other singers were equally deficient in that respect; but what was wanting in skill was made up by noise.

Most of the ditties had a good, rattling chorus, which each singer interpreted according to his own fancy. After sundry libations, and much protestation of friendship and good-fellowship, the hour arrived for repose, and the two farmers, their visitors, and Maude betook themselves to their respective sleeping apartments.

As Richard, who was the last, was about to ascend the stairs, he was touched gently on the elbow by a tall long-haired young woman, who was one of the domestics in the establishment.

“Well, Jane, what’s up now, lass?” inquired the farmer.

“Hush, master. This way.” She drew him back towards the entrance to the kitchen, and said in a low, mysterious tone of voice, “Are the guns loaded?”

“Two of them are. But what of that?”

“Load the others.”

“Why, dash it――what ails thee, girl?”

“Nothing, master. I can’t tell why, but I feel timmersome like, and fancy something bad is going to happen.”

“If loading the other guns will do thee any good the remedy is easy enough,” observed the good-natured farmer, who at once proceeded to charge the other weapons.

“Thanks, Mr. Richard, thanks!” exclaimed the girl, in a tone of evident satisfaction.

The farmer repaired to his bedroom, taking the two guns――his own and his brother’s――with him. At his suggestion his two friends had carried up their weapons into their bedroom in the earlier portion of the evening. This might appear a little singular, but John Ashbrook had playfully observed to Cheadle and Jamblin that there was sometimes a hare to be seen out of the bedroom window, feeding on the orchard grass of a morning.

“And so,” he observed jocosely, “if you see one to-morrow morning you will of course be able to knock him over.”

“We will do our best should there be one,” said both gentlemen.

In less than half an hour after the party had broken up all the inmates of Oakfield House were soundly sleeping.

All save one.

This was Jane Ryan, the girl who had exchanged a few parting words with her master, or, more properly speaking, with one of her masters, for John and Richard Ashbrook were partners.

A strange sense of coming evil had taken possession of the girl, who sat moodily and dejected in the kitchen long after the other members of the household had retired to rest. Jane did not feel disposed to seek repose; she was restless and disturbed, albeit she was quiet, moving from place to place in a stealthy way, in direct variance with her usual manner.

“I cannot sleep,” she murmured; “and so I will e’en keep watch for one hour or more.”

She put some fresh coals on the kitchen fire, before which she sat for some time absorbed in thought.

Leaving her there, we will take a survey of the exterior of the house and its surroundings.

It was two o’clock in the morning. The rain had ceased; the moon was shining brightly, and covered the fields with a pale, lustrous light; the stars sparkled in the rain-drops which were hanging from the leaves, and so clothed the trees with a mantle of diamonds.

All was silent in the fields, for the birds and insects of the night were torpid till summer came once more.

All was silent in the yard――the cattle sleeping on their beds of straw, and the fowls upon their wooden perches.

Seen by the pale moonlight the old farmhouse was a picture worthy of an artist’s pencil.

On the northern side of Oakfield ran a narrow lane, skirted by a dense mass of foliage, which threw the lane into sombre darkness. The lane itself rose abruptly as it neared the farm, which stood on the upland.

In this lane the forms of three men might be seen. The first of these is Charles Peace. Standing facing him is the notorious “cracksman” Ned Gregson, better known by the name of the “Bristol Badger.” The last of the three is known as “Cooney;” he is a tinker by trade, but he is a sort of jackal to rogues of a greater degree than himself.

The three men are in close converse. They had come suddenly to halt, as if doubtful as to their course of action.

“I tell yer it’s right as the mail,” observed the tinker, in a tone of confidence. “The farmers have sold their wheat, and there’s a mighty good ‘swag’ in the house. Only yer see, Ned, old boy, yer must not be too rash. Be keerful――be very keerful.”

“What do yer mean?” inquired the Badger.

“Well, it’s just this, old man, the farmers――leastways so I heerd at the ‘Six Bells’――have had two blokes with ’em to-day, a poppin’ at the blessed birds, bad luck to them; and from what I could gather from Tim, the two blokes are a stoppin’ there to-night.”

“What matters about that?” said Peace. “We don’t intend to wake the gentlemen.”

“All right――so much the better,” answered the tinker. “I’m for doing things in a quiet sort of way, I am.”

The Badger uttered an oath, and his ill-favoured countenance wore an expression of disgust.

“Do you know where they keep the shiners?” he asked.

“Oh, yes; I think that’ll be all right. I haven’t been in the house to mend the bell wires without a keeping my eyes open. Ah, ah!”

“Stow that, yer fool!” exclaimed the Badger. “Wait till yer out of the wood afore yer laugh.”

“All right, Ned, I’m as silent as the grave.”

“When were you at ‘The Bells,’ then?” inquired Peace.

“I had a game of skittles this afternoon.”

“At what time?”

“Between three and four o’clock; or it might be a little later. Can’t say to half an hour or so.”

“And that’s how you came to know about these two sporting chaps?”

“Right you are. Tim gave me the tip.”

“You haven’t been fool enough to push your inquiries too far?” said Peace. “Tim, as you call him, might suspect.”

“He suspect?” returned the tinker, indignantly. “Not he. I was as good as gold.”

“It’s no use making a long palaver about the matter,” ejaculated Gregson. “Let’s to business.”

The three burglars made direct for Oakfield House. In the space of a few minutes they were busily at work to effect an entrance, but they found this by no means so easy a task as they had imagined. The windows and doors of the habitation were carefully secured, and, although they knew it not at the time, there was one inmate of the establishment keenly alive to every movement.

This was Jane Ryan, who was aroused from her lethargic reverie before the kitchen fire by a sound which was new to her ears.

Jane started and rose from her seat.

“I said something was about to happen,” she murmured, pressing her hand against her side. “I could have taken a Bible oath of it.”

She paused for a few moments, apparently in doubt as to what course to take; presently she appeared to have decided upon her line of action. She glided from the room with long, stealthy, and noiseless steps, carrying her shoes in her hand.

A sudden surprise awaited her two young masters.

They were awoke from their sleep by a hand placed upon their shoulders. They stared around them sleepily, as yet not realising the real state of affairs. It was dark in their bedroom, for the moon was behind a cloud.

When it gleamed out, they saw Jane Ryan standing before them. Her arms were naked to the shoulder; her eyes glistened with a strange light.

She held a loaded gun in her hands.

The Ashbrooks were perfectly bewildered when they beheld this strange apparition awaking them in the silent hours of the night.

“Jane!” exclaimed Richard Ashbrook, suddenly calling to his mind the warning given him in the earlier part of the night by his faithful and devoted servant. “Jane――what’s the matter? Speak, girl.”

“Hush!” she murmured, placing her finger on her lips; “make no noise, or it may be fatal. Listen.”

Both the farmers listened till their ears tingled, but they could hear nothing.

A thought crossed the minds of both almost simultaneously, that the girl was (to use the expression they made use of afterwards) off her head.

The brothers stared at each other in mute astonishment.

“I can’t hear anything,” said John Ashbrook.

“Don’t speak, master, but watch and wait; you will hear,” said Jane, in a low whisper.

She was standing as if in anxious expectation――one hand raised to her ear, the other grasping the fowling-piece.

The two Ashbrooks listened again, and as the moonlight ebbed slowly from the room like a great white wave streaming back towards the sea, they heard a thin scraping sound, which was unlike anything they had heard before. This mysterious sound was followed by deep and heavy blows.

“Are you satisfied now?” said the maid.

“What is it?” they inquired.

She answered in a low, horse voice――

“Robbers, burglars, assassins!”

The two farmers stole hastily but silently from their beds.

Jane immediately left the room.

They at once proceeded to arouse Mr. Cheadle and Jamblin. All this was done as noiselessly as possible. When the four men were up and dressed, Maude Ashbrook joined them, declaring that she would not leave the side of her brothers upon any consideration.

They left the door wide open, and all crouched together in a corner.

The sound of the burglars’ tools soon ceased――a sign that they were worked by practised hands.

Indeed, no more skilful “cracksmen” existed at this time than Charles Peace, the Badger, and Cooney――the two first-named men have never been surpassed.

The farmers and their friends silently awaited the movements of the robbers, who had without doubt, by this time, effected an entrance into the house.

The party in the bedroom stood prepared for any emergency――they all cocked their guns.

“Let us have no firing, except in self-defence,” said Mr. Cheadle. “There are four able-bodied men here, and it must go hard with us if we cannot hold our own.”

“I shan’t be at all particular about peppering the scoundrels, whoever they may be,” returned John Ashbrook. “A set of lawless, midnight marauders――fellows of their stamp do not deserve pity or consideration.”

They now heard muffled footsteps in the room beneath them, and immediately afterwards similar sounds were heard on the stairs.

They began to breathe a little quicker, and grasped their guns more tightly.

A gleam of light fell across the threshold.

They could see a slipper lying there――one that Maude had dropped.

The burglars had probably perceived this, and thence argued that people were afoot, for the light disappeared, and they could hear whisperings outside the door.

The big bedroom, as it was called, was a square chamber, barely furnished. The two bedsteads had been placed close to the window on the left-hand side.

Round and about these beds the six besieged persons were crouched or seated.

The moonlight poured in at the window in such a manner that while the whole of the opposite side, except one corner, was as light as day, the little nook by the beds was buried in impenetrable darkness.

The one dark corner on the opposite side was formed by the chimney, which jutted out some little way into the room.

They listened breathlessly for some moments, till they fancied that they heard a board creak inside the room close to the door; and at that moment, as if by magic, a voice issued from the corner of the chimney.

“We are armed with loaded revolvers; if you come a step nearer we fire!”

The lurid flash of a pistol flamed within the room, and they heard a ball strike sharply against the wall.

Maude betrayed their hiding-place with a shriek, and fell fainting in her brother John’s arms.

A loud report rang in their ears, and the room was filled with a thick, sulphurous smoke.

By the light of the powder’s flame when the first shot was fired, there was one who had seen the robber’s face――a face, once seen, not soon to be forgotten. The dark cavernous eyes of the “Badger” had been distinctly visible to Jane Ryan, who gave a scream of triumph and revenge.

It was but momentarily that she had caught sight of the forbidding features of the miscreant; but it was enough for her purpose.

She levelled her master’s gun at the supposed spot where the robber was; and as she fired, something fell heavily upon the floor.

A shudder passed over them like a cold wind. They drew their breath and heard the same whisperings outside the door.

John Ashbrook placed his sister behind himself and his brother. There was an interval of silence; they began to hope that the burglars had gone, when presently they perceived something on the opposite wall.

They watched it with fascinated eyes. It was a small, dark shadow, creeping towards them along the wall.

It was the shadow of a man’s hand.

Then they heard a harsh, rustling sound, as if something was being dragged along the floor.

The robbers were taking away the dead body of their comrade.

They did not dare to move, for they knew the burglars were armed to a far greater extent than they were, and exposure might prove fatal.

Ten minutes passed thus; ten minutes of frightful suspense to these farmers――who were brave but not phlegmatic――who now fought men for the first time, and fought them in the dark.

They could not possibly tell how many there were of their enemies. To fire the only three remaining charges they had would have been an act of madness; they therefore thought it prudent to keep these in reserve for the grand or final conflict.

But the worst was over, as far as the Oakfield housebreakers were concerned.

Presently the eager tramp of men’s feet echoed from the road before the farm, and a dozen rough voices were heard bawling to each other.

The besieged party rushed to the window, and saw in the front of the house one of the village constabulary force, who was accompanied by a posse of strong-bodied youths of the immediate neighbourhood. In addition to these there were shepherds armed with crowbars, stablemen with their pitchforks, bird-keepers with their rusty fowling-pieces, woodmen with their billhooks, and a tall relation of Jane Ryan’s with a substantial kitchen poker.

The reports of the gun and pistol in the dead hour of the night had aroused the whole neighbourhood.

As may be readily imagined, the strong reinforcement at once dispelled all anxiety or doubt in the minds of the farmer’s household.

Three men were instantly mounted, and started off in the dark to the three nearest railway stations. The rest were invited into the kitchen to wait till daybreak.

There had been an unprecedented number of burglaries committed at several houses in the neighbourhood within the space of a few months――hence it was that the rustic population were so keenly alive when any signal of alarm was given.

To capture the robbers was the wish of everyone assembled at Oakfield on that eventful night.

With the first streaks of dawn the party congregated in the yard, and took counsel on the best means of pursuit.

“If they have been carrying a body with them they can’t be very far off,” said Mr. Jamblin.

“They are lurking about somewhere hard by, I dare say,” said the police-officer.

“Where’s Jarvis?” cried Will, the carter. “He’d be the boy to find ’em for us. He’d ketch ’em if they burrowed underground like a rabbit.”

“Would he?” ejaculated the policeman. “He must be a clever chap.”

“Aye, that he be,” returned another rustic.

“Have you got any more of his sort in this neighbourhood?” asked the officer.

The rustics made no reply.

“Who is this Jarvis you were speaking of?” inquired John Ashbrook.

“Jarvis, sir? Why, him as ’listed some years ago, and fought under Lord Clyde in the Injies. Arter that they sent him to the other Injies, where the red men be, and they’ve taught him a power of strange tricks. He came here wi’ us, but he’s got lost since, or summat.”

“No, I baint lost, Joe,” said a tall young man, whose left cheek was one great red scar, and whose face had been bronzed by no English sun.

“Why, sure enough, it is Jarvis!” exclaimed Mr. Ashbrook. “Give us your hand, lad. Sure enough I shouldn’t ha’ known ye, they’ve knocked ye about so.”

“Aye, that they have, Master Ashbrook,” returned the soldier. “But tell us, neighbour, what you can about this night’s business.”

“You shall know all I know,” answered the farmer; who thereupon put the soldier in possession of all the facts with which the reader is already acquainted.

When he had finished, the soldier said, “I’ll be bound for it that the body of the dead or wounded man is not very far from here.”

“You think not?”

“Ah! that I do. We came up so soon that they’d have no time to get far away with that load upon their backs; and most likely they’ve been forced to hide it in a slovenly way.”

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Chapter II

CAPTURE OF THE BRISTOL BADGER――MURDER WILL OUT――CHASE AFTER CHARLES PEACE――HIS MYSTERIOUS ESCAPE.

The sudden disappearance of Charles Peace and his two companions upon the arrival of the villagers excited surprise in the minds of all who had assembled at the farmhouse. The police officer did not choose to commit himself by any expression of opinion. He was not a man given to loquacity where silence was requisite. He did not, however, attempt to deny the assertion made by soldier Jarvis――namely, that the robbers were not far off.

Enjoining the villagers to stay where they were and to carefully avoid treading over more ground than was absolutely necessary, the young soldier accompanied Mr. Ashbrook to the kitchen window, where the entrance had been forced by removing the glass with a diamond――or “starring the glaze,” as it is termed in the burglar’s phraseology――and after this had been done panelling the shutter. It was this last process that aroused Jane Ryan to a sense of danger.

Jarvis carefully examined the ground beneath the window, and pointed to some footprints in the wet earth which led towards the straw yard. In one place they were so plain that every nail in the soles could be distinguished.

“They are the impressions of a strange foot――that’s certain sure,” observed Ashbrook.

“We are on the trail of one of them,” returned Jarvis. “I dare say they thought they could do as they liked among yokels, but we’ve got the trail and I mean to keep it.”

