Chapter LXXIV…

Chapter LXXIV

PEACE RETURNS TO HIS NATIVE TOWN, SHEFFIELD――HE TAKES UNTO HIMSELF A WIFE.

On the day after his interview with Tom Gatliffe Peace returned to Sheffield.

The first visit he paid was to his mother, who was overjoyed to see him. It has been alleged that he was her favourite child. Be this as it may she always demonstrated a great amount of affection for him.

The poor old lady was not much to boast of as far as education or social position is concerned, but she was not credited with either refinement or gentility. Nevertheless, it is likely enough that she had occasion to deeply deplore the evil course some of her progeny fell into, more especially the ways of her son Charles.

The matrimonial alliance which Peace had contemplated forming with the discreet and virtuous Miss James was rudely interrupted by the sentence passed by the judge upon Charles Peace for the Crooksemmoor House burglary. Miss James and his sister had to do their six months as accomplices of the greater villain.

When Peace returned after the expiration of the time he had passed in “durance vile” he found that Emma James had not been so constant as he had fondly hoped.

The fact is she was thoroughly disgusted with the course he had taken at the time of the trial. He had vainly striven to throw the onus upon the two women. Miss James therefore allied herself――matrimonially or otherwise, it would perhaps be hard to say――with a young man more congenial to her own disposition, and Peace was fairly jilted.

This did not trouble him much. He was vexed at the time, but that was all. He consoled himself by flirting with several of the opposite sex.

Upon his return to Sheffield he resumed his old practice of playing the violin at public-houses. Although this was not particularly remunerative it brought him in some little ready cash, and in the day time he hawked spectacles and other articles.

It was during his peregrinations that he first met Hannah Ward, whom he is said to have married in July, 1858. This, however, is a little doubtful, for according to the prison statistics he was not discharged from gaol till the October of that year.

This is a matter which we shall find it difficult to determine, and we therefore give Mrs. Thompson’s version.

He went long distances sometimes (observes that charming lady). It was on one of these excursions that he first met Hannah Peace――not Hannah Peace, if you please, but Mrs. William Ward.

I will tell you what he told me about their first meeting. It was at the side of a canal on the road to Hanley, in Staffordshire, he met Hannah, who had a baby in her arms, then six months old.

She stated, after they had got into conversation, that she was going along that way to find out her brother-in-law, who was the only friend she had in the world.

She was then a widow of William Ward, a pensioner, and she told Peace so. He asked her what she was going to do if she did not find her brother-in-law, and she answered, “I think of committing suicide.”

Peace said, “You are surely not going to do that――a nice-looking woman like you.” She was much older than he was, and I have no doubt was a good-looking woman.

Peace said that they stayed all night at an inn. He promised her that if she would live with him he would prove a good father to Willie.

They went to Worksop for a while, and when there he perpetrated several burglaries in the neighbourhood. I can’t tell you how many. But there, if I had taken his advice, I would have put down everything and written his life.

That child is now Willie Ward, who is twenty-one years of age, and Peace is not his father.

He (Willie) never showed strong affection for Peace, but when he came to live at our house in London he would do anything for me.

I think Peace took Mrs. Ward and her child to Sheffield and introduced her to his mother as his wife there.

The testimony of Mrs. Thompson, however, it must be admitted, must be looked upon with distrust, if not with suspicion――and whether this is the true story of the meeting it is not so easy to determine. It is, however, quite certain that after his marriage or connection with the woman whom he always acknowledged as his wife, that he resumed his old courses.

He professed at this time to be earning a living by hawking spectacles and cutlery, but his ingrained fondness for entering the houses of others and for appropriating goods that did not belong to him had not been eradicated by the prison discipline to which he had been subjected. His unhappy wife soon found out the character of the man with whom she had formed an alliance.

Peace at this time had no possible excuse for committing the numerous robberies with which he is credited. He was well able to maintain himself by an honest calling, and in addition to this he had friends who were both able and willing to assist him in an emergency.

It was not many weeks after her marriage that Mrs. Peace’s eyes were enlightened as to the extra professional avocation of her husband, by a visit of the police to her house. His alliance with this ill-fated woman did not appear to have any influence over him, in the shape of turning him from his evil courses.

It would be a great misfortune if the boldness and fearlessness of this bad man were to blind even the most thoughtless to the utter worthlessness and depravity of his character.

In nothing does his baseness more transparently appear than in the miserable apologies and self-justifications with which his religious experiences are interlarded.

Assuming, as we are anxious to do, that these pious utterances of his later days are not wilfully insincere, they nonetheless betray an utter moral blindness.

He was very willing to call his past life base and wicked in general terms, but for his worst transgressions he had some extenuating plea which destroyed the validity of his assumed penitence.

If he could have been turned loose upon society again, one can hardly venture to hope that his future life would have corresponded with his edifying conduct in gaol.

The curiosity of the public to know all about Peace and his life need not be regarded with too despondent an eye, provided it goes no further than curiosity.

But whilst qualities like his command so much reverence and win such high rewards in other fields of activity, it would be vain to hope that our full-blooded and high-spirited youth will not see something to admire in his career.

If there are any such they will do well to remember that the grandest successes of a criminal course are at the best wretched failures.

Peace has probably had a far smoother life than most offenders of equal activity. Yet he has spent no inconsiderable part of his time in prison, and in the full noontide of his prosperity hardly reaped as much fruit from his misapplied talents as those talents would have yielded in any honest walk of life.

Thomas Carlyle, the philosopher of Chelsea, bewailing the degeneracy of the age, complains that we no longer, as in the old days, worship heroes.

To us it seems there is no lack of hero-worshippers in the nineteenth century, but that our heroes are of the wrong sort――imperial tricksters like the Third Napoleon, garotters of liberty such as Bismarck, and super-cunning criminals of whom the man who suffered on the scaffold for the murder of Arthur Dyson, at Bannercross, on the 29th of November, 1876, was a shameful example.

There are thousands of kindly, well-nurtured folk, with a taste for the marvellous, who openly proclaim their sympathy for Peace.

They tell us that every time he went out to rob, and, if necessity should arise, to murder, he carried his life in his hand: that he waged a daring and unequal war against the police and society; and that his courage, his resources, and his presence or mind in moments of the utmost danger, point him out as a man capable of greatness in a legitimate calling.

The argument is as worthless as it is spacious, for those very qualities are shared in greater degree by predatory wild beasts of the jungle. If, however, sympathy for this sort of social outlaw were confined to ladies and ladylike men, very little harm to society would ensue.

The mischief lies on another and a lower level.

It is a notorious fact that the criminal classes are themselves unduly proud of this sort of superlative villain; and if by any chance he were, at the eleventh hour, to elude the hangman, there would be much joy in many thieves’ kitchens.

Nor does the public danger arising from such a career as that of Peace end there.

His evil example, in spite of its fatal ending, is calculated to debauch the wild imagination of foolish lads, and every atom of sympathy wasted upon him, every misguided attempt to cast the glamour of romance around his sordid, rapacious, and beastly life, is as a hand held out from the darkness to help the saplings of crime up the steps of the gallows.

Our sympathies are not for such as he.

We are sorry for the respectable man whom he sent suddenly out of the world, the man whom he sought to rob of his honour, and did rob of his life, with as little compunction as he was wont to display in robbing his neighbours of their goods and chattels.

We wonder how sane men can feel, much less express, sympathy for the midnight burglar. A man leads an honest, laborious, and thrifty life, and after many years of self-denial surrounds himself with home luxuries, such as plate, jewellery, clocks, and what not.

Suddenly a thief comes in the dark, and in a moment casts the shadow of irreparable loss over the decent citizen’s existence.

Admit that the robber does display a certain sort of brute courage; so does the fox when he steals the poultry; so does the tiger that lies crouching in the jungle and waits for the unsuspecting traveller.

But the farmer traps the fox, and the hunter shoots the tiger, and perhaps praises their courage――over their carcases.

Peace, as we have already demonstrated during the progress of this work, was a very fair musician, a clever carver and gilder, and a man of good natural ability in many ways.

He was very proud of his proficiency in those arts, which he displayed even in prison, once carving the wood pulpit for the prison chaplain.

His favourite device in prison, indeed, for obtaining lenient treatment was to exhibit a kind of universal “handiness,” which conciliated the officials, until, though he had once headed a mutiny, he twice obtained remissions of his sentences.

He was ingenious, too, as well as artistic. He was a mechanician of some skill, having invented and made the false arm on which he greatly relied to conceal his crimes, as no one would suspect a one-armed burglar, and if advertised, he would be described as a one-armed man.

When father told us (continued Willie) where he was stopping, we asked him if he was not afraid of the sergeant’s seeing his hand.

He said he could not see it, as he covered it up.

We asked him how he did it, and he took from his pocket the guttapercha arm you have heard about.

He told us he made it himself, and he certainly is very clever at making things.

He had got a piece of fine guttapercha, and he made it into a tube large enough to allow his arm to pass down it. Secured to the bottom of the guttapercha was a thin steel plate, in the middle of which was a hole with screw thread.

Into this hole he screwed a small hook, and at meal times he said that he took out the hook and screwed into the hole a fork which he had made for the purpose, and with it he used to eat his meals.

At the top of the guttapercha was a strap, which he used to fasten over his shoulder, and in that way keep the thing in its place.

No one who saw it could have told that it was not a false arm. He made his own tools, which were at once exceedingly simple and exceedingly effective, and once made a saw out of a piece of tin-plate.

He had, moreover, very considerable histrionic faculty, acting all sorts of characters to the police, whom he specially liked to deceive, and “changing his face” in a way which astonished those who knew him best, and made them declare that even they could not recognise him as he passed in the street.

He certainly could effect remarkable change in a moment, and the one which most disguises dark faces, by bringing the blood into his face till he looked bloated, instead of thin, and this without holding his breath, or any preparation.

There can scarcely be any doubt that he could have lived, and lived well as a carver and gilder; while as an engineer, with his gift for invention, and his very peculiar daring, which was not so much courage as a force of will, enabling him to do exactly what he intended to do, he might, had he possessed any virtues, have risen to competence and credit.

He was just the man for a mining engineer in a dangerous mine, or to superintend torpedo experiments, or in fact to perform any one of the functions in which ingenuity and recklessness have to be displayed at one and the same time.

He had the power, as he showed in his leap from the railway-carriage at Darnall, of compelling himself to accept any risk, however appalling, that stood in the way of his design, and this without losing the full control of all the intellect he possessed.

That form of courage is very rare――the impulse caused by danger seldom increasing both the courage and the brain-power even of brave men. It was noticed by the comrades of General Picton and Lord Gough that this was the case with them, and noticed as a peculiarity very exceptional even in armies.