The speaker walked slowly across the yard, following the tracks with his eye as a bloodhound would have followed them with his nose.

“They’re in this barn, Master Ashbrook,” he said, stopping before one of the doors. “No, they baint, though, they’re come out agen and gone along the wall. But they’ve left their dead mate behind ’em. See how different their track is now; they tramples quite close alongside of each other, while afore they carried the body from shoulder to shoulder, and so were forced to walk one behind and a little way apart.”

The villagers gave a murmur of astonishment.

“Ah, he knows how many blue beans make five,” said the carter, as he took out the peg by which the folding doors were kept dosed.

“I don’t feel quite so sure about the footsteps,” remarked the policeman; “they don’t appear to me to tally with the others.”

“If I’m mistaken, we shall have to try back,” answered Jarvis. “Of course, it is just possible we are on a false scent. Ah! what is this?” The speaker pointed significantly to some drops of blood upon the straw in front of the barn. “What say you to that?”

“Blood, without a doubt,” observed the constable.

“That’s where they laid him down when they opened the barn door.”

“Ah!――dare say――most likely.”

The villagers were open-mouthed with wonder. They, one and all, voted the soldier a necromancer.

The doors were flung wide open, and they sprang over the rack into the body of the barn. There had been some threshing done the day before, and there was a vast heap of chaff just outside.

While they were gazing around, a low moan, as of one in pain, fell upon their ears.

“Keep quiet, lads,” exclaimed Jarvis; “leave this matter to me and the constable. Keep where you are. We can none of us tell what next will happen.”

“Here’s footmarks on the chaff, and blood on it also,” said the constable, who took a few steps further inside, whereupon his eyes lighted on the prostrate figure of a man lying in the corner on a heap of straw.

He flashed his bull’s-eye on the face of the wounded burglar, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

The Bristol Badger lay helpless, and bathed in blood.

Jane Ryan, who had followed the constable and Jarvis, gave a slight scream.

“Don’t take on so, woman,” said the constable. “He’s only got his deserts.”

Heedless of this observation, Jane went close to the wounded burglar and peered into his face.

“Dost know who this here is? I’ll tell ye!” she exclaimed, in a voice of concentrated rage; “he’s the murderer of my sweetheart. I should ha’ known him out o’ ten thousand.”

There was a murmur of unmixed surprise at this observation.

“What beest thee saying, Jane?” said the farmer, scratching his head. “Hast ever seen ’im afore?”

“Aye, sure enough I have, master. It was not for nothing that I sat up this night. I knew summut was about to happen, but never guessed it would turn out like this.”

Gregson endeavoured to rise to his feet, but the attempt was a futile one; he was too weak from loss of blood.

“What has that false, wicked woman been saying?” he inquired of the policeman.

“She accuses you of murder,” was the brief rejoinder.

“She’s mad. I never saw her before.”

“What’s to be done wi’ this man?” inquired the farmer of the constable.

“He’s my prisoner, anyway,” answered the latter. “Best see and have his wounds attended to, and then we will take him to the lock-up. You charge him, I suppose?”

“Yes, with burglary.”

“Attempted burglary,” chimed in the cracksman.

“And I charge him with wilful murder!” exclaimed Jane Ryan.

Having said this, she folded her arms upon her breast and relapsed into gloomy silence. There she stood, colossal as an Amazon, in her sublime strength, beautiful as a Judith in her just and fearful vengeance.

A hurdle was brought by some of the villagers, and upon this the ill-fated Badger was placed; he was then carried into the farmhouse, not, however, before the constable had taken the precaution to handcuff him, for he was known to that astute officer as a ruffian of no common order. He was, however, run to earth, having been, in a manner of speaking, hunted down by a woman.

A doctor was sent for, who bandaged his wound, which, although severe, was not likely to prove mortal――certainly not unless some unfavourable symptons set in.

While all this clatter had been going on, Charles Peace had contrived to conceal himself in a neighbouring coppice, from which he durst not emerge while the village folk were prowling about.

When Gregson was conveyed into the house the majority of the villagers wheeled off; at the same time Jarvis, however, was still endeavouring [Sidenote: No. 2.] to trace out the Badger’s companions. He came too near to the coppice where Peace was concealed to be at all pleasant to a gentleman of his retiring habits, so Peace was fain to avail himself of a neighbouring hedge, on the other side of which he crept along on all fours.

Having gone some considerable distance by this means of progressive, he imagined that he was out of sight, and betook himself to the open field, across which he ran at the top of his speed. His movements were however not unobserved by Jarvis.

The latter caught Mr. John Ashbrook by the leg. The farmer was mounted on his bay mare, and said: “There goes one of them; ride down the lane and intercept his flight, while I run across the field. We shall have him yet.”

The farmer needed no second bidding. He rode at the hedge which skirted the lane. With one stroke from the long corded whip, and one cry from the rider’s lips, the gallant animal bounded over the hedge like a flying deer.

“Wouldn’t ’a brushed a fly off the top twig,” exclaimed Ashbrook, triumphantly. “Now, for my gentleman. Dall it, if this won’t turn an eventful night, especially if I catch that rascal.”

While the farmer was riding down the lane, Jarvis and several others were in hot pursuit of the fugitive.

Peace became aware, much to his discomfiture, that every movement he made was plainly visible to his pursuers, and he deeply regretted having taken to the open field.

He ran his hardest, and had the satisfaction of getting into the lane before any of the pursuing party had even reached the field.

Ashbrook, as he was trotting down the lane, saw the fugitive jump through a gap in the hedge. The farmer urged on his steed, being now under the full impression that the capture of Peace was reduced to a certainty.

In a brief space of time he came within a hundred yards of the enemy.

“I’ve got him now!” exclaimed the farmer. “He’s mine as sure as my name’s Jack Ashbrook.”

But there’s an old adage “that it is as well not to reckon your chickens before they are hatched.”

Peace was in imminent danger, but he was an astute, cunning rascal, who was up to every feint and dodge in all cases of emergency. He, nevertheless, was fully impressed with the fact that matters were growing serious――much too serious to be pleasant. He turned round and boldly faced the horseman.

Drawing a revolver from his pocket, he watched till Ashbrook came within range of the shot, then he fired. At this time he could not have been more than twenty paces from the horse and its rider.

A bullet was lodged in Mr. Ashbrook’s right shoulder. The wound was not a very serious one certainly――not enough to place the farmer hors de combat, but the effects of the shot proved more disastrous in another way.

The mare, who was a high-spirited animal, became restive from the pistol’s flash. She reared, then stumbled, and threw her rider heavily to the ground. Peace rushed forward and struck Ashbrook two blows on the head, which produced insensibility.

He then made for the mare’s head. Turning her sharply round, he led her some paces from the scene of action. He patted her on the neck, and strove as best he could to overcome the effects of the fright caused by the flash of his weapon. The mare became comparatively quiet and tractable.

Peace jumped on her back, and rode off at headlong speed.

While all this had been taking place in the lane the mob of persons in the field had increased considerably in numbers; but the foremost of them were a long way from that part of the lane where the short but decisive struggle had taken place.

Two other horses had been brought out from the stables at Oakfield, but some time necessarily elapsed before they could be saddled; and when Mr. Cheadle and Mr. Jamblin mounted them for the purpose of giving chase, Peace was so far ahead that the chances were remote of finding him.

He knew the bye-roads of the neighbourhood perfectly well, and took very excellent care to choose a circuitous route. As he was riding along he listened every now and then to ascertain if there were any sounds of horses’ hoofs to be heard, but none were as yet audible. He felicitated himself upon this fact, arguing therefrom that his pursuers had gone another road.

“I shall give them the double; they are on the wrong scent,” he ejaculated, in a tone of satisfaction; “but even when the worst comes to the worst all that will be left for me will be to make a stout fight of it.”

He had unlimited faith in his own power, skill, and address in confronting and overcoming difficulties; and his confidence did not desert him on this occasion.

Presently he came to three cross roads, and was hesitating which to take――calculating the while the chances of detection with his accustomed coolness.

While thus engaged he descried a mounted patrol on a formidable-looking horse, coming at a measured pace towards him.

To turn and fly was his first impulse, but upon second consideration he thought it better to put a bold face on the matter.

The mounted policeman came forward, and regarded him with a look of doubt and mistrust.

“Good morning, friend,” said Peace, in a cheery tone. “Better weather than it was a few hours ago.”

“Yes,” returned the other. “Where might you be journeying to this early hour?”

The speaker regarded him with a searching glance. This, however, did not in any way discompose Peace, who, throughout his career, plumed himself upon being able to throw dust in the eyes of the constabulary.

“Ah, I’m sorry to say my errand, or rather the cause of it, is one of a painful nature. A poor gentleman is at death’s door, and I have been sent off for the doctor. In cases of this sort minutes are precious. Let me see, yonder’s the nearest way to Hull, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the right-hand one. But who is in such extreme danger?”

“A farmer――Mr. Ashbrook. Poor fellow, it is a chance if he recovers, so they seem to think.”

“I know both the Mr. Ashbrooks perfectly well. Which one is it that’s so bad; they were right enough yesterday?”

“Mr. John Ashbrook.”

“Umph! that’s strange. What’s the matter with Mr. John?”

“He was thrown――horse reared and fell upon him. His injuries are very serious.”

“I’m sorry to hear this, but――” and here the speaker regarded Peace with a still more searching look, “it’s his horse you are riding.”

“Yes, that’s right enough; it is.”

“Then who are you going for?”

“Dr. Gardiner.”

While this conversation was taking place, Peace had so distorted his features that recognition was almost impossible. He was an adept at this. By constant practice he was enabled to throw out his under jaw, lift up his eyebrows, and so alter the expression of his features that he defied detection. This is now pretty generally acknowledged.

“Well, I must not let anyone detain me very long in a case like this,” he observed, carelessly. “So farewell for the present.”

The patrol made no reply. He did not, however, feel quite satisfied that all was quite right; at the same time he did not consider it his duty to offer any obstacle to Peace’s passage along the road, which led directly to the town of Hull.

Peace trotted along till the patrol was lost to sight, then he pulled the bridal rein of the mare, and turned her into a narrow lane which ran at right angles with the road.

“That fellow suspects something,” he murmured; “and for two pins he would have collared me there and then. The sooner I part company with the mare the better it will be for both of us, I’m thinking.”

He dismounted, opened a gate which was at the corner of a meadow, and led the mare into the field; then he took off the saddle and bridle, which he threw into a ditch, gave the animal a sharp crack with his whip, shut the gate, and left her to herself. This done, he proceeded merrily along on foot.

Messrs. Cheadle and Jamblin had meanwhile been riding to their hearts’ content, but they did not catch the most distant glance of the man of whom they were in search. No wonder, seeing that they had lost all traces of the fugitive, and had been journeying in an opposite, or very nearly in an opposite direction to the one taken by Peace. They had, therefore, the gratification of riding many miles upon a bootless errand.

They returned, vexed and dispirited, to Oakfield House, where they found John Ashbrook in bed, with his sister and the village surgeon in close attendance upon him.

The latter had extracted the bullet, and strapped up the head of the sufferer, who was, he said, doing as well as could be expected. Certainly there was no immediate danger.

The farmer had an unimpaired constitution, and, although sadly bruised and knocked about, would in all probability soon get the better of his wounds.

Peace, when he came to the end of the lane, turned into a road, where stood a small beerhouse, of a primitive character, with a good dry skittle-ground at the back.

He knocked several times at the side door of this establishment, but received no answer to his repeated summonses. It was evident that all were asleep within.

He called the landlord by name, with no better result. While thus engaged, a man came forward from the opposite side of the road, and said――

“Why, what’s up now, Charley? Want to get in?”

Peace turned round in some alarm, but was a little reassured upon finding the speaker was a friend of his.

“Hang it! I’m as tired as a dog, and wanted an hour or two’s rest,” said Peace.

“Tired! where have you been to?”

“Playing the fiddle to a party some miles away from here. They could not accommodate me with a shake-down, so I’ve had to trudge it.”

“Come along wi’ me, my lad,” said the good-natured groom. “You shall have an hour or two’s rest in my little crib over the stable.”

Peace gladly availed himself of his friend’s offer.

A hue and cry would be raised throughout the neighbourhood of the attempted burglary at Oakfield House and the surrounding districts, and Peace, young as he was at this time――he had only just turned twenty――was fully impressed with the necessity of using caution.

No one would dream of his being in the groom’s sleeping apartment. The latter informed him that he had to take the carriage up to London, and that he should not return from the metropolis for several days.

“But that aint of no kind o’ consequence,” said the groom. “You can sleep away to your heart’s content, only when you do leave mind and lock the door. You can give the key to the stable-boy.”

“I’m sure I do not know how to sufficiently thank you, Jim,” observed Peace in his blandest tone and manner.

There’s no call for thanks, lad. You’ve done me a good turn afore now, and one good turn deserves another.”

Peace was conducted by his companion into the small sleeping chamber.

“There you are,” said the latter, pointing to the bed. “In less than half an hour I shall be at the station; make yourself comfortable. We shan’t meet again for some days, that’s quite certain, and so good-bye for the present.”

“Good-bye, Jim, and many thanks.”

Then, as the man was about to pass out, Peace said, quietly――

“Oh, by the way, there is no occasion for you to say you have seen me, or, indeed, I’ve been here. It’s a little private matter I’ve been about. You understand.”

“A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse,” returned the other, with a chuckle. “No one will know anything from me, Charlie.”

After the departure of his friend, Peace was too disturbed in his mind to sleep. He watched from the little window of his dormitory the carriage and pair, driven towards the railway station by his friend, the groom.

When the vehicle was lost to sight, he walked towards the door, took the key out of the lock, and fastened the door on the inside. In a few minutes after this he stretched himself on the bed, and sank into a deep sleep――the village clock had struck eleven before he awoke.

He now began to consider his course of action; he felt perfectly secure from observation in his present quarters. No one would for a moment imagine that he was safely ensconced in one of the apartments of the stables adjoining a gentleman’s house.

He thought it best to watch and wait; it would not do to be too precipitate; in the dusk of the evening he might creep out and get clear off.

He found in the groom’s bedroom some bread and cold meat, which served him for a meal, and he prepared himself to pass the lonely hours as best he could. The day wore on tediously enough, but the longest day must have an end. And when the grey mists of evening began to encircle the objects seen before so distinctly from the window, Charles Peace prepared to take his departure.

He disguised himself in so complete a manner as to almost defy detection. He made himself up as a hawker. He took the precaution to always carry a hawker’s licence, made out in a fictitious name; the licence itself, however, was genuine enough.

He heard, as he descended the creaking stairs, the boy whistling in the stable. Agreeably to the directions he had received, he handed the key to the lad, at the same time dropping a shilling in his hand.

The lad stared with astonishment, which was not unmixed with alarm.

A few words from Peace soon reassured him.

“But ye’ve been ’nation quiet all the day though,” said the lad, with a broad grin.

“People generally are quiet when they are asleep, my lad,” was the ready rejoinder.

“Ugh! ’spose so.”

Peace did not want to have further parley. His purpose was served, and he therefore proceeded on his journey.

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Chapter III

COMMITTAL OF GREGSON――JANE TELLS A TERRIBLE TALE――BROXWELL GAOL.

The most celebrated cracksman of his day, Ned Gregson, alias the Bristol Badger, was certainly the least fortunate of the three ruffians who contrived to effect an entrance into Oakfield House. He was run to earth. After he had been carried on the hurdle into the farmhouse the village surgeon made a superficial examination of his wound, which was of a fearful nature; the whole of the charge from the gun fired by Jane Ryan had entered the burglar’s chest, and the loss of blood was enormous. The only wonder was, that Gregson had not been killed outright; but he was not the sort of man to be so easily disposed of. As far as physical strength was concerned he was a perfect giant; this he had proved on many occasions.

He was more than double the age of Peace, with three times his strength. Nevertheless, as far as the guilty and lawless lives of the two men were concerned, there was not much difference between them; they were both criminals of the worst type, their whole career being one of profligacy and crime.

Gregson was taken away to the lock-up in charge of the constabulary, who procured an ambulance from the hospital. The divisional surgeon was sent for; every care was taken of the prisoner; and all that skill and attention could do to preserve so valuable a life as the burglar’s was, as is usual in such cases, not wanting.

When sufficiently recovered Gregson was examined before the stipendiary magistrates. The facts deposed to were plain enough, and the prisoner was committed for trial upon two distinct charges――namely, murder and burglary.

Mr. John Ashbrook had by this time sufficiently regained his strength to leave his room and look after his farming stock, but he was not as yet up to his usual form.

“This extraordinary charge of murder,” said the farmer to Jane, one afternoon, as he reclined upon the sofa in the front parlour, “it seems just like a romance. Strange that you should have recognised the ruffian by the pistol’s flash on that eventful night.”

“I should have known him out of ten thousand. His face was as familiar to me as if I had seen him but yesterday.”

“Tell us all about it, Jane.”

“Well, master, it’s a sad and sorrowful tale, which I have kept locked up in my own breast for ever so long, but it is but right you should know all about it.”

“Right lass, right you are; go on. What made you imagine that the house was likely to be attacked? You asked me to load the two other guns.”

“I did, because I felt assured that danger was at hand.”

“Why so?”

“I had a dream――twice I dreamt the same thing――and then I went over to Mother Crowther and consulted her. She can read the future――being――being a wise woman.”

“She is a wise woman indeed if she can do that,” remarked the farmer, with a smile; “what did she say?”

“She consulted a book, cast my nativity, and told me that in less than three days I should see here or hereabouts the murderer of James Hopgood.”

“And who might he be?”

“He is dead now; he was my sweetheart,” answered Jane, hanging down her head.

“Oh, your sweetheart――eh?”

“Yes, before I came here I lived at Squire Gordon’s. A kinder master never lived. James Hopgood was a carpenter by trade; he had been doing some work for the squire――building some outhouses, and while the work was going on he slept in the house.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Aye, it must be nearly six years.”

“You’ve been here over four.”

“That’s true. Indeed, it must be more than six years. I cannot say to a certainty; but they’ve got the date――the pleece have.”

“No matter, that’s quite near enough――six years or a little more. What happened then?”

“I will describe all to you, just as it occurred. James Hopgood was in the kitchen; he and Mary, my fellow-servant, were having supper together. I was in the back kitchen, when all of a sudden we heard a scuffle in the passage, and my master cried, ‘Murder!’ James rushed past me, and flew up the kitchen stairs. Then we heard a heavy fall in the passage; this was followed by some low moans. I went up to see what was the matter, and found my master stretched on the floor of the passage, with blood flowing from a wound in his left temple. I endeavoured to raise him, but was unable to do so. He was a stout, heavy man, and I had not strength enough to lift him.”

“Was he killed?”

“No――oh, dear, no; he recovered afterwards. But the worst remains to be told. Oh, master, these be tears that are a flowin’ from my eyes. I can see it all now, as if it occurred but yesterday.”

“Yes, your master, the squire, you found him senseless. There’s no hurry, girl, take your time――don’t flurry yourself.”

“While I was looking at my poor master, I caught sight of James Hopgood and the burglar――him as I shot down in the big bedroom. James had closed with the ruffian, who, as far as I could judge, was striving to shake James off; but he was not able to do this so easily; they wrestled like two serpents. I felt sick and faint; but, notwithstanding, I had sufficient strength left to hasten to young Hopgood’s assistance. I saw the flash of an open knife in the pale moonlight, saw the gleaming of the desperate wretch’s eyes, and in another moment the knife was buried up to the hilt in James’s breast. He fell with a deep groan, and never stirred hand or foot afterwards.

“I rushed forward, and caught his murderer by the handkerchief which encircled his throat. After this I lost all consciousness. When I came to I found myself on the wet grass of the lawn――the ruffian’s handkerchief was firmly grasped in my right hand.”

“Why, Jane, my girl, this is indeed a horrible story, and have you kept this all to yourself for these last six years?”

“Indeed I have; but, waking or sleeping, one burning thought has been in my brain. It is this――to avenge the death of my dear and true-hearted James.”

The farmer was bewildered――partly dazed by the fearful tale he had been listening to. He turned his eyes towards his sister, who had crept into the room to listen to the appalling narrative.

“Did you know of this?” inquired Ashbrook.

“I knew a shocking affair of some sort took place at Squire Gordon’s when Jane was there, but I never knew till now its precise nature. I understood that some young man was murdered――that is all. How and by whom I was never told.”

“And was the man never discovered? An attempt was made to find him, I s’pose?” asked the farmer of his servant.

“Government offered a reward of a hundred pounds; a description of the man was printed on handbills, which were sent, so they said, to every police-station.”

“With what result?”

“With none, except the arrest of a poor harmless fellow, who never set foot in the squire’s house, and who had no more to do with the crime than you or I have.”

“And the handkerchief?”

“That I have kept. The knife also with which the murder was committed was picked up on the lawn; that, too, I have preserved. They are both now in the possession of the pleece. Ah! we shall bring it home to the deep-dyed villain. I felt certain that, sooner or later, he would be caught, the murderin’ thief.”

“What became of the squire?”

“He left England for good, and settled in Brittany. He has a daughter who is married there.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I believe so. I never heard of his death――oh! I’m pretty sure he’s alive.”

“Do you think he could identify the man?”

“He told me after his recovery that he saw his features distinctly, and that he would be able to swear to him. It appeared that Gregson was making his escape from the house with the things he had stolen, when he was suddenly and unexpectedly confronted by the squire, who had come over the fields, crossed the lawn, and entered by the back door of his residence.”

“We’ve all of us had a narrow escape,” said Maud Ashbrook, “and it will be a warning to us for the future.”

“I’m glad Jane shot the fellow down,” observed the farmer. “She’s a true-hearted, brave girl――not, mind ye, but it would ha’ bin better for him to have fallen by the hands of one of us men.”

“No, master, no,” cried Jane, in a deprecating tone. “I am the most deeply injured, sick and sore of heart――I who have sworn to devote the remainder of my life to discover the slayer of James Hopgood――I was the most fitting person to hunt him down. It has been done, and he will not escape now.”

Jane had given her evidence before the stipendiary magistrates in the clearest and most lucid manner. She swore positively to the prisoner Gregson, whose features she declared had not changed since she saw them so distinctly on that fatal night. Her fellow-servant also identified the prisoner, whom she saw, so she averred, through the back-parlour window at the time Jane had hold of him by the handkerchief.

He was also recognised by several of the police as a well-known burglar, who had been convicted several times.

Gregson, who was about as hardened a ruffian as it was possible to conceive, knew and felt that his game was up; nevertheless he clung to the hope, as most criminals do of his class, that he might escape the last dread sentence of the law――perhaps his life might be spared.

He was taken to Broxwell Gaol; his custodians conducted him through the lodge, then he passed through a square with a green plot of grass in the middle, encircled by a gravel walk.

It was like a college quadrangle.

Gregson looked at the grass and the turnkeys who came out to meet him. He was conducted up a flight of stone steps, and one of the turnkeys who had joined him and the constabulary who had him under their charge tapped at a thick oak door, which was covered with iron nails and secured with a gigantic lock.

They were admitted immediately into a little room, which was almost entirely filled by a clerks’ desk and stool.

Upon this stool was seated an old man, with a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles on his nose, making entries in an account-book.

The turnkey who had opened the door to them now closed it with an ominous sound.

The key clanked loudly in the lock.

The Bristol Badger was in prison.

The turnkey unlocked another door and disappeared. In a few moments he returned, dismissed the constable, and ordered the prisoner to follow him.

They entered a snow-white corridor, which was lined with iron doors, and above with galleries, also of iron, bright and polished.

Gregson was placed in a cell, for some time in the company of a single turnkey, who stood by him, rigid and voiceless as a statue, watchful as a lynx.

The “cracksman” assumed an air of dejection, and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground.

He had only partially recovered from his wound. From this a vast number of shots had been extracted; but several more, it was thought, still remained in the flesh.

The burning pain in his chest had not entirely left him, although it was not nearly so insupportable as at first.

Presently the door of the cell opened, and a gentleman in plain clothes came in. He had a ruddy complexion, with a brown moustache and beard.

Gregson recognised him immediately. He was the governor.

The recognition was mutual.

“So,” he said, “you have come here again?”

“They’ve brought me here,” muttered the cracksman.

“Precisely. Of course you know the usual forms prescribed by the authorities. We must put you through the ordeal of a warm bath.

“Turn on the tap, Wilson,” said the governor; and in a few minutes the bath was filled with hot water.

They took off his handcuffs, and then stood by him as he undressed.

“Do you know, governor, that I’ve been wounded――well-nigh to death? It’s too bad to put a cove in hot water in my state.”

“Wounded, eh? We’ll send for the doctor.”

The prison surgeon was brought into the room.

He glanced at the wound, which still presented an angry appearance.

“The bath won’t hurt you. There is no necessity for you to immerse your chest or shoulders in the water. In my opinion you will be better for it.”

“All right,” returned Gregson; “you shall have your way. I’m not one to make things disagreeable.”

And forthwith he jumped in.

The governor paced the corridor for the next ten minutes or so under pretence of superintending the arrangements of the prisoners’ dinners, which ascended from the kitchen on a great tray by means of mysterious machinery.

On his return he called another turnkey, and ordered him to have the prisoner’s clothes brushed and cleaned.

“You have got plenty of money,” he said to Gregson. “You are suffering from a severe wound. We don’t wish to deal harshly with you.”

“I’m much obliged, I’m sure,” returned the Badger.

The governor took no notice of this last observation, which, to say the truth, was half conciliatory and half sarcastic.

“We will therefore allow you to wear your own clothes, and to procure your own meals from an eating-house if you prefer it.”

“Yes, I do prefer it, if it makes no difference.”

“So be it, then. You will see by the printed copy of the rules which is hung up in every cell that you are not allowed more than one pint of wine or one quart of malt liquor daily, and that, if you undertake to board yourself, you must do so altogether. Besides this you will be allowed books to read and paper to write upon, and other little comforts, under my supervision, as I have no desire to treat you with unnecessary severity during the brief period that will elapse while you are awaiting your trial. I hope you will conduct yourself in a proper and becoming manner.”

The cracksman nodded, and seemed by his demeanour to appreciate the lenity which the governor displayed.

“You are very good, sir, I’m sure,” he muttered. “I wish all gentlemen in your position were equally kind and merciful.”

The governor bowed in a dignified manner, and then left the cell. The turnkey returned with Gregson’s clothes, and stood by him as he dressed. He was then conducted to Cell No. 15.

There they showed him how to ring the bell, how to pull the slide from the grating when he wanted fresh air, and how to manage the water taps and the bed furniture.

They also informed him that when he wanted anything from the town there was a prison servant attached to the establishment whose office it was to run errands for the prisoners who were waiting for trial.

The turnkeys made these explanations with a courteous accent, for turnkeys have a sort of veneration for great criminals.

And Ned Gregson, in this respect, was a man of mark.

The prison officials went out of the cell backwards, as if they were retiring from a royal presence; they locked the door with an ostentatious noise that they might thereby strike a wholesome awe into the mind of their prisoner.

Gregson sat himself down upon the wooden stool in his cell without moving.

The bitterness of his thoughts it would not be so easy to describe.

He remembered with harrowing distinctness the most remote incident of the night upon which the ill-fated James Hopgood fell beneath the fatal blow.

“And that cursed woman!” ejaculated the Badger. “Who would have dreamt of her being an inmate of the farmhouse? And the oily-tongued Peace, he has got clear off, I’ll dare be sworn; and the chances are that he is now playing that old fiddle of his――whilst I――I――”

Here he uttered an impious oath, and then lapsed into silence again.

He sat for two hours a prey to the most agonising thoughts.

At the expiration of that time he uttered curses loud and deep. He ran frantically round his narrow cell.

One of the turnkeys opened the door, and told him that he must make less noise. There was a punishment for making an outcry of that nature, and he pointed to one of the printed rules.

The “cracksman” answered with a howl of rage, and squatted abjectly on his stone floor.

The turnkey, who was pretty well used to scenes of this nature, and who, therefore, made due allowance, repeated his warning and shut the door.

Soon after this the prison servant brought a wooden tray in.

There were two dishes, each surrounded by a pewter cover. One contained three slices of roast mutton, floating in lukewarm gravy; the other contained four good-sized potatoes.

Gregson, who was still on the floor, looked at them supinely.

“Governor! thought you would like a little dinner,” said the man kindly; and he propped up a slab which was hanging from the wall, placed the tray on it, reached down a salt dish from a shelf in the corner, where it had grown dusty, in company with a bible and two hymn books.

“Will you take beer or wine?”

“I want wine,” said the Badger, sulkily.

“Very good, I will bring you a pint; it’s against the rules to have any more.”

He drank some of the eating-house sherry, which, bad as it was, encouraged him to eat a few mouthfuls. This awoke him from the stupor into which he had fallen, and which had been almost akin to madness.

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Chapter IV

PEACE RETURNS TO BRADFORD――THE SLEEPING BEAUTY――HIS DISGUISE AS A ONE-ARMED MAN――THE ROBBERY AT DUDLEY HILL.

Leaving the guilty man to his reflections, we will now return to the hero of our story.

Charles Peace, after he left the groom’s little bedroom, succeeded in getting clear out of the neighbourhood, without attracting any observation.

As he trudged along he reflected that it would be advisable not to return to Hull. The hue and cry raised in consequence of the events already described would reach Hull, and search would be made by the police in that town.

What had gone of Cooney Peace had not the remotest idea. Whether he had escaped or been captured it was not possible for him to say; neither did he concern himself much about the fate of the tinker. In cases of this sort he felt that self-preservation was the first law of nature.

As he was proceeding along he was overtaken by a covered cart. He persuaded the driver thereof to give him a lift on the road. By this means he managed to get many miles on his journey. Having made up his mind to take up his quarters at Bradford, he, on the first opportunity, took the train to that town. He was acquainted with a girl at Bradford, who was, to a certain extent, attached to him. She was a mill-hand. She was possessed of a considerable share of personal attractions.

It was evening when Peace arrived at Bradford, and in the streets were throngs of persons. The factory hands had knocked off work; some were hastening homewards, others were making for some favourite house of entertainment, and groups of inveterate gossips were to be seen in various parts of the town.

Peace walked jauntily along one of the main streets. Having threaded this, he turned round and retraced his steps. He seemed to be wandering about in a desultory way.