Peace’s daring seems to have been of this kind, and never failed him by night or day, under any circumstances of danger or solitude, any more than it fails a ferret or an otter.

That such a man should have deliberately elected to lead a life of unsuccessful crime and violent crime can be explained only by an inborn propensity to evil, which, if Mrs. Thompson’s sketch of her paramour’s life is in any part correct, seems to have distinguished Peace.

For, be it remembered, he was no successful criminal, living in luxury through a long life, and only found out by accident at last.

From the time he was nineteen, and robbed Mrs. Ward’s house in Sheffield, to his final arrest, a period of twenty-eight years, Peace was always a hunted man, always in danger from the police, and so repeatedly convicted, that he passed sixteen years of his life, more than half the period of his criminal career, in penal servitude; and his last sentence, of which only a year had elapsed, when he was tried for murder, was for life.

His “life of luxury” was only the life of a small tradesman who prospers, and was maintained by constant exertion at a risk which, in spite of his daring and his health, made him an old man before he was fifty――so old that the police thought him too feeble for the usual fetters to be needed.

The bravest dread assassination, and it was that kind of terror, always present and always invisible, which Peace had constantly to face.

It was in spite of constant detection and severe punishment――once including a prison flogging――that Peace persisted in a career of crime, much of which, like his shooting at policemen, and, above all, his murdering Mr. Dyson, was entirely unnecessary, and, as it were, a superfluity of evil.

That he did murder Dyson intentionally seems, on the face of the evidence, certain; and whether his own account of his relations with Mrs. Dyson, or her account, or the third and most probable theory――that she was a foolish woman of a vulgar type, who accepted attentions from vanity, and was concealing something in her evidence, but not much――is the true one, does not signify a jot.

If the evidence was true, Peace resolved to shoot Dyson whenever Dyson’s jealousy became inconvenient, and did shoot him, and if that is not murder there is no such crime.

The man, in fact, liked crime for crime’s sake, and it was not possible for him to remain long without having recourse to his old practices――he was irreclaimable.

After his marriage he installed his unhappy partner in a house at Sheffield, and professed to be earning a living as a hawker.

It is quite certain that at this period of his career he was looked upon with suspicion by the police, who watched him most zealously; but he was so specious a rascal, that he half persuaded them he was pursuing an honest course of life.

Returning one day from one of his depredatory excursions, he met Sergeant Marsland, one of the officers who gave evidence against him in the inquiry respecting the Crookam-house robbery.

The sergeant regarded him with a look of suspicion.

“Well!” cried Peace, with the utmost effrontery, “what are you stagging me for? Suppose I’m doing something on the cross, eh? You fellows can never let a chap alone. When he is disposed to be honest he’s hunted about like a wild beast because he was once in trouble.”

“Don’t you be so cheeky, my friend,” observed the sergeant. “I haven’t accused you of doing anything wrong, neither shall I, unless there is strong reason for my doing so. I only hope you are acting on the square; and if you take my advice you’ll continue to do so. You don’t suppose we――any of us――want to see you go wrong?”

“Well, then, you just leave me alone, and don’t be watching me about in the way you and others of your calling have been doing. I’m right enough. Have got a wife to look after, and don’t mean to get into trouble again, if I can help it.”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” returned the police officer. “And understand, Peace, that I shan’t interfere with you as long as you keep clear of the law. It does not afford me, or any of us, pleasure to get you into trouble.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?”

“No, certainly not. I tell you again to keep as straight as you can, stick to your business, and act on the square, and nobody will interfere with you.”

“I only ask you to leave me alone. I am all right enough now, but it isn’t any reason because I have been once in trouble that I should be for ever suspected, and watched or followed about.”

“I will take no notice of you provided you keep clear.”

“All right――that’s understood then,” cried Peace, in a cheery tone.

The police-sergeant made no further reply, but walked on at a steady, measured pace.

“The stealthy beggars have got their eyes upon me,” murmured our hero, “and I must act with caution, or I shall be ‘copped’ as safe as houses.”

To “work” at Sheffield, as he termed it, or in other words to commit robberies in that town, was not to be thought of; he, therefore, paid occasional visits to other towns, and on many occasions he went about disguised as a navvy, pretending to be looking for work, but he was really “spotting” the houses he meant to attack.

He broke into a clothes warehouse at Bradford, and was detected in the act, and, to cover his escape, he fired “wide” at a policeman and the watchman.

This adventure put an end to his depredations in that town for some considerable period, for he was, naturally enough, afraid to pursue his favourite calling after the narrow escape he had had.

He therefore changed the scene of action, and betook himself to Leeds, where he remained for three weeks, during which period he forwarded remittances to his wife at Sheffield.

While at Leeds, he met with an adventure, which caused him some anxiety, for it was only by a miracle that he escaped discovery.

He entered a house on the outskirts of the town just as it was getting dusk.

He proceeded at once to the front floor of the establishment, and possessed himself of several articles of value.

As he was engaged in transferring them to his bag, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Quick as lightning he flew out of the room, and managed to reach the next story without attracting the notice of any of the occupants.

The room in which he now found himself was an elegantly furnished sleeping apartment. He stood breathless, listening to the movements of those below.

He heard the sound of a female voice addressing a companion, who was evidently another female, to judge from the tones of the voice.

To his horror he heard the footsteps of two persons who were evidently making for either the room in which he was ensconced, or else one on the same floor.

He was seriously alarmed, but did not lose his presence of mind.

He looked out of the window of the bedchamber, and saw several persons on the lawn in front of the house, they were playing at croquet.

Escape by means of the window was, therefore, impossible, his movements would be sure to attract the attention of the croquet players, and if he passed out of the room through the door, he would, in all probability, be confronted by the two females.

At such a crisis as this every moment was precious.

“What could he do?”

A sudden thought struck him. In the bedroom was a large press or wardrobe. A key was in the door of this. Peace withdrew it as noiselessly as possible, crept into the press, and then locked himself in.

Any way it would give him time to determine upon his course of action. Possibly the ladies were about to enter some other apartment.

He listened till his ears tingled again. He was not kept long in suspense.

The footsteps on the floor told him that other inmates were there besides himself. He knew also that they were of the softer sex.

He breathed as softly as possible and durst not move.

The words which fell from the lips of the newcomers he heard most distinctly.

A horrible thought crossed his mind. It was this――

Suppose the articles he had purloined were missed, a search would be made, and the doors of the press would be broken open without ceremony.

He felt half inclined to unlock the door and make a rush for it, but then the fact that there were some dozen persons or more on the grass plot warned him of the danger attendant upon such a course.

No, he would patiently await the issue.

The two personages who had entered the bedroom were the mistress of the house and her maid. He very soon became aware of this from the conversation which was being carried on.

The lady sat herself down before the looking-glass, and the maid began to dress her hair.

She was about to make an elaborate toilette before sitting down to dinner. Through the keyhole of the door of his prison-house Peace commanded a view of both females, and was, therefore, able to appreciate to its full extent the elaborate performance that was going on. He inwardly cursed the absurd customs of ladies adorning themselves before presenting themselves in the banquetting room.

He watched the long tresses of the beautiful woman as they fell over her shoulders, and were gathered up by the taper fingers of her handmaiden. The time occupied in dressing and decorating the head seemed to be an age to the imprisoned burglar――who was half stifled in his hiding place.

“I don’t like the way you’ve arranged my hair,” said the lady, viewing herself in the glass. “It appears to be drawn too much back, Kate.”

[Sidenote: No. 39.]

“Well, marm,” said the girl, “it’s as you wished; but if I might be allowed to have my own way I should dress it as I did on Tuesday last. I am sure you looked lovely then.”

“Hush, you silly girl. Don’t flatter.”

“No, madam, I’ll leave that for the gentlemen to do; or rather, I mean, I’ll let them speak the truth.”

“Well, do it as you did it the other night. You shall have your way.”

The hair had to be undone, and further manipulations had to be gone through, much to Peace’s disgust.

The sound of merry voices, which proceeded from the party on the lawn, reached the apartment, and occasional bursts of laughter were also audible.

“The major’s voice,” said the lady.

“Yes, marm, what good spirits he is in to-day! He’s always merry, but he’s more than usually so now. Oh, he is a nice gentleman.”

“Yes, kind and considerate to everyone, and he’s so full of anecdote, too.”

“He’s been in the Crimea――has he not, marm?”

“Oh, dear yes, all through the Crimean war――at Balaclava, Inkerman, and Sebastopol.”

“Oh!” murmured Peace; “there’s a major in the case, eh. This is lively. I’m in a pretty pickle, and it will be a wonderful thing to me if I succeed in getting clean off. Hang the woman!――how long does she intend to sit before that blooming glass?”

Our hero soon discovered that only part of the toilette had been performed.

The lady had to change her dress, but luckily for Peace the garment in question was not in the wardrobe. Had this been the case he would have been lost. He had the satisfaction of seeing her maid produce the dress from some part of the room which he was not able to ascertain. He was, therefore, greatly relieved upon beholding the mistress of the establishment disrobe, and put on the costume which was handed to her by the maid.

It took some time to arrange this in a satisfactory manner. Jewels, cuffs, and collar had to be added, and after some further time had been expended in adornment the lady and the maid crept noiselessly out of the room.

Peace felt greatly relieved.

The question was, how could he manage to get clear off. He unlocked the door of the wardrobe and peered out.

No other person was in the bedchamber besides himself. He looked out of the window, the croquet players were no longer visible.

They had in all probability betaken themselves to the dining-room. He felt assured of this as he heard the confused number of voices proceeding from the lower portion of the house.

He waited till he thought they had taken their seats at the dinner-table, then he went to the landing and listened.

A savoury odour found its way up the staircase, and the clatter of dishes was distinctly audible.

“Now is my time,” murmured the burglar.

He passed down the front flight of stairs and beheld servants passing to and fro in the hall.

What was to be done? His retreat was cut off. If he attempted to descend into the hall detection was certain, and to remain where he was would be almost as bad.

By this time it was nearly dark on the outside of the house, but the blaze of light came from the rooms below and the gas lamp in the hall. Peace was sadly perplexed. Every moment he expected the articles he had purloined would be missed.

He went once more to the window. In the front of the house was an old vine, one stem of which was near to the side of the window.

When he made this discovery he at once determined upon his mode of escape. Hanging the bag containing the stolen property round his neck he crept out of the window, and supported himself by the stem of the vine by means of which he managed to reach the grass-plot in front of the house.