A group of girls emerged from a turning out of the street. Three peals of laughter proved that they were in a merry mood.

One of the girls came suddenly forward, and struck Peace in a familiar manner on the shoulder.

“What! Charlie?” she ejaculated, in a tone of surprise and delight. “Who would have thought of seeing you at Bradford?”

“Bessie dear,” said Peace, “don’t talk so loud; I’ve not been in the town half an hour, and――――”

“What brought you here?”

“I came to see you, my charmer.”

The girl made a grimace――she didn’t quite believe what he said, but, nevertheless, felt flattered.

Although one of the working class, she was very beautiful――her features being delicately chiselled, and her form being cast in one of nature’s choicest moulds; for the rest she was giddy, thoughtless, and her morals were not of the highest order. Her name was Bessie Dalton.

“And your mother?” inquired the girl.

“I left her at Hull,” returned her companion.

The two walked on in close converse for some time. They passed through several streets, and eventually arrived at an unpretending-looking house, where Bessie lived.

They both entered, and Peace was introduced to the landlord, and took one of the furnished rooms, which were let out to work people. He had a tolerably fair share of money, which would suffice for his immediate wants; and in the course of a few days he succeeded in getting some odd jobs in picture framing. In the evening he contrived to pick up a few shillings by playing the violin at some of the houses of public entertainment.

He was a man who could make himself agreeable enough when it answered his purpose to do so. He was in no way deficient in conversational powers; was tolerably well informed upon most subjects, and generally ingratiated himself in the good graces of most persons with whom he came in contact.

To a certain extent the girl, Bessie Dalton, was proud of him. He was far ahead in many ways of the working population of Bradford, who, one and all, voted him a right good fellow.

For a short time he led a tolerably quiet life.

But it was not in his nature to earn a respectable living for long without having recourse to his evil courses.

He became straitened in circumstances, and once more he essayed to replenish his exchequer by his midnight excursions.

Since the disastrous affair at Oakfield House he had made up his mind to carry on business on his own account.

He would have no accomplices. None should know of his depredations save the girl Bessie, in whom he had implicit confidence.

And it is but justice to her to note that whatever may have been her faults she never betrayed Charles Peace.

He was for the first time made up as a one-arm man. He had for a long time contemplated disguising himself in this way, and the better to carry out his purpose had moulded a piece of gutta-percha, to which a hook was attached, his hand, when drawn up, fitting into the socket of the gutta-percha.

When this instrument――if it can be so termed――was on no person in the world would have guessed that he was anything else but a one-armed man.

Disguising himself after this fashion, and staining his face so as to represent a mulatto, he one night started upon one of his lawless expeditions.

He passed quickly out of the town of Bradford, and made direct for a small but handsomely-built house, just on the outskirts of Dudley-hill.

The house, which was built of stone, with bay windows and a handsome portico in front, was in the occupation of a wealthy gentleman, who was a retired mill-owner.

Shrewdly guessing that a pretty considerable amount of moveable property would be found within this habitation, Peace had determined to pay it a visit.

Upon his arrival in front of the house he opened the garden-gate with a skeleton key, closed it again, and began to mature his plan of operations.

There was a garden in the front and rear of the villa, which stood by itself on the brow of the hill. No other habitation was near it――certainly none within a quarter of a mile.

Peace deftly climbed up to the balcony which stood in front of the first floor window. This balcony was half filled with evergreens, and these completely concealed him from any chance passenger――not, indeed, that there was a single living person to be seen abroad save himself.

The windows were what is termed French ones; they opened in the centre, and swung back on hinges, like folding doors. He had not much difficulty in lifting the bottom bolt of these, the top one had not been pushed into its socket.

He now had to operate upon the shutters; these were fastened by an iron bar, which ran across them.

Stooping down so as to conceal himself behind the evergreens, he began to bore holes in the shutters with a small centre-bit. After working industriously, but at the same time as noiselessly as possible, for some little time, he succeeded in making an aperture in one of the shutters, sufficiently large for his hand to pass through. He then lifted up the bar, and pushed open the shutters.

In another moment he was in the first floor front room. He wore at this time women’s cloth boots, over which were goloshes, also women’s, so that his footsteps were as noiseless as a cat’s.

He carefully closed the shutters after he had effected an entrance. Then he began, by the aid of his dark lantern, to make an inspection of the apartment, which was sumptuously furnished. It contained plate and valuables, which must be worth a considerable amount.

Peace opened cupboards and drawers. In one of the last named he found a bag of gold and a roll of bank notes. An elegantly-wrought silver cup, presented to the mill-owner by his workpeople, shared the same fate as the other articles; and, taken altogether, the valuables abstracted from this one room was a rich booty for the most rapacious mercenary burglar.

Peace was, however, hungering for more. He passed out of the front room and gently opened the door of the back. All was still. He entered; when, to his infinite astonishment, he found it tenanted.

He stood transfixed with wonderment. On a couch, the head of which was near the window, was stretched a young female of such surpassing loveliness that even the callous heart of the burglar was touched.

The pale moonlight streamed through the lace curtains, and revealed a picture upon which the burglar gazed with fascinated eyes.

The young maiden was in a deep slumber, her head was thrown back, resting on one exquisitely-formed arm, a long tress of glossy brown hair fell over her partially-revealed bosom, and the moist, ruddy lips were parted, disclosing the pearly teeth.

The pose of the figure was perfect, and if there ever was a living personification of the “Sleeping Beauty” most assuredly the lovely maiden, who moved the senses of the burglar to wonder and delight, was that one.

Peace was spell-bound――he had never beheld in his life anything so matchless, so surpassingly beautiful.

He stood speechless and immovable with admiration.

The power of volition seemed to have entirely forsaken him.

“How matchlessly beautiful she is!” murmured the burglar. “What a paragon of perfection; indeed――indeed, I have never seen aught so fair!”

His eyes were rivetted on the couch upon which the young creature reclined.

The room was furnished with all the appliances which wealth could supply, or taste could suggest. Every piece of furniture in that elegant apartment was of the choicest and rarest manufacture. It seemed to the enhanced eyes of the robber to be the personification of a Paphian bower――at once bewitching, poetic, and almost fabulous.

On the mantel-piece was a small clock of rare workmanship. This elegant timepiece was set with jewels, which sparkled and scintillated beneath the rays of his lantern.

Each picture that hung upon the walls was a perfect gem. The chairs were covered with brocaded silk, and the articles of virtu observable in almost every part of the bedchamber were too numerous to particularise. It will suffice to note that they served to make up an ensemble perfectly unique.

But all these things paled before the lustre and beauty of the sleeper.

Much has been said about the might and majesty of beauty, and no one will deny that a lovely woman is nature’s crown of triumph.

She is, beyond all else, the fairest thing in the creation.

Charles Peace was touched. He longed to clasp in his arms the fair maiden who was slumbering so tranquilly.

He had, whilst gazing on her, almost forgotten the purport of his visit to the mill-owner’s villa; but was in a measure reminded of the same when he looked at the various articles in the room.

Creeping forward he sought to gain possession of the gold watch on its stand by the toilette-table. He moved forward a step or two, but suddenly became motionless again, as the sleeper heaved a soft sigh and shifted slightly her position. She did not, however, awaken, but the motion revealed something more of her charms.

The heart of the burglar beat audibly.

He hesitated how to act. Grasping with his right hand the revolver he invariably carried with him, he watched the maiden with the eyes of a lynx.

Not that he meant doing her any harm. He hardly knew what he meant. For a time he was subdued, but the greed of gain returned to him, and he placed his hand upon the watch.

“No,” he murmured, after a pause, “I will take nothing of her’s――nothing.”

“I am well repaid by looking at one so lovely.”

He withdrew his hand from the watch and retreated some two or three steps backwards towards the door of the room.

Then he became immovable again.

“This will never do,” he muttered. “If I go on like this I shall run the chance of being discovered; and how then? No, I must away at once, and yet, hang it, she is so very beautiful!”

He again rivetted his eyes on the form of the sleeper, upon which he once or twice cast the rays of his lantern.

“I’m a weak, silly fool to be overcome thus――an idiot. Bah! there must be an end to it.”

He turned round and crept through the half-opened door. Down the stairs, with faltering steps, he then proceeded. He entered the front parlour, and then the back. He stripped them of as many valuables as he could conveniently carry, and then passed out of the house by the back door.

All this had been done without his disturbing any one.

Taking his way along the garden he passed out into the high road. Not a soul was to be seen. The night was clear and bright; and he walked on for a good half mile. Upon arriving at the end of a lane which ran out of the road he halted, looking the while to the right and left.

He saw the back of a policeman going down the lane, and prudence dictated that he should go in the opposite direction.

He walked on with rapid strides, and succeeded in reaching his lodgings at Bradford. Having let himself in with a latch-key, he made direct for his own little room without disturbing any one.

Peace had several orders on hand for picture-framing, and for the next two or three days after the burglary near Dudley-hill he worked industriously at his trade――if we can bring ourselves to consider that to be his legitimate occupation.

He could turn his hand to a number of things――picture-framing being one. This was supplemented by carpentry, wood-carving of every description, and, last not least, he was a violinist of no inconsiderable ability.

Had he chosen to conduct himself in a discreet and proper manner he might have made, if not a shining light, certainly a respectable member of society.

The booty he had obtained from the mill-owner he, of course, carefully concealed. He had already changed one of the notes in a quarter where there was not much fear of detection.

While working at his trade, in a shed at the bottom of the yard of the house in which he had taken up his quarters, he was surprised at seeing a stranger enter the yard in company of Bessie Dalton.

“A friend of mine,” said the latter, introducing her companion to Peace. “He is on a charitable expedition. A poor fellow was severely injured at Ludlow’s mill, and he has since died. His wife and two children are in the greatest distress. My friend is getting up a subscription for his widow.”

“Very creditable of you, I’m sure,” remarked Peace, turning towards the stranger. “I am but a working man myself, as you see, but I will willingly give my mite.”

“Thank you. It is hardly fair, perhaps, to ask you, as you are a comparative stranger to us. Still, at the same time, it has been well said that many can help one.”

Peace put his hand in his pocket, and gave the man five shillings.

“I can’t afford much, but what I can spare you are welcome to,” remarked the burglar. “Totally unprovided for――are they?”

“Yes; I am sorry to say he was not in any benefit society, although he had put his name down in one, and would no doubt, have been elected at the next meeting.”

“All these things are sad, very sad. What does the widow purpose doing?”

“Well, I must tell you that the little sum subscribed, whatever it may be, will be applied to meet her immediate wants. After then we shall endeavour to raise a sum sufficient to set her up in business――some little shop, perhaps. Her husband’s employers have promised their assistance, and Mr. Knight, the organist at the church, has promised his services at a benefit concert we thought of giving.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“The rector will also give us his patronage, besides several other influential gentlemen in the town.”

“And I’m sure, Charlie, you will have no objection to give your services,” added Bessie.

“In what way?”

“Well, of course, I mean in the way of music. You can play the violin, you know.”

“Would you have any objection?” said the stranger.

[Sidenote: No. 3.]

“Not the slightest. If my services are of any use you may command me; but there must be the arrangement as to programme and the style of music. Also whether you desire me to play a solo or otherwise.”

“I am not able to say at present; but this can be arranged by those who understand these matters better than I do. I aint much of a musician myself, although I am very fond of hearing music either vocal or instrumental.”

“Have you any vocalists?”

“We shall have some volunteers――some of the choir will, of course, do some part-singing; besides there are several amateurs as well as one or two professionals, have agreed to come forward on this occasion. Oh, I dare say we shall have a tolerably good muster. Mr. Knight presides at the piano, and he has consented to play the accompaniments to the vocalists.”

“No easy task,” remarked Peace, “especially if he is not acquainted with the performers.”

“No――so he says. Would you like to see him?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Knight.”

“It will be necessary for me to do so before the night of the concert. Otherwise we shall be all at sea.”

“I will mention the subject. You will find him, I’m sure, in every respect a gentleman, who, I dare say, will be happy to make the acquaintance of a brother artist.”

“I’m obliged to you for your good opinion,” said Peace, with a sort of bow, which was half obsequious and half satirical.

“In the cause of charity we are all of us brothers; and on what evening do you purpose giving this concert?”

“As soon as possible. It would be as well, I think, to strike the iron while it’s hot. It must certainly be within a fortnight――or a week, if it can be arranged. Do you play sacred music――”

“I do not care to play anything else. If I consulted my own inclination I should confine myself to sacred music――not, mind you, that I have done so at present.”

“Oh, he can play anything and everything,” chimed in Bessie Dalton. “Nigger melodies, dance music, comic songs, serious and sentimental.”

“There, that will do, Bess,” cried Peace.

“Well, you know you can. What’s the use of being bashful when you’ve got――ahem, talent?”

“Be quiet, girl; leave people to judge for themselves.”

“Oh, I’ve done; sorry I spoke,” answered the girl, pouting.

“I will not detain you, Mr. Peace. Allow me to return you my most sincere thanks. I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again in a day or two.”

The speaker offered his hand to the burglar; there was the usual interchange of courtesies, and the stranger took his departure.

“You ought to make something out of this, Charlie,” said Bessie Dalton.

“How so?” returned Peace; “I am to give my services gratuitously.”

“True; but it will be the means of introducing you to a lot of swells and rich people, whom you can afterwards call upon and leave your card. You see I’ve an eye to business, old man.”

“Oh, yes, certainly, there’s some use in that. Some of them may want pictures framed.”

“Who are these for?” said the girl, pointing to some frames which had been just finished.

“For old Dawson, up the hill. There’s not much hanging to them, he’s as mean as Lucifer. Indeed, they are all pretty much alike as far as that goes. It’s a hard job to get a living by working for the trade.”

“You should have a shop of your own.”

“May be I shall after a bit――that is, if I settle in Bradford.”

“You are not going to leave us again?” said the girl, putting her arms around his neck, and embracing him fondly; “what should I do without you, Charlie?”

“Do as others do,” returned Peace, with a smile.

“And what might that be?”

“Get hold of another chap――that’s all.”

“Men never give girls credit for any feeling,” said Bessie, pouting.

“Yes, they are all of them selfish by nature.”

“Who?”

“Why, the men, of course.”

“You don’t mean what you say.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

“Only saying so to please you――is that it?”

“I’ve no doubt it is.”

“Well, here’s something better than words, lass. Here’s a couple of quid for you, to buy a new dress, or anything else you may want.”

“Oh you dear, good fellow; and is this for me?”

“Certainly, seeing that I gave it of my own free will.”

The girl clapped her hands with delight, gave her companion a kiss, and pocketed the money.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

V. THE CONCERT.――PEACE AS A PUBLIC ENTERTAINER.――THE SURPRISE

The ill-fated weaver who had succumbed to the injuries received in the mill in which he worked was a man of steady habits, an excellent husband and father, and altogether a worthy member of society. He was, in consequence, greatly respected in the town. A committee of influential persons was formed for the purpose of carrying out successfully all the necessary arrangements for the forthcoming concert.

Peace, who was to a certain extent popular with a section of the operatives, was introduced to Mr. Knight, the musical director of the proposed entertainment. At the first interview a discussion took place as to the part he was to play on the eventful evening. He tried over several difficult pieces with the pianist, who professed himself well satisfied with the burglar’s ability.