He had hardly succeeded in doing this when he heard shouts and cries of alarm proceeding from some persons in one of the rooms at the basement of the habitation. He did not wait to ascertain the reason for the cries, but fled as fast as his legs could carry him, and vaulting over the railings which encircled the garden he reached a narrow bye-lane.

He still heard cries in the distance, and saw several persons emerge from the side gate of the garden.

Two or three shouted to him, and ordered him to stop, but Peace knew a trick worth two of that. He fled, but found, to his dismay, that a party of gentlemen had rushed off in pursuit of him.

He heard the clatter of their footsteps on the hard road.

Shouldering his bag he rushed madly on until he reached a dense thicket of trees; into this he crept and passed on as quickly as the nature of the trees and underwood would admit.

He now arrived at the open country again; running across two meadows he came to a narrow pathway skirted by two hedges.

At the end of this was an old dilapidated-looking mansion, on the front of which was a board with the words “To be Let or Sold” written on its face.

Peace passed through the hedge by the side of the mansion, and made for the back door. He succeeded in turning the lock of this by means of one of his skeleton keys.

He opened the door, slid in, and closed it noiselessly after him. Then he bolted it from the inside.

He was now the solitary occupant of a large red brick building, which had the unenviable reputation of being haunted, and hence it was that it had been so long tenantless.

But, cheerless and dilapidated as the place was, it afforded him a temporary shelter, and as no one suspected that he had effected an entrance he was safe for the present.

He listened and heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs――the footsteps of men, who were carrying on an animated conversation.

“I tell you he went this way,” cried one; “I saw his shadow on the path. He’s not far ahead, and can’t escape us, the villain.”

“No――no!” cried another, “he turned down the lane to the right, and is, doubtless, making for the high road.”

“Well, if you are so positive about it, Vensill, have your own way. You and one or two more go that road, while I and some of the others go my way.”

“All right――so be it. We will separate into two parties, and hunt the scoundrel down.”

“Very wise of you to do so,” murmured Peace. “You may go to the devil for what I care! I wish you success.”

The party of pursuers separated into two detachments, and soon the silence of the night was still and unbroken, as far as the ruined mansion or its occupant was concerned.

Peace had with him one of his long, thin screws, and if any attack had been made on his place of refuge he had made up his mind to fasten himself in one of the rooms by means of the screw, but as the pursuing party had left him unmolested in his retreat there was no occasion to have recourse to such an alternative.

He felicitated himself upon the successful nature of his ruse. It was not likely the enemy would return that way, and if they did it was still less likely that they would make any attempt to storm him in his castle.

He was therefore determined to remain concealed till such time as he might reasonably suppose that his enemies had given up the chase as hopeless.

The old habitation in which he found himself was cheerless and depressing to the last degree. He soon found out that it was infested with rats, for he heard them squeaking and scampering about in all directions.

Fond as he was of animals, rats were not included in the list. He held them in the greatest abhorrence, and so when the throng of persons on the outside had taken themselves off he stamped and knocked against the walls to scare away his four-footed associates.

The house was miserably dark and dismal, and he would have been greatly relieved if he had a light.

But this was not to be thought of; if he ignited his wax taper it would most likely betray him, for anybody passing the house would be apprised of his presence by the gleam of light from one of the windows. He had therefore no other alternative than to endure the gloom of the place as he best could.

An hour passed away――an hour of misery and suspense――an hour of bitterness and depression.

Still Peace did not deem it safe as yet to sally forth.

He might pass the night in the old mansion and leave by early dawn, but he was not disposed to do so. Sleep would of course be out of the question.

There was not a solitary article of furniture in any of the rooms.

He was not a superstitious man, but, nevertheless, could not conceal from himself that the place seemed to be admirably adapted for the haunt of witches, warlocks, and gnomes.

Anyway Peace was most anxious to leave it as soon as possible, but it would not do to be too precipitate.

The party of gentlemen who had started in pursuit of him might be looking about, and Peace deemed it advisable not to give them a chance of effecting a capture.

Miserable and lonely as were his quarters, they were preferable to running a chance of being sent to penal servitude.

He therefore waited for nearly another hour, at the expiration of which time he sallied forth, bag in hand.

No one was visible; he argued that the party must have returned to the house, so shouldering his bag he walked boldly on, taking care to keep on the dark side of the road as he watched for the appearance of any chance wayfarer.

Two or three men passed him, and, as they did so, wished him good night, but they evidently belonged to the working class, and he had no misgiving as to them.

In a short time he reached the high road, when, at some distance ahead of him, he beheld a night patrol. He took good care to conceal himself in a bye lane till the officer of the law had passed; then he emerged from his place of concealment, and proceeded along with greater confidence.

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Chapter LXXV

PEACE AND THE TRAVELLING SHOWMAN――THE COMPANY AT THE “BLUE DOLPHIN”――THE SHOWMAN’S LEGEND.

Peace had not gone very far before he came up with a travelling caravan.

The vehicle in question was going at a slow pace, it was heavy and cumbersome, being, in fact, a sort of wooden home on wheels.

Peace could not at first quite make out what it was, but upon closer inspection he came to the conclusion that it was a show, such as one sees at fairs. The driver was seated in front of the vehicle trolling a merry ditty.

“Good night, my friend,” said Peace.

“An’ good night to you,” returned the driver. “Bedad, but this is not the most lively road for a man to thravel.”

“No,” said Peace, “it is not; but you have the advantage of me. I have many miles to travel on foot, and I am as tired as a dog. You couldn’t give a chap a lift, I suppose? I’ll pay for the accommodation.”

“Faith, and may be I could; but who and what are you?”

“A traveller――a poor hawker.”

“Och! Sure now, I aint the man to refuse a favour o’ that sort. Which way are you going?”

“Anyway, as long as I can get a lodging for the night.”

“You seem a quiet, dacent, sort of man, and, as the saying is, any company is better than none, so jump up――you can ride by the side of me.”

“I am sure, you are very kind,” cried Peace.

The caravan driver brought his vehicle to a halt, and Peace was but too thankful to avail himself of the offer.

When he had taken his seat the lumbering wooden house was again set in motion.

“An’ sure it’s not much room there is for the dhriver and his frinds on this mighty big machine. But there’s good reason for that――the room is wanted for the inside passengers.”

“Inside passengers!”

“By the powers of St. Patrick, yes! and not much to spare, either.”

“What have you got inside, then?”

“What! why great natheral coorosities――sarpints, kangaroos, a baboon, and a few monkeys. Oh, they are amoosing crathurs, an’ as sinsible as Christhins.”

“Oh, I dare say.”

“The guv’ has gone on in the other caravans to the fair, which is to take place――bedad, I don’t know rightly where it’s to take place, but I’m to be there some time to-morrow.”

“Oh, you’re in the travelling show line, are you?”

“The guv’nor is――I’m only an ondherstrapper, as you may call it――a sort of handy man. But there’s a power of work to get through in one way and another.”

“Then where are you now bound for?”

“Is it where I am goin’ you mane?”

“Yes.”

“Och, sure, but it’s at a bit of a roadside house I’m afther making for――‘The Blue Dolphin.’”

“And where is that situated?”

“Where? Sure, now, an’ it’ll be about a mile or so this side of Pocklington.”

“Ah,” said Peace, remembering the name of Pocklington but too well.

It was a Mrs. Pocklington who prosecuted him for attempted burglary, and who had committed such a ferocious assault on him with a house broom.

“But may be you don’t know the place. The name is not familiar to you.”

“Ah! but it is most familiar,” returned Peace; “and if they can accommodate me, I think I will put up at the ‘Blue Dolphin.’”

“Ah! bedad, but they must accommodate you. They’re dacent people enough, and aint particular at all, at all.”

The two chatted familiarly during the whole of the journey, and the conversation did not flag or come to a conclusion till the house in question was reached.

Mr. Dennis Macarty――that was the name of its driver――who was, it is perhaps needless to say, a native of the “Emerald Isle”――took good care to see his animals safely housed for the night, and after this had been done he joined Peace in the snug little parlour of the establishment.

Mr. Macarty seemed to be well known to the landlord the landlady, as well as the frequenters of the house, all of whom addressed him in a familiar and friendly manner.

“And how’s business, Mr. Macarty?” inquired a sedate-looking little man in the public room.

“Och, murdher, it’s mighty bad, intirely, aud has bin so for a goodish while. We’ve got some of the most intherestin’ natheral coorosities, but they don’t dhraw as they ought. May be we do a roaring business in wan town or at wan fair, but the next two or three places are, bad luck to ’em, that bad that we dhrop a power of money. Och, by Jabers, things are not what they used to be.”

“And you’ve seen a goodish bit in your time?” said another of the guests.

“Bin all over the world――no, I don’t quite mane that, but I’ve bin everywhere in the United Kingdom. But people seem to have lost heart.”

“That’s true enough――we all find that out,” cried Peace; “at least I find it so in my line.”

“An’ what might that be, if it’s a fair question?” said the sedate little man.

“An’ sure it’s in the hawkin’ line that our frind is,” returned Macarty.

As the steaming glasses of whiskey and water went round, the company became loquacious and assumed a festive character.

Mr. Macarty was full of anecdote. He had stories to tell which elicited roars of laughter, and was voted a most genial companion, which, to say the truth, he most unquestionably was.

After treating them with several amusing anecdotes, he all at once came to a halt, and said sharply――

“Och, sure now, did I ever tell ye about the biggest man in all Ireland?”

“No, never!” cried several.

“I never did?”

“No.”

“Then, bedad, I’ll tell it ye now.”

“Ah, do, Macarty; let’s have it.”

It’s a sort of legend, and may be ye never heard anything of the kind. It’s all about Jack Grady and the joiant. First and foremost ye must know Jack was mighty proud ov his size, and ov bein’, as he used to say, the greatest man in all Ireland, an’ sure enough he was tremendious big. He was more nor seven feet in hoigth, so I’ve been tould, and had a carcass on him like an eighteen-gallon kag.

“Oh, draw it mild!”

Ah, but I wouldn’t desave you, it’s thrue for him. Well, one day when Jack comes thrampin’ down into Leenane, to get himself measured for a pair of brogues, for he was mighty savin’ upon shoe leather, by raison of his weight, he goes into the shop of the brogue maker, wan Farrell by name, a little atom of a man, wid a sharp tongue of his own, who used to take grate divarsion out of big Jack, by gibin’ him an’ makin’ all sorts of dhroll collusions to his bulk and diminsions.

“Top of the mornin’ to you, Jack,” says Farrell.

“I think you might say Misther Grady to yer betthers,” returns Jack.