“I see you have paid some attention to chamber or classic music, as well as sacred,” observed Mr. Knight.

“I commenced with sacred,” returned Peace, and always took great delight in both, but at the same time it doesn’t go down with the multitude so well as livelier strains, such as ballads, music-hall songs, and nigger melodies.”

“We are most of us aware of that,” observed the director and pianist, “and hence it is that we purpose dividing the entertainment into two or three parts. The first will be devoted to the better class of music, both sacred and secular; the next will be a mixed entertainment, consisting of varieties of various descriptions. You can, of course, appear in one or both parts. The first we shall have no difficulty in arranging. Your assistance will be required in several pieces which I may say are of exceptional beauty, and will require very careful rendering. We must have a few rehearsals before appearing in public. Can you find time to attend these?”

“I will make it my business to do so.”

“Good. And now, as to the second part, Mr. Peace?”

“I leave it to your better judgment, sir.”

“Nay, I think you are the best qualified to determine as to that,” returned his companion, courteously.

“If I might suggest, then,” said Peace, “I will come on as a nigger, give a sort of medley on the violin, and finish up by performing on one string only. I have been tolerably successful in this, and find it generally pleases the people.”

“I’ve no doubt it does. We’ve got a young gentleman――a volunteer――who is well up in nigger melodies. Would you like him to assist you in this part of the performance?”

“Yes, most certainly. He will black his face, I suppose?”

“Oh, most willingly; nothing would please him better. I will introduce you to him, and there will be but little difficulty, I think, about the matter. You can consult together.”

The preliminaries being satisfactorily settled, nothing remained but the rehearsals.

These Peace attended with unvarying punctuality, and the several performers got tolerably perfect before the night on which they were to appear.

A large building――one of the parish schoolrooms, and which was frequently made use of as a lecture hall, was placed at the disposal of the managing committee.

Bills containing a programme of the performance were posted all over the town, and on these the name of Charles Peace figured as the “Modern Paganini,” who would, by special desire, perform on one string only, after the manner of his great predecessor.

Little did those who purchased tickets for the concert imagine that they were about to listen to the performance of one of the greatest and most notorious burglars of modern times.

Peace at this time was led or rather fell into good society; and he was too astute and cunning a rascal to show the cloven foot. He was discreet and very proper in his conduct, and indeed it may be said that he was highly popular in the select circle in which he moved.

Peace throughout his career was fond of notoriety――this has been evidenced in the latter part of his sinful life――and he looked forward with something like pleasure to the evening upon which he was to appear in conjunction with some worthy and honourable gentlemen who were acting in unison in the cause of charity.

The Bradford people, in common with those of Birmingham, Liverpool, Norwich, and other manufacturing towns, love music for music’s sake; this is evidenced by the enormous gatherings at the festivals held at these great centres.

The assertion made by people of other nations that the English are not a musical people is without a shadow of foundation――this fact is well known to all who are conversant with the subject.

When the doors were opened at the schoolroom in which the entertainment was to take place crowds of persons rushed forward to obtain seats. The area was filled in an incredibly short space of time.

By the time the performance commenced the whole place was full from floor to roof.

Bessie Dalton, in company with Mrs. Bristow, the wife of an artisan residing in the parlours of the house in which Peace lived, had taken up her station at the entrance some half an hour or more before the public were admitted.

Bessie and Mrs. Bristow therefore contrived to get a tolerably good position in the fourth row of the area.

A young man, evidently moving in a superior class to themselves, had been of essential service to the two females in protecting them from the pressure of the crowd during their progress towards the entrance.

He took a seat beside them.

After waiting patiently for some considerable time the audience began to be restive.

Many began to hammer on the boards with their feet, while others clapped their hands.

“Hush! silence! order!” exclaimed several voices.

“What are they making a noise for?” inquired Bessie, of the gentleman by her side.

“Oh! it is time the performance commenced,” he answered, “and the people are getting impatient. They ought not to do so, seeing that the performers give their services gratuitously; and that, moreover, many of them are novices, and, perhaps, appear publicly this evening for the first time.”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Bristow. “People are so inconsiderate――so unreasonable.”

These were stereotyped phrases which the speaker was accustomed to make use of on every occasion.

The gentleman merely nodded his acquiescence to the proposition.

A burst of applause announced the appearance of a young man on the platform, who proceeded in a most deliberate manner to place the piano in a better position. When this had been done he placed some music on the instrument, and drew forth a small music-stand, which he furnished in a similar manner.

Having completed these arrangements he retired.

A titter was heard in the house as he left.

Nobody knew why or wherefore.

Mr. Knight now came forward.

He was well known to most of those present, and, as a natural consequence, he was loudly cheered.

He bowed, and then sat down to the piano.

He played a difficult piece by Mendelssohn in a masterly manner. It was too long to encore, so they contented themselves with applauding it.

The performer still retained his position at the instrument.

A group of choristers entered. These were composed of boys and adults.

They sang a selection from the “Messiah” in a way which appeared to give great satisfaction, some portions of it being encored.

Two other performers now made their appearance, the first being Charles Peace, the other a tall gentleman, whose name was not announced; he, however, bore in his hands a bass viol.

Two chairs were brought forward in close proximity with the piano, and on these the musicians sat.

After the usual formula of scraping and twanging the strings, one of Beethoven’s magnificent symphonies was attacked――to use a newspaper phrase.

It was played with great feeling, being, in fact, a gem to those who could appreciate first-class music.

It was re-demanded.

“That was well played――was it not, sir?” said Bessie, to the gentleman.

“Oh, dear, yes; highly creditable to all three of the performers―― exceedingly good!”

While this had been going on, Peace appeared to be a little disconcerted. Despite the encore, he arose from his seat, and was about to make a precipitate retreat; but Mr. Knight signified by a movement of his hand and head that the symphony was to be repeated. Notwithstanding this, Peace still hesitated.

At length he returned to his seat.

Many persons attributed his manner to timidity, and the tender-hearted gave him a vociferous round of applause by way of encouragement.

They were, however, quite mistaken in their surmise.

Timidity was not one of Peace’s characteristics.

There was another and more potent reason for his trepidation.

It was this.

In one of the side boxes sat an elderly gentleman and a young lady.

The features of the last-named were familiar to the violinist.

She was the beautiful and ravishing creature whom he had seen slumbering at the millionaire’s house on the night of the burglary.

She was within a few paces of him, being in one of the lower boxes, and she looked the very personification of female loveliness.

Peace was bewildered. He did play his part in the symphony, and he played it well, but it was a desperate struggle to get through it. Any other man placed in a similar position must certainly have broken down.

And as it was Peace was very nearly doing so.

He would have given anything he was possessed of to have been spared this trial, for most assuredly it was the greatest trial he had as yet experienced.

He had in a measure recovered his confidence when the symphony was given for the second time; nevertheless he kept casting furtive glances in the direction of the box in which the young lady was seated.

The performers bowed and retired.

“Three pieces have been successfully got through, and as yet there has been no apology,” said a young man behind Bessie and her companion.

“What do you mean?” observed another of the audience.

“Why, only this――that in entertainments of this sort, where amateurs are to appear, there is generally some hitch, some mistake, and as a natural consequence an apology has to be made.”

“Oh, no doubt we shall have one before the evening is over.”

A young lady was now led on by the director. She had a piece of music in her hand, which shook and trembled like an aspen bough agitated by a passing breeze.

It was painfully evident that she was nervous, and those who have experienced that sensation upon facing an audience for the first time will, I am sure, pity her.

She was set down in the programme for Haydn’s canzonet, “My mother bids me bind my hair.”

Luckily for her the piece in question has a lovely introductory pianoforte prelude. This gave the singer time to recover her first shock at seeing the sea of heads before her.

There was no help for it――she had to commence. The prelude was over, and in faltering accents she began to warble Haydn’s plaintive music. But her throat was dry and husky――a thing by no means uncommon with nervous singers, and even the applause she received did not appear to lubricate it.

It was evident she had a magnificent organ――I say organ advisedly, as it is a term invariably made use of by musical critics, and if they don’t know who should? Vulgar, commonplace people would perhaps call it a voice, but that’s no matter; organ is the “properer” term, as Artemus Ward would say.

The young lady, however, could not possibly display her full powers in consequence of timidity; yet she did contrive to get through the piece creditably. In the morning she had sung it in Mr. Knight’s room magnificently.

But despite her shortcomings the audience encored her.

She, however, bowed and retired.

There was a clamour for her return.

The director had to rise from his seat for the purpose of bringing her back, but she declined.

The clamour continued.

Mr. Knight apologised, and pleaded indisposition, a cold, and hence the young lady’s inability to repeat the canzonet.

The tumult was hushed.

Charles appeared――he was accompanied this time by a harpist.

A trio for harp, piano, and violin. This proved to be a very taking piece; it seemed to give general satisfaction.

It was encored.

It was not, however, repeated, the performers substituting another in its stead. This was done to give a greater variety to the entertainment.

After another song and a harp solo, the first part was brought to a conclusion by the choir singing a magnificent chorus from one of the oratorios.

While all this had been going on, the young man or gentleman it might be, who sat beside Bessie, was unremitting in his attentions to her and her companion, Mrs. Bristow, who, albeit a married woman, was not much older than the girl.

In the second part of the performance Peace made a still greater impression on the audience, who applauded him to the very echo.

After two or three popular ballads had been sung, he and another young man came forward with their faces blacked, as a couple of nigger delineators. After some patter, in which some old jokes were given, Peace commenced a mild and meek-like prelude on the violin, his companion the while working vigorously on the concertina.

The sounds he produced from his instrument were so novel, not to say bewildering, that the house was convulsed with laughter. He imitated animals, the shriek of the railway whistle, the noise of a passing train, and a variety of other noises which were familiar to all persons present.

After which he threw aside all the strings of the instrument save one, and upon this he played, a la Paganini. Of course no one present had heard his great predecessor, and most persons took it for granted that the performance of the black gentleman before them was most wonderful. It was certainly received with greater favour than many admirably performed pieces in the earlier part of the evening.

When the two niggers left the stage there was a general clamour for their reappearance.

They returned and favoured the company by giving a few more specimens of their musical eccentricities.

The concert was universally acknowledged to be a great success. It was brought to a close by a well-known elocutionist delivering a parting address, which a local poet had written especially, as a conclusion to the evening’s entertainment.

The chairman of the committee then came forward, and thanked all present for their attendance.

After partaking of some of the wine and other refreshments provided for the performers by the managing committee, Peace prepared to take his departure; but he did not find it so easy to get away, there were so many persons present who sought to detain him.

In addition to his brother artists, who were by this time loquacious enough, he had to run the fire of many of the town’s folk, who were very profuse in their thanks for the diligence and attention he had displayed in furthering the ends of charity. Some who had partaken pretty freely of the champagne went further, and spoke in laudatory terms of his talent.

He was, of course, greatly flattered by these encomiums, as many better men have been under similar circumstances both before and since; but he was uneasy, and was desirous of beating a retreat.

There was good reason for this. The young lady whose acquaintance he made for the first time at Dudley Hill was among the throng of persons in the little room, which had been placed at the disposal of the artists.

There was something so heavenly and bewitching in the expression of the face of this fair young creature that Peace felt abashed and crest-fallen in her presence. He found it impossible to meet the glance of her dark, lustrous eyes without quailing. Conscious of his own weakness in this respect, he was fearful lest it might be observed by others.

He therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself, passed out of the room unobserved, and crept along the passage towards the side door, by means of which he gained the street.

Then he breathed again more freely.

He saw Bessie Dalton and Mrs. Bristow some distance ahead, in company with a gentleman, and walked on quickly, that he might overtake them; but his progress was checked by a shabby, dilapidated-looking man addressing him――

“Be your name Peace, sir?” inquired that personage.

“Maybe it is, and maybe it is not. What matters it to you?”

“I’ve got a letter.”

“Indeed. Who from?”

“I don’t know the party’s name, but he said I was to give it to you.”

Peace snatched a dirty piece of paper from the speaker’s hand, opened it, and read the following words, which were written in a miserable scrawl――

“Dear Charlie,――‘Cheeks’ (a flash name for an accomplice) is nabbed――want to see you――am at the ‘Bag o’ Nails’――hard by――bearer will show you where it is――don’t delay. Yours, COONEY.”

“Here in this town,” muttered Peace to himself. “How can he have possibly guessed? Why, of course, my name in the bills. Curse it, I must have been mad to play in my own name.”

“Any answer, sir?” said the man, touching his forehead.

“Answer. Well, yes, I s’pose so. He wants to see me. Where’s this house, the ‘Bag o’ Nails?’”

“Not a quarter of a mile from here.”

“Very good, then I’ll go at once with you.”

Peace and his dilapidated companion walked on in silence for some time; they threaded three of the dingiest and most miserable streets in the town. The locality was in consonance with the character of the tinker.

“Do you know the person who gave you that letter?” said Peace.

“I’ve seen him once or twice before, I think. Don’t know much on him. Guv’nor does, I believe.”

“Umph. Has he been long in the town?”

“Came yesterday, I b’lieve.”

They now arrived in front of a dirty-looking beershop, which was the house they were bound for. The man, who was potman to the establishment, led the way in. He passed the bar, and pointed to a room in the rear of the premises.

Peace entered. A solitary person was in the apartment. This was Cooney.

“Well,” said Peace, offering his hand, “we meet again once more. How goes it with you?”

“Precious bad――jolly bad; haven’t got a stiver. Am bust up――that’s how I am.”

Peace took hold of one of the ricketty wooden chairs, which he drew towards the fire, and sat down beside his quondam pal.

“You managed to give ’em the slip, then?” said Cooney, with a chuckle. “But the old un’s grabbed.”

“So I’ve heard. It was a bad night’s work altogether.”

“Aye, that it was.”

“How did you manage to get away?”

“I gave ’em the double,” returned the tinker, with a grin. “I’ll tell yer all about it another time, if so be ye’re interested in a miserable bloke like me, which aint at all likely, seeing as how yer a-keeping company with the hupper classes.”

There was a tone of irony in the man’s manner which jarred upon the feelings of Peace, who, however, thought it best to take no notice of it.

“We’d better have something to drink first, and then I can hear what you have to say,” remarked Peace, as he touched the bell.

Glasses of grog were ordered and promptly served. Peace paid for the liquor, and gave the potman a shilling as a gratuity.

“Here’s to our noble selves,” said the tinker, raising his glass to his lips. “Ah, that does a cove a world o’ good!”

“Well, now, then, we’ll proceed to business,” observed Peace. “You’re hard up.”

“I’m done up――bust up, and ha’ been pretty nigh starving. That’s how I am, and seeing as how I aint got bite nor sup――same what we’ve jest now had in――I’ve made so bold as to lay my case afore one who won’t send me away empty-handed――leastways not if he ’ave the means to hold a ’elping ’and to a pal vot’s in distress.”

“I’m in no very good position myself, but whatever I can spare you are welcome to.”

“Blessed if I didn’t say so. I know’d it――vot yer can do you vill do.”

“Yes, here’s a quid for your immediate wants. It’s all I can spare now, for I must tell you I’ve cut the old game――don’t intend to have any more of it.”

“Oh, goin’ to do the respectable, eh?” said Cooney, with a very low whistle. “That’s yer game, is it?”