“My bethers! What d’ye say?” cries the little man. “And for why, now? Is it becase yer big and bulky, and ate more bacon for yer breakfast than would kape a family for a week? Arrah! what good are ye at all, at all, except in filling house room? And, for the mathter of that, I saw a biggar man than you are only yesterday, an’ he hadn’t half your consate.”

“That’s a big lie, anyhow,” says Jack――“a regular whopper. Botheration, but everyone knows that I’m the biggest man in all Ireland.”

“Devil a lie,” cried the other. “There’s a biggar and finer man than you in Ballinrobe this minnit, and what do you think they are doin’ wid him? Why, they are showin’ him to the people for twopence in a raree show, just as they do wid the wild bastes. Bedad, if you are wise you’ll go and show yourself for twopence. It’s all you are good for.”

“You dirthy spalpeen. By St. Patrick, but I’ll dust yer jacket for your impidence,” and with these words Jack makes a wipe at him wid a bit of a stick he used to carry――it was like the mast of a Galway hooker was that same switch.

But ye see, my friends, the little brogue maker was as nimble as a bounding acrobat, an’ he skipped away just in time, an’ Jack almost knocked out the wall of the cabin wid the whack he gave.

Well, he knew of ould there was no ketchin’ Farrell to gi’ him a basting, so he made it up wid him, for, to give him his jew, he never bore malice, and was a grate dacent sort of man.

“Och, look here, now, I don’t want any more of your mighty big lies, so kape your tongue betwane yer teeth, and measure me for the brogues.”

Farrell obeyed, and his customer left, but he was mighty unasy in his mind about the man at Ballinrobe.

“What ails you?” said his wife, upon his return. “Ye don’t same yerself at all at all.”

“Don’t consarn yerself about me,” cried Jack. “I’m right enough.”

But his wife knew betther. She axed him to sit down to supper, but he refused――and he refused also to take a shaugh at his pipe, he was that heavy in his heart.

“Maybe he’s fallen in love wid some forward jade he’s met wid,” murmured his wife.

Jack was quiet, silent, and a bit thoughtful――an’ whin he turned into bed, he says, “Waken me airly for I’ve got a thransaction at Ballinrobe,” and wid that he goes to slape, detarmined to make a complate discovery of the whole matther before he was a day oulder.

In the mornin’ he set off for Ballinrobe; but as bad luck would have it, when he got there, the carrywan wid the joiant was gone and all that they could tell him was that it tuk the Castlebar road.

Off goes our frind post haste widout waitin’ to take bite or sup, and at last about six miles out of the town he sees the carrywan standin’ by the roadside.

It was a big yalla chay made in the shape of a house, wid an illigant hall door and glass windies to it, and “O’Shannasey’s Pavilion” wrote in big letthers over them, an’ the people belongin’ to it was sittin’ on the grass by the side of the road aitin’ their dinner aff the top of the big dhrum, an’ sure now I was one of those, for I first larnt my business wid old O’Shannasey.

The guv’nor was there as well, and a mighty clever fellow he was, too. He used to do thricks wid knives and forks, and crumple a large buck rabbit quite small and put it in his wesket pocket.

“Oh, I say,” cried one of the audience.

Oh, divil a bit am I afther spaking ony unthruth. He done it as asy as anythin’, and there was a north countryman wid one leg, who was mighty handy at a Highland fling, which was a bit of a cooriosity for a cripple, you’ll all acknowledge.

“Ah, yes, certainly,” exclaimed several. “Anybody else?”

Sartinly. There was a young woman who used to dance in throusors wid frills to them, and take the money in a tambourine when the people went to see the show. An’ people did go to see shows in those days. Besides all thase there was the joiant, but the moment they saw Jack Grady comin’ puffin’ down the road, they made him lave off actin’, and crawl into the carywan, not likin’ to let him be seen too chape.

“Health and prosperity to ye all,” says Grady.

“And bedad the same to ye, sir, an’ the top of the mornin’ to ye,” cried the showman.

“An’ sure now I’ve bin tould that ye have a joiant in yer show. If this be so, might one jest ha’ a look at ’im?”

“By the powers, you’re a bit of a joiant yerself I’m afther thinkin’,” says a young woman, laughing at him quite pleasant.

“Them’s my raisons, my darl――――, that’s to say miss,” says Grady, very respectfully, for he was struck intirely wid her, never seeing the like afore. She was a weeshy little crathur, dressed out wid fine ribbons, wid a sallow face, and a spot ov ruddle on each cheek like a poppy in a corn field. But then she had a purty nate foot, and them was faymale accomplishments Jack was mighty partial to.

Well, my frinds, to make a long story short, when they hard he had come all that way to see the joiant they agreed to let him have a look for a bob, tuppence being the regular price on show days, but this was a private view, and cheap at a bob.

So the long man was brought out, an’ he an’ Jack stud up beside aich other, an’ sure enough, Grady wasn’t within a head of him, but then he wasn’t within three feet as big round the body as Jack, and when they came to talk of sthrength and fell a wrastling, Jack threw him on his back with the greatest aise.

Jack was quite plazed at overcomin’ the tall un――so much so, indeed, that he got quite friendly wid the whole ov us, more especially wid the young woman, and when the one-legged man pulled out a pack of cards and proposed a game he went in, as good manners dictated, and av coorse got rooked most awful.

No wondher; he was wake as wather when girls was present, and instead of mindin’ his play he was carryin’ on wid the young woman, and she encouragin’ him, all to spite the long un, who was by way of courtin’ her. While this was goin’ on the showman was eyein’ Jack, and remarkin’ “how thunderin’ big he was.”

“He’d make a mighty good property,” says he to the one-legged man.

“That he would, sir, and no mistake,” says I.

“The other fellow won’t last long,” said O’Shannasey. “He’s gettin’ quite wake on his legs.”

“He niver was sthrong on thim,” says the cripple; “but he says it comes from lyin’ doubled up in the carywan.”

“That’s all blather,” says O’Shannasey; “it’s goin’ he is. I wish we had this chap in his place, so as not to be left widout a joiant at all.”

“I wondher could we coax him to jine us?” says Wan Leg.

“I much doubt it,” returned the showman.

“See,” says I “how Biddy is puttin’ the comether on him. Suppose we give her a hint. She’s the divil for deludhering, anyhow.”

“You see what ye can do wid her.”

Upon the first opportunity I took Biddy aside, and made her sinsible, and explained my maning to her, and then the cards was put away, and a dhrop of the “crathur” brought out, and they all fell to dhrinkin’.

“I don’t know if any ov you here have remarked that big men never stand the dhrink.”

“I have often remarked it,” cried Peace. “They seldom do.”

Well, then, he was no exception, but the rason must be that he’d bin fastin’, not forgettin’ also that the young woman never let his glass stand empty. Jack was very soon obfusticated.

Then they all got into the carrywan, Jack hooraing like anything.

Then they had some more of the “crathur,” until Jack tumbles on the floor speechless.

“You gev him too much,” says the showman.

“Devil a bit,” says Biddy; “you lave him to me.”

So they doubled up Jack and crammed him into a part of the carrywan that was made for the great say sarpint, and put a stuffed mermaid under his head for a pillow.

When they got into Castlebar Jack was sleepin’ beautiful, so they left him quiet and paceable where he was; and in the morning, when the people began to clusther round the consarn to see the coorosities he was sleeping still.

Well, there was no cause to rouse him, for the say sarpint he was lying with couldn’t be exhibited in regard to being bruk to pieces by the joultin’ of the machine over the bad roads.

So the showman began callin’ the people to step up and see the great Portugee joiant an’ the Injin jugglar (maynin’ himself――the ould imposther!), and the grate rowling picther of the goold diggins, and the rest of the wondherful things, every wan of them lies, more or less.

“Plenty of the more, and very little of the less,” said Peace.

“Oh, bedad, that’s thrue enough,” returned Mr. Macarty. Well, the wan-legged man took to futtin’ it in the Highland fling, and pounding away like a pavior on his wooden leg, and Biddy all the time turnin’ the handle of a machine like a young winnowing machine, and gettin’ illigant music out of the same. It wasn’t long before the people began to step up in earnest. First one and two, then in bunches, till the intarior of the carrywan was nigh thronged. I wish they’d do the same thing now. But the wan-legged man every now and then would quit dancin’ and come inside and pack them like pickled herrins, to make room for more; puttin’ all the tall ones in the back, an’ all the short ones in front. Well, while they wor waitin’, an’ the showman outside screechin’ always that he was just goin’ to begin, whether it was the trampin’ an’ the talkin’ that woke him, I dunna, but anyhow Jack began to mutter to himself, an’ snore that sthrong that the whole convaniency thrimbled.

“My, oh,” says the people, “what’s that?”

An’ some said it was the Injin juggler; an’ more said it was some other wild baste roarin’.

“I’m fearful,” says one.

“I’ll not stay,” says another.

“Here, misther, let me out,” says another.

“What’s the matther?” says the showman.

Whin they tould him, he was fairly amplushed, not knowin’ how to get out of it, for he was afeard of ruinin’ the characther of the show, eyther by lettin’ them go in a fright, or lettin’ on that it was only a dhrunken man.

“Lave it to me,” says the wan-legged man in a whisper.

“Leedies an’ jintlemin,” says he, “reshume yer pleeces. There’s no call for alarum at all at all,” says he.

“What is it?” says they.

“The Royal Bingal tigyer,” says he.

That was enough for some of them.

“Here, give us back our money,” says they, “an’ let us get shut of the roarin’ baste.”

“There’s no money returned,” says he.

“Well, we won’t stay to be ate for the lucre of tuppence,” says they.

“He won’t ate ye,” says he.

“For why not?” says they.

“Beca’se he’s a studdy, responsible baste,” says he. “I tell you,” says he, “he’s the royal Bingal tigyer prisinted to the Queen by the Imperor of Chany, an’ our propriethur is now taking him home to her Majesty, an’ he’s confined wid six big goolden chains an’ a padlock.”

Well, whin they heard that an’ about the chains they wor tuck wid a curiosity to see him. But no, sorrow a sight would wan-leg give them.

“It ud be high thrayson,” says he, “to make a show of a baste that’s the Royal property, and av it kem to the Lord Leftinint’s ears he might cut the head off the propriethur;” and in coorse this made them all the more rampagious to get a look at the baste.

How and however, at last he purtinded to come round.

“I durstn’t show him to yez,” says he, “but there’s a chink here convanient to the door, and if any lady or gintleman gives me tuppence more ov coorse I can’t purwint them from peeping through it;” the cunning bla-guard knowin’ well in his heart that all they could see by raison of the darkness was the tip of Jack’s nose and the knees of his small-clothes as he lay doubled up foreninst them.