“Yes, I am at work now at my old business, and to that I intend to stick. No more night work for me――it’s a deal too risky.”

“Vell, perhaps you are right. But I say, old boy, can you spare another quid?”

“Yes, provided you leave the town and don’t bother me any more.”

“Oh, ye’ve no call to be afeard. I aint a-goin’ to stay in this here place――not if I know it.”

“Good――then here’s the other.”

“Thanks――you’re a good fellow Charlie, arter all, but I ’spose yer’ll be glad to get shut o’ me――eh? Here the speaker winked his eye.

“Well, you see we are on a different lay now.”

“Right yer are, old man. Vell, there, I aint a-goin’ to bother yer; so make yer mind easy on that score, but the old un, Charlie, it’s duced hard lines wi’ him.”

“Ah, he’s charged with murder――is he not?”

“Sartin shure he is.”

“How came that about?”

“I’ll tell yer. Yer see, the Badger, some years ago, cracked a crib in the country, and, as ill luck would ha’ it, jest as he vos a-making off with the swag who should cross his path but the blessed old fool hisself. He’d up an’ give him one for hisself. A young man as vos a-keeping company vith the servant rushes forward and ketches ’old o’ Gregson. Vell, there the two vere struggling like anythink on the grass plat, and Gregson couldn’t get away not no how, although he tried his utmost.”

“Couldn’t get away?”

“No, I’m blessed if he could――leastways, that’s what I’ve heerd. Vell, vot does the Badger do but he whips out his knife, and stabs t’other chap to the heart? Then the gal comes at him, and clutches hold of his throat. He managed to shake her off, but you see he left a something behind――the handkercher he wore round his neck and the knife.”

“What has that to do with the affair at Oakfield House?”

“Ah! it’s a deal to do wi’ it――it has. You shall hear. The last part on it is like a play――better nor any play, that’s what it is. Yer see, as I said afore, the Badger gets clean away, a reward is offered by Guv’nment, likewise a reward by the old bloke――him as was robbed and knocked down in the passage. The bobbies set to work, the whole biling on ’em, but they never got the blind side of the old un. Vell, this is six year ago――aye, more than six year it is now, and a durin’ them six years the gal has had but one thought――this was to ketch the murderer of her love, and she’s a done it, Charlie――there aint no mistake about that ’ere――she done it. The Badger, like a fool, fired a pistol at random when he were in that bedroom. The gal sees his face by the pistol’s flash, and she shoots him down――that’s what she does.”

“Of course we know he was shot, but I did not know who by.”

“By the gal, I tell yer. She’s been afore the magistrates, and has sworn to him like anythink, and she means to hang him――leastways, it won’t be any fault of her’s if he doesn’t swing. Ah! it’s all up with the Badger,” said Cooney, with a sigh, at the same time draining off the liquor left in his glass.

“It’s a bad bisness――a precious bad bisness, there aint no manner o’ doubt on’t.”

“It is, indeed,” returned Peace; “but it is a lesson to both of us――a lesson I hope you will profit by.”

“Oh, there aint no call for you to preach, or to try and make me better nor I am. But I am sorry for the old un――he was always square enough with me――always.”

“I tell you, Cooney, sadly and seriously, that if you don’t intend to profit by the warning already given to both of us, I shall; and I advise you to follow my example.”

“Oh, I’ll profit by it one way or t’other; I sed as how it ed come to this sooner or later, he was so rash, so headstrong. Didn’t I always say that I liked to do business in a quiet sort o’ way? Answer me that.”

“I admit you did,” said Peace in a conciliatory tone of voice. “But now we must part――I durst not stay any longer,” he added rising from his seat.

“Are yer agoin’?”

“Yes, you don’t want anything more of me.”

“No, not a morsel. I’m thankful enough for what yer have given me――but I say, Charlie, you’re a knockin’ up a tidy business in the town, aint yer?”

“Oh no; but very middling at present. What are your movements?”

“I leave to-morrow morning――and so good-bye and good luck to yer.”

The two companions in crime shook hands and parted.

Peace when he reached the street, walked on as fast as possible. He was greatly relieved when he lost sight of the beershop in which this interview had taken place.

Peace greatly regretted having had anything to do with the Badger or his jackall, Cooney. This association with others of an equally lawless character had doubtless a marked influence on his late career. He had got into trouble more than once through evil and lawless companions; hence it was that he afterwards went alone upon his predatory and nocturnal visits; and these, as it afterwards transpired, were singularly successful and lucrative.

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Chapter VI

BBOXWILL GAOL――GUILTY OF WILFUL MURDER――PEACE SEES THE LAST OF GREGSON.

While Peace was in comparative security, and enjoying immunity for his past crimes, the hours were rolling away sadly enough with Mr. Edward Gregson, alias the Bristol Badger, alias the Old Un. He was caught in a net from which he was not likely to escape. He was deeply impressed with this fact.

The day appointed for his trial was close at hand, the nearer it approached the more anxious, nervous, and fidgety, he became. He was anxious to obtain the services of some leading barrister to conduct his defence, but he had not funds sufficient for that purpose.

His sister, who was married to a drunken, worthless fellow, was the only person who stood by him in the hour of his extreme need. She went, at his request, from one to another of the burglar’s quondam associates, for the purpose of raising a sum sufficient for the defence.

At Gregson’s direction she waited upon Peace, who was not a little disconcerted when she presented herself at his lodging in Bradford. He, however, did more than many of the others did――he gave her a few pounds.

He also spoke words of kindness to her, and expressed a hope that the verdict would be more favourable than anticipated.

And now let us return to Gregson, who had been confined in one of the model cells of Broxwill.

The little money he had with him at the time of his capture, he had spent entirely upon sumptuous dinners.

Gorging himself, like a boa constrictor, he would fling his enormous frame upon the hammock-like bed, which oscillated beneath his weight, and slept from dinner time to dinner time.

Thus did the earlier portion of his imprisonment pass pleasantly enough.

It is true that he sometimes complained of the regulation respecting the quart of malt liquor, but upon the whole behaved himself very quietly.

In fact, as he was almost invariably asleep, it could hardly have been otherwise.

But, alas! one dreadful morning he was informed that his money was all gone, and that he must, for the future, content himself with the prison diet.

He knew from experience what that was.

A mug of gruel and a piece of bread was brought him for his breakfast. He surveyed it with contempt, and emptied it away into the slops.

He did not care about breakfast or tea. He liked being fed once a day, like the lions in a menagerie, or the bull terriers in the mews.

His anxiety was great to see what his hot dinner was. It happened to be a soup day; and his disgust on finding that he was to dine off a little thin broth and a piece of bread defies description.

He entreated the warder, in the sweetest tones his rough voice could command, to bring him something better than that.

The warder only laughed at him.

From entreaties he passed to threats, and from threats to a savage blow with his fist, which would have annihilated the jocund official had he not parried it with the iron door, which rang beneath the shock, and covered the brawny hand with blood.

He howled with pain, and stretched himself on his bed in sulky silence.

After this he became a little more tractable; contenting himself with grumbling at everything that was brought him.

His sister paid him a visit. She informed him that she had obtained some money towards paying counsel for his defence.

Upon hearing this he seemed greatly pleased; despite his recklessness and bravado, he had become sad and serious as the time for the opening of the assizes approached.

He still clung to hope, even as a drowning man might cling to a spar.

At length the day arrived on which the trial had been appointed to take place. The facts connected with the charge of murder were simple enough.

Jane Ryan, who had become by this time a sort of heroine, was the chief witness; but there were others who were to be called as witnesses for the Crown, who to a great extent could corroborate her evidence.

Jane, when placed in the box, was calm and self-possessed.

She swore most positively to the prisoner as being the man who stabbed James Hopgood. She averred that she had a distinct and vivid recollection of every minute circumstance attendant upon the crime committed on that fatal night.

The counsel for the defence by a series of cross questions and inuendoes, strove to throw a doubt upon her testimony.

But Jane never wavered for a moment. Her answers were clear and concise. Every word she uttered bore the impress of truth.

Her cross-examination was continued for so long a time that it became wearisome.

There was, of course, the usual wrangling between the advocates as to what was admissible as evidence.

Objections were taken to some of the questions put to the witnesses, and an appeal was made to the judge, who overruled certain objections, and admitted others.

Jane’s former master and her fellow-servant were the next. They both swore positively to the prisoner as the same person who stabbed the young carpenter.

Eight other witnesses were examined, amongst whom were the two Messrs. Ashbrook and the policemen.

The weight of evidence was clearly against the prisoner, and after retiring for a short time the jury returned a “Verdict of Guilty,” upon the charge of wilful murder.

The judge passed sentence of death upon the prisoner in the usual form, and Gregson, who did not display the slightest emotion, was taken back to Broxwill gaol.

Jane Ryan, who had borne up with wonderful firmness and fortitude throughout the trial, now gave way. When the sentence was passed she swooned, and was carried out of court in a state of insensibility.

“Poor gal,” said Richard Ashbrook; “we none of us know what it has cost her to get through this day’s business. Poor lass! it’s the recollection of her sweetheart that’s done this. It can’t be any sympathy she feels for that miscreant.”

“Ah! no――for it aint that as does it,” said a female attendant. “The poor dear soul has nerved herself up to go through a trying part, and she’s broken down now it’s over. It’s a chance if she ever overgets this day’s business.”

“She’s none of your weak sort of bodies,” observed the farmer. “Jane’ got a brave heart.”

“May be she has, sir; but the bravest of us are a little overcome at times,” returned the woman.

With care and attention Jane Ryan was soon sufficiently restored to be taken by the good-hearted farmer and his relatives to Oakfield House. She was with good kind friends, who strove in every possible way to restore her to her wonted health and spirits.

But a canker worm was at her heart. And those about her acknowledged to themselves that she was no longer the same Jane whom they had known in an earlier day.

* * * * * * *

There were but a few grains of sand remaining in Time’s hour-glass for the hardened criminal, Gregson. The morning of his execution was at hand.

Let us visit the street before Broxwill gaol before the fatal day.

It was Sunday night, at eleven o’clock; the public-houses had closed and forced the people into the air, which was rain――into the street which was mud.

A vast crowd was already collected before the gaol, and were watching the ominous preparations for to-morrow.

The new act for carrying out the last dread penalty of the law within the precincts of the gaol had not as yet passed, and the public were permitted to see the last throes of the doomed. Now, even the representatives of the press are denied that privilege.

There were lanterns placed at intervals of several yards down the whole length of the street. Dark shadows might be seen flitting round these lights.

The harsh sound of iron striking stone rose in the air.

They were digging holes in the ground with picks and iron crowbars.

At the end of the street, at the farther extremity of the prison, there was a yard surrounded with iron spikes.

The door of this yard was open, lights trembled in its mysterious depths.

A group of men and women stood near it; a policeman was stationed at each side of the door.

Occasionally men carrying large iron bars and wooden posts passed out. These, planted in the ground, were formed into a barrier that the mob might be kept at a certain distance from the scene of execution.

Gradually the group in front of the yard increased into a crowd.

As at every quarter of an hour the church bell gave forth its solemn notes they clung closer together, and peered over each other’s shoulders into that black space from which indefinite sounds were raised and which was guarded so vigilantly by its two sentinels.

They heard the noise of wheels and cried joyfully――

“It’s coming! it’s coming!”

But they became silent as, drawn by three horses, a strange vehicle passed them.

It was a large square cart of enormous size, upon four low, broad wheels. It was painted black.

It passed slowly up the street, and halted before a small door which opened from the prison into the street.

From the interior of the prison sprang three men in their short sleeves. They dragged with them a huge pole, and erected it towards heaven.

A low murmur ran through the crowd. This was a portion of the gallows.

How strange and absorbing is the interest of every class in all that pertains to death!

Many of those assembled round Broxwill Gaol, remained there all night. These were, of course, the “roughs.”

But it must not be for a moment supposed that the interest was confined to them.

Numbers of persons belonging to the middle and upper classes had engaged seats at windows of those houses commanding a good view of the scaffold.

As the night wore on the throng of persons diminished in numbers. There were, however, many around the apparatus of death when the first few streaks of dawn were visible in the horizon.

In an hour or so after this people debouched from all quarters of the town, hurrying on towards the fatal spot.

As the minutes flew by the multitude increased.

The salesmen of hot potatoes, coffee, pies, and other delicacies, were threading their way through the crowd.

Some loud-voiced fellows began to cry out the last dying speech and confession of the notorious murderer, Gregson, better known as the Bristol Badger. They recited some doggrel lines as they took their way along, which persons of a powerful imagination might suppose to be the production of the wretched man who was about to die.

The windows of the houses commanding a view of the ghastly scene now began to fill with people.

In them too, many of the fair sex were to be seen. The crowd before the scaffold became denser――people, as is usual on occasions of this description, push and elbow each other. An English crowd is bound to do this.

“Where ye’re shovin’ to?” said a tall youth to a brawny looking man, who to all appearance was a navigator. “Jest keep yer elbows to yerself.”

“It aint my fault, yer fool,” said the navigator. “It’s the people behind who’s a pushing.”

“Well, then, you’re strong enough, and can keep ’em back if you like.”

“Don’t you be so cheeky, young fellow,” returned the other; “you aint everybody.”

“Give him a dab in the eye,” said a voice behind.

“I shan’t be at all particular about that if he gives me any more of his cheek.”

“Hush! Order!” ejaculated another of the crowd. “This aint a time to be a-quarrelin’.”

“Right you air, old man,” said another.

“Pies, all hot――all hot,” shouted out an itinerant vendor of those delicacies. “Here’s some of the right sort, all hot.”

Several persons became purchasers. The morning air had given them an appetite, and they devoured the pies with evident relish.

A man in a black suit, with a white necktie and a low crowned hat, proceeded to distribute tracts to the gaping throng.

In a few moments he got unmercifully chaffed, but heedless of this he proceeded on his mission.

The hours passed on. It was nearly eight o’clock.

A man in a sable suit, bent form, and a feeble step, made for the door of one of the houses opposite to the gaol. He wore green spectacles, and to all appearance was a cripple, with a false arm. He passed through the doorway, and in a few moments after this had taken up his position at one of the front windows of the second floor of the house he had entered.

He seemed to be a broken, afflicted creature, who was past the meridian of life. His form was bent with premature age or disease――it was not possible to say which.

This person, who was disguised so completely that his own mother would not have known him, was our hero, Charles Peace.

He had come to see the last of Ned Gregson.

His make-up suggested a Dissenting minister. He seated himself by the side of a tall, thin, serious-looking person, of quiet manners and gentlemanly appearance.

The prison bell began to toll.

Then, as if by presentiment, the crowd became more orderly, the men ceased their jests, and the vendors their cries.

“It is nearly time for the carrying out the final act of the law upon the poor condemned wretch,” said the tall gentleman to Peace. “What must be his feelings now?”

“Ah, sir! the thought is terrible. It is painful to dwell upon. What, indeed, must be his feelings?”

Here he heaved a profound sigh.

“I have never attended an execution,” remarked the other; “and now my heart begins to fail me. I wish I had kept away. And you――――”

“I, like yourself, have never witnessed a scene of this nature, but, having come, I shall endeavour to fortify myself as I best can.”