As ye may guess, the tuppences kem in middlin’ lively, and the people was five deep at the chink in a brace of shakes.

“Oh, dear, oh!” says one, “do ye mind his eye. It’s as red as a coal o’ fiyer.”

“Hut, man, that’s his nose,” says another.

“An’ the big legs he has of his own!” says another.

“Are they sthriped?” says one in the back, “I’m told tigyers is sthriped all over.”

“Bedad, they are,” says the other, “for all the world like cordheroy.”

An’ so they wint on, the crathurs, though sorrow a much could they see barrin’ a big lump of somethin’ gruntin’ in a corner. But they didn’t like lettin’ on to one another that they hadn’t got the worth of their money.

Maintime the news flew like wildfiyer through the town, an’ man, woman, an’ child, gentle an’ simple, kem crowdin’ up to look at the royal Bingal tigyer, and wid them kem one Mullins, a grate ould miser of a chap.

To be sure he began castin’ about for some way of seein’ the tigyer chape, so what does he do but when no one was lookin’ he creeps in undher the wheels of the carrywan, and begins thryin’ for a chink of his own, and as good luck would have it he finds a hole where a boult had fallen out of the boords, just convanient to Jack’s ear.

As he was looking through this he hears Jack talkin’ an’ grumblin’ to himself in his sleep. So he cocks his ear and listens. “Faix,” says he, “you’re a dhroll Bengal tigyer. May I never if it isn’t Irish he’s spaking.” And with that he takes a bit of a sthraw and prods Jack in the jaw. “Ow!” says Jack. “That was a grate roar,” says the people inside.

“What are ye, at all?” says Mullins in a whisper.

“I’m the greatest man in all Ireland,” says Jack, dhrowsy-like.

“Throth, then, ye don’t take up much room av ye are,” says Mullins.

“Thrue for ye,” says Jack, “I’m bint double like a cod in a pot, wid my heels in my mouth a’most.”

“An’ what brought ye there?” says Mullins.

“Erra, how do I know?” says Jack, goin aff to sleep again.

“Do you know where ye are, avick?” says Mullins.

“Sorra a know I know,” says Jack; “may be it’s in Purgathory I am, for my head is shplittin’ in two halves, an’ I’m a’most desthroyed wid a pain in the small o’ my back. Moreover, my tongue’s as dhry as the flure of a lime-kiln. Av it’s in Abraham’s bosom ye are there, give us a dhrink o’ wather an’ I’ll be obleeged to ye.”

“Sure, it’s a mighty big mishtake you’re a making,” says Mullins. “You’re not in glory. Aren’t ye in O’Shannasey’s Pavilion, and aint the people a-lookin’ at ye for tuppence a head?”

Well, my frinds, when the mention of that an’ the tuppence sthruck Jack’s ear, he remimbered all of a suddint all about it, an’ how little Farrell was gibin’ him wid bein’ only fit for a peep-show.

An’ wid that he lets wan roar out of him ye’d have hard at the other ind o’ the barony, an’ sthraitened himself powerful.

The timbers of the carrywan wasn’t over sthrong, an’ they shplit an’ cracked wid a noise like tundher, an’ the dacent people begins screechin’ “The tigyer――the tigyer!” an’ goes rowlin’ and tumblin’ down the stips for all the world like pitatees spilt out of a creel. Sich murdher never was seen since Castlebar was a town, wid the hurry they were in.

An’ maybe the showman wasn’t in as big a fright as any of them, for all he knew it was a Christin an’ no tigyer; an’ faix he tuk to runnin’ as well as the rest of them.

And so did Wan-leg, but in his hurry he druv his wooden leg into the dhrum, which delayed him.

Whin Jack got himself loose, the first thing he done was to go and bate the jiant, for, as he said aftherwards, it was all along of him that he got into the shcrape at all. An’ he bate him that wicked that it’s my belief he’d be batin’ him this minnit av it wasn’t for the young woman that wint down on her two binded knees to him not to kill him all out.

So he wint at the wan-legged man, but he being a cripple, an’ more betoken entangled wid the dhrum, there was no glory in batin’ him; so Jack threw him an’ dhrum body an’ bones into the sthreet, and wint ragin’ afther the propriethur to bate him.

Well, the end o’ the matther was that Jack had to go before the magisthrates that was sittin’ at petty sisshins that same day for assault and batthery, and ruinin’ the property of Mr. O’Shannasey; but the magisthrates said sarve him right, an’ if he summonsed Jack for tattherin’ his consarn Jack might summons him for false imprisonment――so it was even betune them, an’ dismissed the case.

But Jack was never the same man afther. It tuck all the pride out of him to be made a tuppenny raree-show. And many a time aftherwards he used to say, in the bittherness of his heart, that was all a big man was good for nowadays, when there was no fightin’ or any other divarshin going on.

The occupants of the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” were greatly amused at the story told by the loquacious and genial Mr. Macarty, who, to say the truth, had no inconsiderable amount of ability in giving effect to a humorous narrative.

“But did it really occur?” inquired one of the company.

“Did it? Why, ov coorse,” returned Macarty. “Do you think I’d be afther invintin’ a pack of lies? Sure I was there at the time myself, an’ remember it as if it tuk place only yistherdy.”

“You must draw a line of course,” remarked the little man.

“Och, but we niver dhraw a line in our business, divil a bit,” said the showman. “I don’t suppose any ov yez have the slightest idaya of the devices and fakements we have to resort to. Why a legitimate an’ genuine article in many cases does not atthract half as well as a ‘fake.’ Every exhibitor knows that. Faith, you may draw a line as much as you plaze, but a man who undherstands his business will soon jump over it, or else bedad he’ll have to starve. It’s the same in iverythin’.”

“That’s right enough,” said Peace. “A ‘fake’ will do more than a legitimate thing. I’ll just give you a case in point. My father was a showman, or rather head man to one. He was a tamer of wild beasts.”

“Your father! Ochone, I thought you were a boy after my own heart when I first met you,” cried Macarty. “Bedad, we must have a friendly glass together at my expinse.”

Glasses were ordered.

Peace proceeded.

When my father was travelling with Kensett’s menagerie, and the proprietor was doing a good business in most of the provincial towns, business began to drop off in consequence of an opposition show visiting the same places as Kensett’s. There was not room enough for both at the same time, and Mr. Kensett as a natural consequence was greatly annoyed. At one town the opposition shop (Barlow’s menagerie), as it was termed, carried everything before them, the reason for this being that they had one of the largest ourang-outangs that had ever been brought to this country. The creature was said to bear a remarkable resemblance to the human species, and crowds upon crowds were to be seen daily making their way to Barlow’s establishment. Kensett shifted his quarters, and moved on to the next town, under cover of the night. He had not, however, been many hours there before Barlow made his appearance. Poor man, he was perfectly furious when he found that a similar course was adopted by his rival at other towns. Business fell off painfully, and the question was what was to be done under these perplexing circumstances. The ourang-outang was the central point of attraction.

One evening, after a wretched day’s business, my father was smoking his pipe with Mr. Kensett, who was at this time down in the dumps――and, as you may imagine, my father was not in the best of spirits. He had been performing with his wild animals to comparatively empty benches.

“He’s potted us――knocked us out of time, that’s quite certain,” said Mr. Kensett.

“He carries all before him,” returned my father, “and why? because he’s got an ugly brute――the ugliest I ever saw――of the monkey tribe. One never knows how to deal with the public. They are so capricious and uncertain.”

“Uncertain be d――――d!” shouted Kensett, “there’s no mistake about the matter! they are pretty certain to desert me for my rival――that is, as far as we can see at present.”

“Luck may change, sir,” says my father.

“It may and it may not――more of the latter than the former. Ah, it’s a bad look-out for the remainder of this tour.”

The two companions lapsed into silence for some little time after this, and puffed away at their pipes.

Presently Kensett said, in a reflective manner――

“How about Old Jemmy?”

“About what, sir?” inquired my father.

“Old Jemmy.”

“I don’t know anything about him further than what you know.”

Mr. Kensett struck his knee in a self-satisfactory manner.

“I have it, old man,” he exclaimed. “A bright idea has occurred to me. I have it. We will be down upon this Barlow, and take the wind out of his sails, please the pigs.”

“I only wish we could,” says my father.

“But we will. Listen, you must transmogrify old Jemmy. He’ll do well enough for a Pongo, or wild man of the woods, just arrived from Africa.

“We’ll work the oracle, and double up Barlow.”

“How’s it to be done?” says my father.

“Shave his haunches, then colour them, encase the upper portion of his body with long hair, shave his face and colour it in the most hideous manner it is possible to conceive. I will get out large bills announcing the arrival of a savage monster in this country, which is exhibited now for the first time. ‘The missing link.’ Don’t you see? Now I’ve given you the hint, and it only remains for you to carry it out. No one so well adapted to manipulate a case of this sort. You’ll be able to make something of him. Do your best, old man, and upset the opposition shop.”

My father tumbled to the proposition at once.

“It shall be done, sir,” he said emphatically, “and we’ll take our chance.”

Well, with that, on the following day he set to work.

Poor old Jemmy was a venerable specimen of the ape species, he had been in the show for years, and was as tame and harmless as a kitten, and would let you do anything with him.

The hair was shaved off his posteriors, a long, shaggy coat of dark-brown hair was sewn round the upper portion of his body, the hair on the lower portion of his face was clipped quite close, then his face was coloured, and he was so completely metamorphosed that his own mother would not have known him.

Taken altogether his appearance was at once extraordinary, and like nothing that had ever been seen before or since, I think I may add.

A collar was put round his neck, to which a strong chain was attached, and the end of the chain was attached to an iron bar running across the back of the cage. By this means poor old Jemmy was kept in an upright position and compelled to walk on his hind legs.

It was, no doubt, a sad trial to the poor brute, who, however, bore it complacently enough. When all was in readiness Mr. Kensett shifted his quarters to the next town, having previously beplastered its walls with gigantic posters announcing the arrival of a large Pongo or wild man of the woods, who was so fierce that visitors were cautioned not to approach too near the bars of the cage.

Such a monster was surely never seen before. Jemmy was the very personification of ugliness and ferocity.

Kensett’s show was thronged with visitors all day long, and there was a perfect furore with the populace, who expressed themselves immensly pleased with the great natural zoological curiosity.

A history of the animal, how it was caught, the nature of its food and general habits was given in a hand-bill presented to each visitor as they entered the menagerie.

It was related how, in a visit of a British man-of-war to the island of Borneo, a party of the sailors were permitted on shore, and entered one of the dense forests which abound in that island.

After some time spent in the search for fruit the party came upon an open glade, and right opposite them, where the forest again commenced, they saw a tree violently shaken.

They rushed forward to ascertain the cause, and saw what they thought was a native woman leap lightly from the tree and disappear in the forest.

But a hairy monster remained in the tree, and seemed in a furious passion, which was redoubled when he saw the sailors.

Breaking a branch from the tree, the wild man (for this was what he was) bounded to the earth, faced the strangers, and then turned to run.

But the tars had been too smart for him, and having surrounded him, he was brought to bay and captured, after a sturdy use of the branch of the tree.

The “history” went down very well with the women folks, for the writer averred that when the wild man was first seen he was busy belabouring his wife, and thus suffered capture.

Barlow came upon the scene of action and advertised his ourang outang, which was really a fine specimen, but the creature paled before the effulgence of his painted rival, and Kensett’s counterfoil brute fairly eclipsed the one in the opposition shop. Barlow was furious.

He denounced Kensett as an impostor, and the rival showman had a set-to in the market-place to the infinite diversion of the town’s folk; but all was of no use――the “wild man of the woods,” “the missing link,” as Kensett termed him, carried everything before him, and Barlow’s show was comparatively deserted.

“Is it possible that people could be so silly as to be taken in with such a barefaced imposture?” said one of the company.

“My dear sir,” returned Peace, “in this world are found people silly enough for anything. But it was a barefaced imposture, I admit, seeing that old Jemmy’s face had been shorn of its hair.”

“Och, by the powers!” cried Macarty, “people like to be humbugged and imposed upon. Bedad it was a mighty clane thrick, and desarved to sucsade.”

The good folks in the parlour of the “Blue Dolphin” had perhaps never in their whole lives learned so much about the doings of showmen, and, as a natural consequence, the evening passed away pleasantly enough.

After some further conversation the party broke up, and Peace and Mr. Macarty repaired to their respective rooms.

Our hero, upon first entering the house, had requested to be shown into the bedroom he was to occupy, saying that he wished to have a wash; his real object, however, was to secrete the bag containing the valuables he had purloined in some quiet corner.

He found in the room a chest of drawers, most of which were empty; into one of these he placed his bag, then he closed the drawer, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

When this had been done he felt tolerably secure. It was not likely that any person would break open the drawer for the purpose of inspecting the contents of his bag.

He therefore returned to the public room, where he passed the evening in the convivial manner already described.

Upon retiring for the night, he opened the drawer, and found his bag in precisely the same position as he had left it.

He therefore tumbled into bed and slept soundly till the morning.

Upon proceeding downstairs he found, upon inquiry, that his picked-up friend Macarty had risen some hour or so before.

He was at this time in the stable, attending to the inmates of his wooden house.

He greeted our hero in a most cordial manner, and after his animals and reptiles had been fed, returned to the breakfast-room of the establishment with Peace.

“We gave our friends a good dose of jaw last night,” said our hero, with a smile.

“Och, sure it’s just as well to kape the game alive. I make it a rule to be friendly and familiar wid all people. There’s no tellin’ what one may want, and a good word from the natives of a town or village may be of sarvice to men of my kidney――but see, breakfast is ready, let’s fall to.”

A very substantial repast had been provided by the hostess of the “Blue Dolphin,” to which the hungry travellers did justice to.

When the meal was over, Mr. Macarty, who was evidently a man of business, made preparations to start on his journey.

“You are in a great hurry to be off, my friend,” said Peace. “Have you far to go?”

“Arrah, an’ it’s not far; but the governor doesn’t like to be kept waitin’; besides we’ve a power of work to do before we let in the British public――that is, if they will come in, an’ bad luck to them.”

“Good luck to you and yours,” cried Peace; “and may you prosper, as I am sure you deserve to do. Any way, I have to return you my most heartfelt thanks for your kindness――to say nothing of your company.”

“By jabers, you’re puttin’ the pot on in the blarney line, anyhow,” returned Macarty; “but we undherstand each other intirely, and good luck to you, and many on ’em.”

Peace laughed, and said――

“Well, I’m sorry to part with you, but there is, I suppose, no help for it?”

“Faix, an’ there is,” returned Macarty. “You can make shift wid the same sate ye had last night, and maybe ye’ll be a bit more on your journey when you raich Pocklington.”

“Pocklington!”

“Ah, shure. I don’t know where ye are bhound for, but maybe one place is as good as another to a hawker.”

“Oh it don’t much matter which road I travel for the matter of that, and since you are so pressing I’ll accept your kind offer.”

“An’ its welcome ye are――as welcome as the flowers in May.”

The caravan was by this time in front of the “Blue Dolphin.” It looked bright and radiant by the light of the early morning sun, the brass knocker on the door had an extra polish, the horse was well groomed, and taken altogether it was a most respectable turn out.

“There!” said Macarty, pointing to the yellow machine. “It’s fit for a prince, bedad; it’s as clane as a new pin, and as bright as a newly-polished silver tankard.”

“And its driver?”

[Sidenote: No. 40.]

“Aisy, now, aisy. Well, its dhriver is as sharp as a steel thrap. Now then, are you ready?”

“Quite ready; but wait a bit, I must fetch my luggage and pay the reckoning. When this has been done I am at your service.”

Peace went into the house, settled with the landlord, and returned with his bag, which he had made into a parcel with brown paper and string. He got up in front of the caravan, which was driven off by the good-natured Mr. McCarty.

Peace felt perfectly well assured that he was safe from the prying eyes of the police while he sat beside his newly-made friend McCarty, who evidently believed him to be a hawker, never for a moment suspecting the depredations he had been committing.

The Irishman drove his yellow house or caravan direct on to Pocklington, and upon his arrival at the last-named place he introduced our hero to his governor.

Peace made himself very agreeable, and entered freely into conversation with the showman, who was greatly taken with him.

He conducted him into all the caravans of which he was proprietor, and expatiated upon the interesting nature of their contents, and wound up by placing before him a cold collation, with some bottled ale and wine, and insisted upon his partaking of his hospitality.

Peace was nothing loth, and expressed himself particularly grateful for the attention shown him.

After remaining for an hour or so with the proprietor of the shows, he took his departure and made his way to the nearest railway station, booked for Sheffield, and in due course of time found himself once more in his native town.

He had but little difficulty in disposing of the property he had possessed himself of in the palatial mansion at Leeds, but as he had had a very narrow chance of being detected he deemed it advisable to leave that town alone for awhile.

Upon his return to Sheffield he worked industriously at his business for some weeks, and those who were in the habit of seeing him during this time were under the full impression that he was a sober, well-conducted man.

So to all outward appearance he was, and it is likely enough that, had he chosen to pursue an honest calling for the future, he would have done well and prospered.

But it was not in the nature of the man to continue long without having recourse to his evil practices.

His house was very respectably furnished. His partner, the mistress of the domicile, did not thwart him, but strove as best she could to make her husband’s home as comfortable as possible.

He had a goat (which he had taught to perform many tricks), a monkey, two dogs, some guinea pigs, and a cat or two――he had always displayed throughout his career a great partiality for animals――and he was an adept in taming them, and putting them through various performances for the amusement of himself, family, and friends.

Indeed he might have succeeded very well as a trainer of animals for performing purposes; as we have already signified he was clever in many ways, but his abilities, such as they were, went for nothing. They were over-shadowed and submerged by his passion for criminal pursuits.

Nevertheless, those who knew him best, and were in the constant habit of seeing, have declared that it was difficult, nay almost next to impossible, for any one to believe him to be a lawless and unprincipled ruffian, which was afterwards but too plainly proved.

He played at this time in the evenings at various public-houses in Sheffield. He had taught his goat to stand on its hind legs and dance to the sound of his violin.

This little animal is said to have been a most docile and amusing creature, and Peace made a considerable amount of money by its antics.

He was always welcomed at the public-houses he was accustomed to visit, and made a great many friends, but he lost them as soon as made, for there was nothing reliable in the man, and it was, therefore, impossible for any one to place much faith in him.

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LXXVI. THE ROBBERY AT MESSRS. ARNISON AND CO.’S

For some considerable time Peace appeared to be leading a respectable sort of life. His violin-playing in the evening, and the commissions he executed in the way of picture-framing and other odd jobs, brought him in sufficient for his immediate wants, but this did not content him.

He must have a turn at some house, and lay his hands on all he could conveniently carry away.

It so chanced, when he was taking home some frames to a customer on the outskirts of the town, that he met with an old pal whom he had missed sight of for years.

As he was walking along, the sound of a low whistle fell upon his ears. Peace looked round in the direction from whence it proceeded. He beheld at some distance off the dark features of a man which were very familiar to him.

Peace halted at the corner of the next street, and the stranger came up with him.

“What! don’t you know me, you old sinner?” cried the man.

“Know you? Why of course I do――it’s Bandy-legged Bill.”

“Right you are, old man; Bill it is.”

“Well, this is a surprise. Why, what on earth brought you to Sheffield?”

“What do you suppose? To see an old chum, to be sure.”

“I am glad to have met you, Bill. And how goes it with you?”

“Hardly enough. Have to scratch for a living――like the hens――and don’t always get much when I do scratch. And how goes it with you?”

“Nothing much to boast of――got pinched four years ago.”

“Ah! so I heard, but you are all right now. Where do you hang out?”

“I’m married, and have settled here in my native town.”

“Ah, I see, a reformed character,” said the gipsy, making a face. “Given up the old business, I s’pose?”

“Partly.”

“Oh! Only partly?”

“Well, I should be telling a story if I said otherwise.”

“I wish you could put me up to a job; I am down below water mark.”

“Ah, for the matter of that, I dare say we shall be able to work something together. I say again, I am glad we have met. Come along with me as far as I am going. I’ve got to deliver these frames; when this has been done, we can talk over matters.”

“Right you are, Charlie; my time’s my own.”

The two companions in crime walked on, till the house Peace was making for had been reached. He delivered his frames, and then returned to his own residence in company with the gipsy, whom he introduced to his wife as an old and esteemed friend.

Dinner was served and every attention was paid to Peace’s guest, who made himself quite at home; he was a gentleman who had very little pride about him, and did not want much pressing to partake of the dainties placed before him.

He was, however, a little reserved before his friend’s better half, and did not touch on subjects which would in any way compromise his host.

An hour or two was passed after dinner pleasantly enough. Peace played several tunes on his violin, trotted out his animals and made them go through their performances, after which he and the gipsy retired to his workshop where they smoked the pipe of peace and talked upon subjects which more immediately concerned themselves.