“I am not an advocate for the abolition of the punishment of death,” remarked Peace’s tall companion. “I frankly own that I do not believe it can with safety be done away with.”

“Most assuredly not,” returned Peace, in the mildest tone of voice. “In the interests of society it is requisite that the guilty should not escape punishment. The murderer is unworthy of sympathy from his fellow-man.”

“I am quite of your opinion――indeed, I may say that you express my sentiments to the very letter.”

Peace bowed, and his face wore a complacent expression, which was altogether at variance with its ordinary appearance.

His companion was evidently quite taken up with him.

“The man who is about to suffer has been convicted upon the clearest evidence of a most dastardly and cold-blooded murder. The circumstances which led to his discovery are a little singular; and, indeed, I might say romantic.”

“So a neighbour of mine was saying,” observed Peace. “I am not acquainted with all the particulars.”

His companion gave a succinct but graphic account of all those facts with which the reader is already acquainted.

“How very singular!――how remarkable!” exclaimed Peace, adjusting his spectacles when his companion had ceased.

A short thick-set man, with dark piercing eyes, a close-cut grey beard, now appeared on the scaffold, at which he took a hasty glance.

This figure presented a weird-like appearance.

“There he is!” said several voices.

“Who is that?” said Peace.

“Calcraft, the hangman,” answered his companion.

“Oh, indeed. What has he come for?”

“To see that the arrangements are made in a satisfactory manner. He has made one or two mistakes lately, and I think the old man is getting a little narvess.”

[Sidenote: No. 4.]

It was quite true that Calcraft had had one or two mishaps; but these, it is said, were attributable to circumstances for which he was in no way responsible. He certainly fulfilled the duties of public executioner creditably for nearly fifty years, during which period he made use of what is known as the “short drop.”

His successor, Marwood, advocates and makes use of the “long drop,” and many have affirmed that his mode for putting criminals to death is the most merciful of the two; but when doctors (I mean hangmen) differ, who shall decide?

Calcraft has now retired. He is seventy-nine years of age, and was, when I last saw him, in tolerably good-health for a man of his years.

The name of the gibbet’s victims have been legion; for until a very recent period our penal code was most severe. We have hanged not only the murderer, the ravisher, and the incendiary――not only the burglar, the highwayman, and the forger, but the sheep-stealer, the petty thief who purloined a roll of cloth or a loaf of bread from a shop-counter. If any nation ought to know how to hang, it should assuredly be the English.

Decapitation has been a mode of death reserved for aristocratic culprits, although in the “Halifax gibbet” and the Scottish “Maiden” some faint resemblance to the guillotine may be traced. But we have always obstinately refused to employ the machine, adapted from the mediæval types by the benevolent French physician, and have stuck manfully to the gallows.

Formerly the convict doomed to the “triple tree” used to be flung off a ladder. Then we grew more humane, and made him stand with a noose round his neck in a cart, which was drawn from under him at a given signal.

Ultimately, in the middle of the last century, being under the necessity of hanging a lord――the noble convict was Laurence Earl Ferrers, who had murdered his steward――the scaffold, with a trap-door secured by a bolt, and flapping down from under the criminal’s feet, was devised for the express accommodation of the murderous peer.

This was in the reign of George II.; and we have not advanced one step since then in the way of hanging.

The “new drop” is more than a hundred years old, but nothing has been done to render the grim agency more efficacious.

When the bolt is drawn and the drop falls, Marwood asserts, according to his arrangement, that the neck of the criminal is at once broken, and that death is instantaneous. This is his theory; but in practice, we believe that in nine cases out of ten the wretched culprit dies from suffocation.

A murderer, it may be urged, deserves no better fate.

He has shown no mercy to others, and has no right to expect that mercy should be shown to him.

We adhere to the notion that hanging is the shortest and swiftest mode of killing; and Marwood has declared that if he were condemned to death, and had to choose the mode of execution, he would certainly prefer hanging to any other.

Peace remained silent and thoughtful when Calcraft appeared on the scaffold. The latter, after a glance round, returned to the gaol.

Shortly after this the prison door opened slowly. One of the gaolers stood in the portal.

There was now a cry of “hats off” and a thousand heads were bared, a thousand faces upturned.

One would have believed it was a performance at the theatre they were witnessing.

Gregson appeared, bound and pinioned. This was the signal for groans and hisses, which were, however, supressed by the more discreet and better-behaved portion of the throng.

Behind Gregson was the chaplain, with an open Prayer-book in his hand, the sheriffs in their robes, the officers of the gaol, the myrmidons of the gallows.

A regiment of policemen encircled the scaffold with their truncheons drawn.

A trembling ran through the crowd, which resembled the waves of the sea beneath the first blast of the north wind.

This was followed by a murmur like that of the waves when the wind lashes them into wrath.

The crowd became hushed and silent.

The chaplain began to read the service of the dead.

The Badger looked sullenly upon the ground, presently he raised his head and examined the faces beneath him as if there was some one whom he wished to find.

He withdrew his eyes almost reluctantly, and turned them upon the officers behind him.

At this sign the clergyman moved on one side, and Calcraft approached.

All was hushed into silence, deep and terrible as that of the tomb.

Gregson had already made one step towards his death――he now placed himself on the drop.

Calcraft adjusted the noose around the miserable man’s neck, then passed a strap round his feet and secured it with horrible deliberation.

He drew a white cap over his eyes and mouth――then he disappeared beneath the gallows.

For an instant Gregson stood motionless upon his open tomb.

The eyes of Charles Peace were rivetted on the form of his quondam companion.

The bolt was withdrawn from below; there was a frightful crash; a black chasm opened beneath the feet of the culprit, whose body swung round and vibrated in the air.

Then commenced those struggles, which, we are informed, are merely muscular and involuntary, but which nevertheless are sickening to behold.

Charles Peace was in no way moved by the appalling spectacle, albeit he affected to be overcome, and buried his face in his hands.

His newly-made acquaintance, however, was visibly affected. The expression of his countenance was indicative of the most profound sorrow.

In a few minutes the crowd before the scaffold recovered from the shock.

A motionless figure dangled from the rope. It was evident enough to all the spectators that life had fled.

Gregson had paid the penalty of his crimes.

The crowd swayed to and fro; several groups of persons took their departure in various directions.

During the whole of the melancholy proceedings the pickpockets were industriously plying their vocation.

More than one of the light-fingered gentry had been given into the custody of the police.

This was a common thing at the time of public executions.

Full two-thirds of the multitude had in the space of a quarter of an hour bent their way homewards.

Many, however, still remained to witness Calcraft’s re-appearance on the scaffold for the purpose of cutting the rope from which the body of the murderer was suspended.

Those that remained were, of course, the roughest and least sensitive of the throng.

Their thirst for the horrible appeared to be insatiable.

The unprincipled scoundrel, Gregson, who, as a just penalty for his manifold crimes, suffered death on the public scaffold, was a ruffian of the very worst type. Educated to crime from his earliest youth, his conscience, which had never been tender, became, as years passed over his felon head, “seared as with a hot iron.”

If we were to take a retrospective glance at his career from the day that he first enlisted in the “Devil’s Regiment of the Line” until the last dread sentence of the law was carried out, we should find abundance of evidence to prove that the way of the transgessor was hard. As we have before signified, “A life of crime is always a life of care.”

Gregson found to his cost, despite his callous nature, that this axiom was a true one; nevertheless, he was so steeped in vice and immorality that he found it impossible to reform or mend his ways.

Throughout his whole life there was not manifested one trace of mercy or generosity such as was attributed to the old highwaymen.

On all occasions he displayed a spirit of almost animal ferocity, shown to all who interfered with him.

Gregson, in fact, loved crime――the double life it involved, the excessive danger it created, and the cynical enjoyment it yielded him of doing always the worst thing he could think of.

The man was so radically bad――so naturally prone to wickedness――so utterly dead to the whispers of conscience――that he was a foul blot upon the face of nature.

He was a sort of wild beast, who waged ceaseless war against society.

It is indeed a sad thing to reflect upon that in this civilised country, with the means of education and moral training open to the poorest and humblest in the land, such monstrosities as Gregson and Charles Peace should have existence.

But we will not dwell further upon this painful theme. Gregson, as we have seen has paid the penalty of his crime.

The career of Peace it is our purpose to chronicle. In doing this it will be necessary, as this work progresses, to diverge occasionally to note the actions and doings of other groups of characters with whom Peace was more or less connected.

Charles Peace, when he had seen the last of Gregson, rose from his seat, and moved slowly towards the centre of the room, which was more than half-filled with sightseers.

The tall gentleman who had sat by his side during the execution also rose, and prepared to take his departure.

“This is a scene when once witnessed is not easily to be forgotten,” he observed to Peace. “I assume, sir, you are like myself, but too glad it is over.”

“I am, indeed, sir,” answered Peace, in oleaginous accents.

“You do not desire to remain longer?”

“Oh, dear me, no.”

“Nor I. We will get away as speedily as may be convenient.”

“By all means.”

The two companions descended the stairs, and gained the street. This done, they walked side by side until they had got clear of the gaol and its ghastly surroundings.

It transpired, in the course of conversation, that Peace’s companion was journeying in the same direction as our hero, who expressed himself very well pleased at having his company on the road.

“We have met for the first time this morning, sir,” observed Peace; “allow me to express a hope that we may meet again under more auspicious circumstances.”

The gentleman bowed, and said, “I hope so, I’m sure. Any way, we shall not meet again under similar circumstances, for I tell you frankly that this is the first, and it will be the last, time of my being present at such a scene.”

They walked on for some little distance further, and came within sight of a roadside inn, with seats and alcoves in its front.

“I think a little cold brandy and water will do us both good,” said Peace. “What say you?”

“As you please, I have no objection,” was the ready rejoinder. “As a rule I do not take any spirits in the morning, but this is an exceptional case.”

The two strolled in the grounds in front of the hostelry, and glasses were ordered and paid for by Peace.

“It is a terrible thing to see a fellow-creature put to death――terrible to even the most callous and unimpressionable. But it is a necessity――an absolute and imperative necessity.”

“Undoubtedly it is.”

“I do not complain of the law as it stands,” observed the other; “I think it a just and reasonable law; for the very least a member of a civilised community has a right to expect at the hands of his fellow-citizens, should he fall by the blow of an assassin, is that his murderer, after being convicted by a jury of his countrymen, should be put to death. What say you?”

“I am of the same opinion as yourself.”

“I think the mischief arises, or has arisen, on more than one occasion, by the injudicious use made of the prerogative of the Crown. Villains of the deepest dye have been respited, while criminals of a lesser degree have been executed. This, I think, has materially weakened the effects of the punishment of death. It is not only unjust, but is manifestly injurious. It is by the reliability of punishment――by the certainty that punishment follows conviction――that we can hope or expect it to act as a deterrent from the commission of crime. I have given the subject some consideration, and I could cite many instances in which the clemency of the Crown has been made use of in an unjust and most injudicious manner.”

“I am not so well up in the subject as you are,” remarked Peace, who throughout his life was always ready to moralise; “still, at the same time, I see the force of your argument.”

“Well, sir, I will instance a case which came under my own knowledge. In the year 1844 I had a brother residing at Battersea, and, when in the metropolis, I was in the habit of paying him a visit once or, indeed, sometimes twice a week. One evening I was crossing Battersea Bridge, on the left-hand side going from the Bridge-road, when all of a sudden I observed a woman on the opposite side running along with her hands to her throat, from which a stream of blood was flowing. I was, as you can readily imagine, moved to an extremity of fear at the heartrending sight. The poor creature proceeded onwards with tottering steps, and did not stop till she had reached the ‘Old Swan’ tavern, on the Battersea side of the bridge. This was kept at that time by a man named Goslin, who was a friend of my brother.”

“And what followed?” inquired Peace.

“You shall hear, for I remember every incident in this fearful tragedy as clearly as if it had occurred but yesterday. The woman rushed in front of the bar of the ‘Swan,’ and fell on the floor, deluging the place with her blood. Her throat was cut from ear to ear. I arrived at the tavern just in time to see her fall, and to also see her breathe her last.”

“And who was her murderer?”

“A man named Dalmas. It transpired in the course of the subsequent inquiry that he had been paying attention to the murdered woman, whose name was Macfarlane. She was a school teacher, and had half supported the odious wretch who so cruelly and remorselessly took her life.”

“And the motive――jealousy, I suppose?” said Peace.

“Nothing of the sort. The ill-fated woman, Macfarlane, was engaged to be married. She wrote to Dalmas, informing him of her engagement, to which he did not presume to offer any objection, neither had he any right to do so; indeed, he clearly understood that she was about to make an alliance with a gentleman, which would place her in a much better position in life. Dalmas wrote a very kind letter to her, in which he requested her to meet him on the Middlesex side of Battersea Bridge that he might bid her a last farewell, declaring that he was about to return to his native country, France, but did not like to leave without bidding her good-bye. She acceded to his request, and met him at the appointed time. The wretch proceeded to carry out his fell purpose unperceived, and while behind his victim he drew a razor across her throat, and inflicted such a fearful wound that she did not survive many minutes――certainly not more than five or six minutes. The wretch, after his barbarous act, coolly walked through the turnstile on the Chelsea side, and succeeded in making his escape.”

“And was never caught, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, he was; the police captured him in the course of a few days, and brought him in a four-wheeled cab to the Millman-row Police-station. Strange to say I saw him taken there. Well, to cut a long story short, he was tried and convicted upon the clearest evidence. There was not the faintest shadow of doubt as to his guilt――indeed he did not attempt to deny it. The murder was cold-blooded, premeditated, and brutal. Most assuredly, if any man ever deserved hanging certainly it was the wretch Dalmas, for there was not one redeeming point in the whole case. Well, sir, what do you think happened?”

“I cannot say.”

“To the surprise of everybody the fellow was respited. Why or wherefore no one could possibly tell. No one has ever been able to account for the strange caprice of the executive. I don’t believe there was an attempt made to even get up a petition to spare his worthless life. I don’t believe there was a single individual――certainly none that I ever heard of――who was not perfectly assured at the time that the law would be suffered to take its course. Indeed, as far as I can remember, everybody was thunderstruck upon seeing it announced in the public papers that Dalmas had been respited.”

“How very extraordinary!” remarked Peace. “And what became of him?”

“Oh, he was of course doomed to penal servitude for his natural life. He is at the present time in Portland prison, dispensing the medicines. He was a chemist by profession. He has been kept all these years at the expense of the public, and the probability is that he has found himself much more comfortable during his incarceration than he did when earning, or endeavouring to earn, a precarious existence outside the walls of his prison house.”

“It seems hardly possible.”

“I have been giving you a plain narrative of facts,” returned the other, “and I can vouch for the truth of all you have heard fall from my lips; but this is only one of the cases I could cite to prove to you or anyone else the injudicious use made of her Majesty’s prerogative.”

“A scoundrel who would be guilty of such an atrocious crime was utterly unworthy of the clemency of the Crown,” said Peace. “It seems to me most singular that mercy should be extended in such a case.”

“It surprised everybody――none more than myself. I shall never forget the death of that poor creature in front of the bar of the ‘Swan.’ It has made so lasting an impression, that we have been, and still are at a loss to imagine the sympathy――the misplaced sympathy, I may term it――for those who imbrue their hands in the blood of their fellow-creatures.”