“And so you are drifting about in troubled waters in an unsatisfactory way?” said our hero.

“I get a haul now and then,” observed the gipsy, “but then there is a long gap between; then ye see I get cursedly hard up sometimes. I get a greenhorn to purchase a ‘screw’ (an unsound horse) at a topping price, and in course when I pull off a bargain of this sort it sets me up for awhile, but greenhorns are not so easy to lug hold on nowadays; ‘blokes’ are getting jolly too artful――and it’s only by nows and thens I lands one of that kidney. Still I have done pretty fairish at times in the horse-coping line; but there are too many in it, Charlie――and it ain’t what it used to be by a long way.”

“How about your aristocratic friend and patron?” inquired Peace.

“Oh, hang him, he’s been fleeced right and left, and has run through a sight of money. It’s the way with those swell blokes――they prey upon one another.”

“Well, I’ve got a bit of a job on hand,” said our hero, in a whisper, drawing his chair nearer to that of his companion, “and if you like to stand in, say the word.”

“Ah, you’ve no call to ask that ere question. I’ll stand in, whatever it may be, and shall be but too glad to do so. Out with it――let’s know the lively little caper.”

“I’ll tell you all about it, but――――”

“But what?”

“I suppose I can rely upon you?”

“Rely!” exclaimed the gipsy. “Did you ever find me round upon you or anybody else? No no, old man, I have my faults, a good many, perhaps, but that is not one of them. I stand by my pals, come what may, have always done so.”

“I believe you always have, Bill, but excuse my asking the question. I’ve always found you right enough. Well, then, listen. I can gain an entrance into a warehouse not very far from here, where a considerable amount of valuable property can be obtained if the matter is skilfully worked.”

“All right――fire away――I’m your man.”

“I’ll show you the premises whenever you like, and I shall not find any difficulty in concealing myself there and waiting patiently till the work people knock off work. When this has been done, I have the place to myself, for, strange to say, there is no porter left in charge of the place.”

“Ah, sizzers, but that’s grand――nothing could be better.”

“What I want you to do is to walk carelessly outside the premises, and watch till the police on beat are changed.”

“That I can easily do.”

“And when the constable on duty has gone his rounds, to give me notice, either by tapping at one of the windows, or else by a whistle. When I know the coast is clear I shall know what to do.”

“I’ll take my davy of that, old pal,” cried the gipsy, with a loud laugh. “It shall be done to rights, as far as I am concerned.”

“But what we shall have to carry away won’t go into a particularly small compass, that’s the worst part of the business, but we shall be able to manage it all right enough, I dare say.”

“Won’t go into a small compass?”

“No; but never mind, I’ll show you how it is to be worked. Now then, if you’ve a mind we’ll just step round to the warehouse, and take a careful observation.”

“With all my heart, I’m ready if you are.”

The two companions in crime sallied forth, and in a short time reached the establishment which was to be the scene of their operations.

They did not like to linger too long near the premises lest they should attract attention, but the cursory glance they had sufficed for their purpose, and they crept like two thieves, as they were, into a narrow dark street on the opposite side of the way, which effectually screened them from observation.

It was arranged between the two that the robbery was to be carried out on the following night.

Before the workmen knocked off Peace watched his opportunity, and crept unobserved into the premises, and contrived to conceal himself in one of the cellars. Here he waited patiently till closing time.

The place was locked up, and secured by massive bolts and bars――so carefully secured, indeed, that it was supposed to be burglar-proof. So, indeed, it might have been had not one been already concealed in the premises.

When he felt assured that everybody had left, Peace, like a cunning rascal as he was, crept from his hiding place. He had brought with him a sack, an old one, for a new one would not have answered his purpose.

Sealskins and embroidery were the valuables he was desirous of purloining. He was well acquainted with the interior of the premises, as years before he had done an occasional job therein in the way of mending machinery and carpenter’s work.

He had, therefore, but little difficulty in laying his hands upon the goods he so much coveted. He thrust sealskin after sealskin into his bag, together with satin and embroidery; in a short time the sack was very tightly filled.

At a rough calculation the property it contained would represent as much as from two to three hundred pounds――that is, assuming the articles were sold at the manufacturers’ prices.

He was now prepared to make clean off with the booty the moment the signal was given by his accomplice from without.

Bandy-legged Bill was a stranger to Sheffield and unknown to any of its inhabitants, and he was therefore not likely to attract much observation.

Peace had watched and waited as he had done on many other occasions. In cases of this sort he displayed an amount of passive endurance which, to say the least of it, was most remarkable in one of his active temperament.

He was greatly relieved upon hearing a gentle tap at one of the back windows of the warehouse.

He looked out and beheld the gipsy, who intimated by a sign that the coast was clear.

Peace lost no time――he passed out of the premises.

He placed the sack on the shoulders of the gipsy, and bade him follow him.

He boldly walked down the Haymarket, passed the side of the Town Hall, and made for some stables in the vicinity, one of which he rented.

He opened the door of this with his key, and then he and Bandy-legged Bill passed in and locked it from the inside.

There was light enough for their purpose. The sack was deposited in one corner of the stable and covered over with loose straw.

At one time Peace had kept a pony trap. This, however, had been sold soon after his conviction. But our hero upon obtaining his release had again become tenant of the stable, in which at the present time was a goat, some rabbits, guinea pigs, and fowls. A horse and trap he intended to purchase, but the stable was useful for a variety of purposes, the concealment of property being one.

“So far we are safe,” cried Peace, “but we must be off with the booty by early dawn, certainly before the people arrive at the warehouse.”

“What do you call early?” said the gipsy.

“A little after five or from that to six. These things must be far away from the town before any hue and cry is raised.”

“And how is it to be worked?”

“You meet me here a little after five, and I’ll tell you.”

“All right, guv’nor――I’m only a hunderstrapper, you know. You are the commander-in-chief. I does as you tell me.”

“You see you are a horsey-looking man――I am not.”

“Well, wot of that?”

“It is but natural for a horsey man to be carrying a sack of corn or tares, or what not.”

“All right――I tumble. I will be here at a little after five.”

With this understanding the two rascals parted company. The gipsy took up his quarters in a beershop, and Peace returned to his own domicile.

He was mindful of his appointment with his man Friday, who, to say the truth, was quite as faithful to our hero as Defoe’s grateful black.

Upon arriving at the stable at the appointed time, he found his trusty confederate awaiting his appearance.

The gipsy again shouldered the sack, and was conducted by Peace towards the tramway terminus, and they took up their position at the corner of Blonkstreet, where they waited for the next moving tramcar.

When it came up Peace and the gipsy took their seats in it, but the conductor would not allow them to take the bag inside, so they deposited it on the platform of the carriage near the driver.

By this means they got it conveyed to Pinfield-lane, when they both got out, went past the brickyard, and continued their course towards Darnell.

“It’s a plaguy nuisance that the fellow would not allow us to take it inside. Had he done so we should have got clean away,” said Peace, “but there’s no help for it. We must do the best we can.”

“It’ll be all right, I dare say,” returned Bill. “We haven’t much reason to complain as far as we’ve gone at present.”

“I am not altogether satisfied,” said Peace, “and under the circumstances I think it would be better to hide the sack for awhile.”

“As yer please. Yer know best.”

Peace turned aside into a field, and bade his companion follow up. He then took the sack from the shoulders of the gipsy, and hid it under a hedge.

“It will be all right there for a short time,” said he. “In the meantime we can consider what the next move is to be.”

The gipsy scratched his head; he did not much like leaving the property there, but he had the prudence to say nothing.

The two repaired to a neighbouring public-house, where they had some breakfast. After this they took a stroll together, being still in doubt as to their course of action.

“If that ’ere blessed old sack is discovered, it’s a case of pickles,” said the gipsy; “and I aint at all sartin, mind yer, that it won’t be.”

“Neither am I,” returned Peace; “but it’s better to lose the goods than be pinched.”

“Look here!” cried Bill. “Two heads are better than one. Let’s go back, and I’ll put you up to a move.”

Peace, who was hankering after stolen goods, did as his companion desired; he went back to the hedge.

The gipsy commenced gathering some green stuff a thing he had been accustomed to do when leading a wandering life among the gipsies.

“What is all this for?” said Peace.

“You shall see,” returned his companion, who, after gathering an armful of the green stuff, crammed the same into the mouth of the sack, and made it appear as if it was full of the same stuff.

“Now do you understand?” cried Bill.

Peace nodded. “I see,” he said.

“If anyone asks what you have got, tell ’em as bold as brass that you’ve got green meat for your rabbits, guinea pigs, and such like.

“An excellent idea. Cram it well with the green stuff.”

The gipsy placed more of the same inside the sack.

“Now we’ll take it with us, at all risks,” said Bill.

“We’ll do so, if you like. I certainly don’t fancy leaving it here to be overhauled.”

The two companions walked through Darnell in a perfectly easy, self-satisfied sort of way.

The gipsy carried the sack into a field on the side nearest the railway station, and deposited it in a place which he considered more secure.

His judgment proved correct, for no one during the day found out its place of concealment.

“Let it bide there till such time as you make up your mind to put it away, or dispose of its contents,” said the gipsy, as he and Peace took their way over the fields.

“I think that will be its last resting place for to-day,” observed our hero. “When evening comes on, we shall be able to get clean off with it. In the meantime we must make ourselves as contented as circumstances will permit.”

They amused themselves as they best could, and to do this more effectually they paid a visit to an exhibition of works of art and antiquities in the immediate neighbourhood.

Peace took great pleasure in places of this description, and found no difficulty at any time in spending hours therein.

But Bandy-legged Bill had no taste for anything of the kind.

If it had been a horse-fair or a cattle-show he would have been greatly pleaded; but he made the best of it, and listened complacently enough to his companion’s explanation of the several articles on view.

After emerging from the museum, they wandered through the green lanes, and when the dusk of the evening set in, they took the sack from its place of concealment, and Peace went with it to Sheffield by train.

Upon arriving at the Victoria station, he booked for Manchester, and took the whole of the stolen property with him.

The gipsy remained behind, with the understanding that he was to call at Peace’s house on the following day.

At Manchester Peace managed to dispose of the whole of the property, and netted thereby a considerable sum of money, as at that time seal skins were all “the rage,” and those he had obtained were of the choicest quality, and cut according to the newest, and therefore most fashionable, patterns.

He did not get nearly their value, but burglars, as a rule, sell the produce of their robberies at ridiculously low prices, the receiver having in all cases the best of the bargain.