“But I do not believe for one moment in the sincerity of anyone who endeavours to screen a murderer,” observed Peace.

“Neither do I, sir――neither do I,” ejaculated his companion. “If it became a personal question if a murder had been committed in their own immediate circle, they would be the first to demand the assassin’s life. We have a practical instance of this in the Marquis of Boccaria, who, while the sheets of his work against capital punishment were passing through the press, did his best to get a servant hanged who had stolen his watch.”

It was evident to Peace that the topic was a favourite one with his companion, for he gave one or two more instances of a similar nature to Dalmas’s case.[1]

After some further discussion the two companions took their departure from the roadside inn, and walked on towards their respective destinations. When the time came for them to part company Peace’s picked-up friend gave him a card, with his name and address on the face, and said he should be glad to see him at any time he could make it convenient to call. Peace thanked him, and promised to pay an early visit.

And so the two parted.

When left to himself, Peace had more time to think over the sad event of the morning. Gregson’s fate made an impression on him, but it is to be regretted that this was but of a transient nature. He was too fond of adventure, too prone to wrong-doing, to allow the miserable end of his brutal and guilty associate to take deep root in his heart, or have any influence over his future actions or way of life. He returned to his lodging, it may be a sadder, but certainly in no way a better man.

[1] The description given by the speaker, of the murder on Battersea Bridge, is true in substance and in fact. The trial of Augustus Dalmas, for the murder of Sarah Macfarlane, took place, June 14th, 1844. The prisoner was found guilty; there was not one extenuating circumstance in the case, and no possible plea for a respite. Dalmas is at the present time, or was a few months ago, at Portland, in a responsible situation as dispenser of medicine to the sick, and his life is not one of hardship or suffering. He must be now close upon seventy years of age, if not more.

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VII. THE OLD FARM HOUSE――THE MASTER PASSION――JANE RYAN

The winter has passed away and spring has come again.

All that remains of the much-dreaded Gregson is a few mouldering bones. His body was buried within the walls of the gaol, and the quick lime in the coffin has done its work.

Let us return to the scene of the opening chapters of our tale.

Oakfield House presents a charming picture of rustic beauty in the sweet spring time. In the yard there are milch cows and cart horses, with fowls fluttering, chirping, and pecking.

Stables and barns with tiled and slated roofs, and strong oaken doors through which as they stand ajar, one can see the busy shirt sleeves of the labourer.

A blue river and a long line of willows, a fine view of the arable country――chalk hills and clay valleys――an orchard with a great stone pigeon-house rising from the midst and towering over all the trees. A rookery which is silent, for all the birds are feeding in the fields, and a little hamlet in the distance seen here and there between the leaves.

These are the leading and most noticeable features of the fine old English homestead known as Oakfield House.

But the picture is unfinished, as every picture is unfinished without a human figure. It is to colours upon canvas what the eye is to the face, what the sun is to the sky.

At the side door of the homestead is a young woman. She is attending to a throstle suspended from the wooden porch in its wicker cage. Her face is pale, its expression is sad and thoughtful. It is evident that she has been early acquainted with sorrow.

It would be difficult for many, who had known her in earlier years, to recognise this young woman as the once gay and sprightly Jane Ryan.

A strange change has come over Jane. She moves about the house, and grounds attached thereto, in a mechanical and listless manner. Her household duties are attended to with even greater care and thoughtfulness than heretofore; but a settled melancholy seems to have fallen upon her, her cheeks are wan and pale, her features are thinner and more delicately chiselled. It is painfully evident to all within the farmer’s domicile that Jane is a prey to a deep-seated, and, it is feared by some, an incurable sorrow.

Nevertheless, she does not complain――does not for a moment admit that she is otherwise than in her wonted health.

Those about her, however, are of a different opinion. The Ashbrooks shake their heads. Miss Ashbrook, in answer to her brother’s questions, murmurs, “Fading away.”

“Poor girl, she cannot forget the past, and, to say the truth, it be no wonder,” said the farmer’s sister on more than one occasion, when the question was discussed.

“This is an upright straight for’ard good gell!” exclaimed Richard Ashbrook. “That what she be, and I donna’ like to see her thus. Ye must do your best, Maude, to cheer her up.”

“I ha’ done so, many and many a time.”

“Ah! that be but right and proper. I cannot see why she should take on so. The past be passed away, it canna’ be recalled. But ha’ left its traces behind――any one on us can see that,” observes John Ashbrook. “Let the lass alone――maybe she’ll get over it after a bit.”

But the getting over it did not seem so easy as the good-natured farmer might wish.

Jane, as days and weeks flew by, seemed to grow more sad and thoughtful, and more than one of the rustics gravely remarked that she would go off her head if she gave way too much.

Everyone declared that she was a truthful, honest girl; indeed, she was a general favourite. It is little to say perhaps that she had not an enemy.

During the period which elapsed between the burglary and conviction of Gregson, she was looked upon as a sort of heroine, and numbers of well-to-do folks paid a visit to the farmhouse for the avowed purpose of making her acquaintance.

This popularity――or notoriety would, perhaps, be the better term――did not afford Jane any gratification; on the contrary, she was ill at ease when in the company of strangers, especially so when allusion was made to the circumstances connected with the crimes of burglary or murder.

She was a girl possessed of acute feelings――remarkably sensitive――though few persons would, perhaps, have given her the credit of possessing this latter quality, the reason for this being that she was reticent and undemonstrative.

In addition to all these characteristics, she was deeply imbued with superstition――was, in fact, a fatalist, and believed that all things were pre-ordained, and that it was useless for anyone to struggle against the decrees of fate.

The good pastor of the village strove in vain to dismiss from her mind this idea.

Jane heard all he had to say, but remained inflexible, affirming that her own life was a proof of this theory. Twice she dreamt that a burglary would be committed at Oakfield House on the very night that it did take place. A warning voice told her that the murderer of Hopgood would be one of the burglars――this came to pass.

It was in vain for anyone to deny the truth of these assertions, which, as we have already seen, were made manifest to wondering thousands; and it would be equally useless to deny also that similar warnings had been given in similar cases. The dead body of Maria Martin, of Red Barn notoriety, was discovered through the agency of a dream. This was incontestably proved upon the trial of William Corder, her murderer.

We are not for a moment assuming that it would be wise of anyone to put trust in dreams, signs, or omens of any sort――such an act would be the worst of folly.

Superstition is a blight, a mildew, and a curse to all who come under its fatal influence, and to a certain extent it was a blight upon the young life of Jane Ryan.

She had borne up for years hopefully and trustfully, in the full belief that the death of her lover would be avenged.

Now that this had come to pass, Jane felt that her mission was fulfilled. She had little to care for, nothing to hope, and it mattered not to her how her future course was shaped.

She consulted the wise woman who had prognosticated the appearance of Gregson at the farmhouse. The woman told her to forget the past, and look hopefully to the future, which is about the best advice she could give.

But Jane found it difficult to forget. A shadow had fallen upon her like a funeral pall.

One afternoon, while sitting alone in the breakfast-room of Oakfield, she met with a surprise. She had been at needlework. She put this aside, and leaning her head on her hand, with her elbow resting on the table, she fell into one of those deep reveries which had been so frequent with her of late.

A hand was placed on her shoulder, whereupon she gave a slight scream. Upon looking up she found Mr. Richard Ashbrook by her side; his brother John had gone with his sister to pay a visit to a neighbouring agriculturist.

The farmer smiled, and said, good-naturedly――

“Why, Jane, lass, thee beest eas’ly frightened.”

“I did not know anyone was here,” she answered, “and I was a little startled, and that’s the truth.”

“You’ve got very timursome o’ late. Tell me, girl, what ails ye? Ye gets paler and thinner every mortal day; and ye see we are getting a bit concerned.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered, with a faint smile. “There’s nothin’ amiss wi’ me.”

“Aye, but there is, gell. I tell ’ee thee is getting in a bad way. Dall it, I do not want to see ye go melancholy mad.”

“Oh, I shan’t do that.”

“Jane,” said the farmer, in a more solemn and serious tone than he was wont to assume; “ye been a thinkin’ an’ a thinkin’ till your brain becomes all of a whirl. Tell us, lass, what ails ye, and if anything can be done to put thee right it sha’ be done. You know, Jane, we all o’ us are as fond o’ ye as if――as if ye were our own flesh and blood. Your troubles are our troubles, an’――well, what was I saying? Oh, you must not look like that.”

“How am I to look, then?”

“More natural like.”

The farmer stood for a few moments after this silent and thoughtful.

Presently he drew a chair beside Jane’s and sat down. Upon this the girl was about to rise when he motioned her to keep her seat.

She looked surprised, but said nothing.

There they both sat for a short time without exchanging a word. Presently Richard Ashbrook broke the silence, which was becoming painful and perplexing to both.

“Ye must know,” began the farmer, “that I ha’ something to say to ye. That be why I came here. I don’t want to open old wounds afresh, but there is a reason for yer droopin’ and droopin’ as ye have been for ever so long a time, and I mean to know what it be.”

“I s’pose you can guess?”

“Maybe I can; but I want to have it from yer own lips.”

“Oh, sir, ye don’t want me to tell ’ee more than ye already know?”

“Ye’ve mourning for one that be dead and gone. Is that it?”

The girl nodded her head.

“I knew it――I could ha’ sworn it. Well, Jane, it is no discredit to ye; still at the same time, gell, thee knows that the wisest and the best of us cannot recall the dead to life, and to cherish a hopeless sorrow is neither wise or discreet. I don’t wish to pain ye, but I tell ye plainly that you are altogether wrong. You are young, and although yer have gone through a deal o’ trouble that is no reason why you should let the past embitter your life.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Richard――it shall not do so.”

“But it does, lass, anyone can see that it does. Tell me, do ye think yourself the same gell as came here some five year and a half agone?”

“I hope I am,” she murmured; “time has changed me a little, I suppose.”

“Jane,” said Ashbrook, “we are one an’ all of us fond of ye. I had somethin’ to say that mustn’t go unsaid. Listen――ye’d not disgrace any man, and ye’d be no discredit to any farmer as the mistress o’ his house――as his wife――do ye understand what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I don’t want to see ’ee fade away before my very eyes, under my very nose. I can’t and won’t stand that, an’ ye shall not if I can help it.”

Then he took her hand in his own and said, in a voice broken by emotion――

“I love ye, Jane.”

Then he placed his other arm across her shoulders and said no more.

The pale cheeks of Jane Ryan were suffused with a deep flush of red, in another moment they became paler than ever.

“Ah! ah!” she ejaculated, after a pause――“ah, Mr. Richard, ye do not know what ye’ve been sayin’.”

“Don’t I?” said the farmer, resolutely――“don’t I?”

“I do not think so.”

“Well, then, if it comes to that, I will say it agin. I love ye. I’ll deal honest and fair by ye. If thee likest, if ye’ll consent, ye shall be my wife.”

He drew her towards him, and imprinted on her lips the first kiss of pure love.

“Ye mek no answer,” he murmured. “Speak, gell.”

“I bid ye think agen, Mr. Ashbrook,” answered Jane. “Think agen.”

“I have thought of it over and over agen. What need is there o’ further thinkin’ when a man has made up his mind?”

“You are too good and kind to me, that’s what you are,” said his companion. “Much too good, an’ that be the truth on’t; but, my dear master, you deserve someone better than myself, and it may not be. My heart is bruised and broken, and it be a poor offering to any man. Seek someone more worthy of ye. Ah, Mr. Richard, ye make the hot scalding tears come to mine eyes, which ha’ been dry these many a year.”

She ceased suddenly, bent forward, buried her face in her hands, and burst into a passionate flood of tears.

The farmer was touched. He was more than this――he was fairly overcome.

He was quite unprepared for this violent demonstration of grief.

“I be sorry I’ve hurt your feelings, Jane, truly sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t say anything to me. Don’t say kind things. Oh, how truly wretched I am!” interrupted Jane.

“Wretched!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise.

“I had never counted on this.”

“And is an honest man’s love a thing to be despised?” he said, with something like indignation in his tone.

“No, my dear master, it’s a thing to be proud of,” returned Jane, throwing her arms round his neck, and embracing him tenderly. “It would and ought to make any girl proud and happy――any but me.”

“Ah, that’s it――is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You love another.”

“Now, I’m sure you do not mean what you say. I did love another――him as is dead and gone these six years ago an’ more.”

“Ah! true. No one else?”

“Certainly not. It seems strange to me that you should ask such a question.”

“Does it?” said the farmer, musingly, gazing, at the same time, abstractedly through the lozenge panes of the lattice window of the apartment. Then, after a pause, he added――

“I don’no but what you beest right. I don’no what med me ask such a question.”

He again became silent and thoughtful. He was doatingly fond of the young woman by his side――much more attached to her than he had supposed, or, indeed, cared to confess.

A suspicion crossed his mind; it was vague and shadowy at first, and did not assume any tangible shape. It was this――

“What if Jane had formed an attachment in the neighbourhood?”

He had never given that a thought before, not until after he had avowed his love.

The thought was agony. Poor Ashbrook was a man of impulse. He had never throughout his life been accustomed to consider twice before he spoke. He was hasty and at times brusque in his manner; for the rest he was as upright and honest as the day, and was quite incapable of doing a mean, paltry, or ungenerous action. Of all men in the world he was, perhaps, the one least able to bear a disappointment or a repulse from the woman he loved.

The bare supposition of a rival――and it might be a successful one――was gall and wormwood to him.

“Ye’ve heard what I’ve bin sayin’, Jane,” said the farmer, in a tone of voice which, to say the truth, was in strange contrast to its usual tone.

There was a mournful cadence in his voice which his companion never remembered to have heard on any former occasion. He proceeded with his discourse slowly and deliberately.

“As I ha’ just sed,” he observed, thoughtfully. “You’ve heard the few words that ha’ fallen from my lips, and, hark ’ee, it aint because I’m in a better position than ye are, Jane, that I would seek by word or deed to control ye in a matter which concerns ye more perhaps than aught else. I’ve no right to control ye. A woman cannot help her likins’ and dislikins’ any more than a man, and if ye cannot find it in your heart to look upon me wi’――wi’ eyes o’ favour――”

“Mr. Richard――Mr. Ashbrook,” interrupted the girl, with sudden warmth, “you not goin’ to tell me that you believe for a moment that I would turn from ye――that I would not lay down my life gladly and cheerfully for you or your’n――at any turn, at any time, or do aught that a poor creature like myself could do to help and benefit you. Ah, ah! if ye doubt this ye do me but scant justice.”

“I do not doubt it――I should be worse than a fool to doubt it,” said the farmer, bending fondly ever her.

“Spoken like yourself――your own good self!” exclaimed Jane.

Ashbrook did not deem it advisable to press the question further. He contented himself with imprinting a kiss on the girl’s forehead, and said gently――

“You are troubled. Now, think over what I’ve bin a-sayin’; we’ll talk further on this matter another time.”

And with these few parting words he crept softly out of the apartment and went abroad in the fields.

“She must ha’ bin mighty fond o’ the young carpenter,” he murmured, as he took his way over the meadows. “Mighty fond, to keep the memory o’ him green for so long a time. Wimmen they’re strange creatures――the best on us can’t mek ’em out at times, and yet――yet――dall it, I do love that gell, and that’s the honest truth.”

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