It was singular that Peace, considering the enormous amount of property that fell into his hands during his career, should not have amassed a large sum of money, but it seldom happens that the professional thief or burglar, however successful he might be, is enabled to put much by out of his ill-gotten gains.

There are many reasons for this. Few of them are provident, and nearly all are in the hands of the receivers, and money come by dishonestly goes as fast as it is gained.

It is well said that one shilling honestly earned goes farther than pounds obtained by fraud and robbery.

As far as we can gather Peace was not a gambler or a drunkard; indeed, we have not heard that he indulged in excesses of any description. He certainly had a penchant for the opposite sex, but it would appear that he kept under subjection all the females with whom he was connected.

He was tolerably liberal to them――never let them want for anything if he could help it――but certainly did not maintain them on a very extravagant scale.

When returning to his house in Sheffield, he found himself well up in funds, but he said nothing to his wife respecting the sudden accession of wealth.

She, poor woman, doubtless suspected from whence the money had come, but she had the prudence to keep silent on the subject.

Peace had a great objection to be interrogated by any of his family. Indeed, such a course would be sure to put him out of temper, and when in a passion he was a very terrible and vindictive man.

Those about him knew this well enough from bitter experience, and came to the conclusion, therefore, that the wisest course to adopt would be to let him alone and not pester him with vexatious or troublesome questions.

On the morning after his visit to Manchester the gipsy presented himself at Peace’s house. He found him in his workshop with apron on, busily occupied with his frames, as if nothing had happened.

“Well,” cried Bill, “you are a card; blest if you don’t deserve a medal or statue. Never saw such a chap in all my born days. You’re a stunner, and no mistake.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” cried Peace. “Hold your row, and sit down.”

He handed the gipsy a stool.

“Now, then,” said Peace――“what is there to be surprised at?”

“What? Why you look for all the world as if you were the most hardworking, industrious tradesman as ever was, working away for dear life. You’d deceive the devil――that’s what you’d do――with ease, and think nothing of it.”

“Ah, I dare say――that’s all very well; but I should find it difficult to deceive you, old man; but stow your chaff.”

“Well, how did you get on at Manchester?” said Bill.

“Oh, as right as the mail. Got rid of them all, and nobody any the wiser.”

“My word! but that’s clever――turned them into ready cash, eh?”

Peace nodded. He drew from his pocket some notes, which he handed to the gipsy.

“Finnips!” cried the latter.

“Well――what of that? They are right enough; but if you want some gold, here you are.”

He placed in the hand of his companion several sovereigns, which made the eyes of the gipsy glisten with pleasure.

“And is this for me? Am I to keep both notes and gold?”

“Yes; it will set you up for awhile.”

“You’re a downright good fellow, Charlie. Many thanks,” said Bill, pocketing the amount.

“And now you had better be off for the present. You can look round in the evening, if you like.”

“Yes, I will just drop in for an hour or so; so good-bye for the present.”

In about two hours after the gipsy had taken his departure, the well-known form of a detective was visible at the window of Peace’s workshop.

He tapped at the door, which Peace opened.

“You are busy. Can I come in?”

“Yes, come in, Mr. Stallard. What’s up now?” said Peace, carelessly, as he laid on the leaf gold to one of his frames.

The detective glanced furtively around.

“You seem to be looking two ways for Sunday,” cried Peace. “Anything amiss?”

“There’s been a big robbery at Messrs. Arnison’s,” said Stallard.

“Never! When?”

“Either Tuesday night or Wednesday morning, we suppose.”

“Ah, much property gone?”

“Oh, dear me, yes――a good deal.”

“And have you found out the robbers?”

“Not as yet,” observed the detective, regarding Peace with a searching look.

“I’m sorry for that,” said the latter.

“Yes, and so am I.”

“It’s a bad business.”

“Very bad.”

“And pray now, if it’s a fair question,” said our hero, leaving off his work for a moment or two, “is that the reason of your visit to me?”

“Well, it’s our duty to go anywhere and everywhere for the matter of that――not to leave a stone unturned.”

“Oh, I see. Well, Mr. Stallard, all I can say is that I cannot give you any information, for I know nothing about the affair. I’m endeavouring to earn an honest livelihood, and you must admit it doesn’t look well to my customers to see a gentleman of your inquiring mind here.”

“I have a duty to perform,” said Stallard; “I thought perhaps you might possibly be able to give me some information.”

“How the devil can I give you information upon a subject upon which I know nothing?” cried Peace in a fury. “Perhaps you think I had some hand in the robbery?”

“Oh, dear no, I never for a moment suggested such a thing.”

“Perhaps the best plan will be for you to search the house and satisfy yourself,” said our hero, throwing open the doors which led into the lower rooms of the habitation.

Mr. Stallard was taken aback all of a sudden. He came to the conclusion that Peace was innocent, and that he――the detective――was making a fool of himself.

“There is no occasion for you to be out of temper, Peace, not the least occasion. Nobody suspects you.”

“I would much prefer your searching the place――I’m not afraid of you or any of your comrades. It isn’t because a man’s been in trouble that he should be hunted down like a wild beast.”

Peace’s effrontery was perfectly overwhelming. So much so that the detective was fairly imposed on. He was duly impressed with the mistake he had made, and with a few more apologetic words left the workshop without further questioning.

“Umph!” ejaculated our hero, “that’s the way to stall them off. He’s got nothing against me――that’s quite certain. It was a mere try on. I wish the idiot had searched the house; much good it would have done him.”

Every effort was made by the constabulary to find out the robber or robbers.

It was generally supposed at the time that there was a gang at work who only paid “flying visits” to the town, and all efforts to trace the property were fruitless.

Peace laughed in his sleeve, and then went on with his usual daily vocation as if nothing had happened.

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LXXVII. THE DESIGNING WOMAN AND HER VICTIM

We now enter upon a fearful study. It is that of a heart which, though young, is seared, withered, and depraved, and which can no longer throb for aught that is good or noble.

It is that of a mind which is strong to resolve, patient to wait, relentless to execute. It is that of a woman who possesses the face of an angel, and the furious passions of a demon.

Laura Stanbridge had once in her life become human. She had loved. She had loved the boy Alf Purvis with as intense and fiery a passion as an Eastern queen.

She had offered this man her love, which was as lurid as her rage; he had refused it, and in refusing it he had told her the terrible secret of her own life. By some means he had discovered the crimes of her girlhood――adultery, theft, murder. For this she hated him, and with no common hate――for this she determined to be avenged, and with no common vengeance.

Retiring into the depths of her black heart she pondered over various schemes for inflicting a terrible vengeance upon the man who taunted her, insulted her, and refused her love.

Little did Alf Purvis suppose that he had such a bitter, relentless enemy to deal with. He paid her but little attention, was away for days and even weeks at a time. She was too proud to condescend to inquire about his movements, and affected an air of indifference about all and everything concerning him.

They had been partners in crime――now they were working out their own ends separately and apart. Indeed it is surprising that the young pickpocket had not taken himself off altogether; only there was this to be said: with all his assumed bravado he stood in fear of Laura Stanbridge, who was more than a match for him as far as cunning and duplicity were concerned.

But a new actor is about to appear in this part of the drama――one, however, who is already well known to the reader.

One evening, when a grand concert was given at St. James’s Hall, Laura Stanbridge sallied forth, paid the price of admission, and entered the Hall. Every seat was occupied. She found out that she was a little too late to obtain a place――so she stood and listened to the music.

A young man who sat close to where she was standing rose from his seat, which he begged her to occupy. She was thickly veiled at this time, but her eyes gleamed through the veil.

Raising it, she disclosed a face which was pale, chaste, and beautiful as that of a Madonna.

“I cannot think of turning you out of your seat, sir,” she said, in a voice of ineffable sweetness.

“Nay,” returned the other, “I must beg of you to be seated. I can do very well here. Do, pray, take the place.”

She smiled sweetly, and sat down.

The performance proceeded.

He noticed that she was expensively dressed, and presented altogether a most aristocratic appearance.

He stood by her side and conversed with her upon the quality of the music and the executants of the same.

He was greatly pleased with her society, and when the concert came to an end offered to escort her out of the hall.

She fixed her eyes on him. As he glanced at those eyes, so full of languor and love, he started and blushed.

She did not blush, but she looked modestly on the ground.

They passed out of the hall together, and descended the staircase, and reached the Piccadilly entrance.

He asked her if he might have the pleasure of putting her into a cab or seeing her home.

She answered him in a confused tone――

“But I do not know you, sir,” she said, gently.

“That is true,” he answered, with a sigh.

“Still I must admit that I am very pleased to have met you, and at the same time have to thank you for your kindness.”

They were in Piccadilly at this time.

“Perhaps you wish me to leave you,” he murmured.

“No, I do not say that.”

“Have you far to go?”

“Not very far――hardly a quarter of a mile.”

He reflected for a few moments, and then said――

“I should like to prevail upon you to take some refreshment if it be only a glass of wine and a biscuit.”

“Certainly; I accept your kind offer.”

They went into the nearest confectioner’s, and had some refreshment.

The young man gazed abstractedly around the place, and then sighed.

“I think you must have heard some bad news,” said she, munching a sponge cake.

“What makes you think that?”

“You are sad and preoccupied.”

“No, no, my dear lady. To say the truth, I am no sadder than I have been for a long time past.”

“Ah! something troubles you――I feel certain of that. I am afraid you are in love.”

He started.

“Oh! dear me, no such thing,” he exclaimed, vehemently.

“Pardon me, I know I must appear very rude. Let us go.”

She rose, went out into the street, and he followed.

“You do not need me to tell you that sorrow is robbed of half its bitterness if we have any one to share it with us,” said Laura.

“Indeed, that is very true,” he murmured.

“But we can’t discuss topics of this nature in the public street,” she added.

“Ah, I forgot. May I see you home?”

“If you like.”

They walked on together till the house in the occupation of Miss Stanbridge was reached. She paused in front of this, and said, “Now, my friend, we must part.”

“You reside here?” said he.

“Precisely; your surmise is correct. The hour is late, and I dare not ask you in, but――――” here she bent her eyes on the ground.

“But what?” He was going to say dearest, but luckily he checked himself.

“Well I don’t interdict your giving me a morning call when passing this way.”

“And your name? You forget, my dear madame, that you have not as yet favoured me with your name.”

“Neither have you, sir, favoured me with yours,” she returned, handing him her card.

He gave her his in return, bade her good night, raised his hat, and went his way.

“Gatliffe――Gatliffe,” she ejaculated, when she had reached her parlour and glanced at the card; “surely I have heard that name on somebody’s lips before now. Umph, I think I have played my part pretty well. I shall have the extreme pleasure of seeing the gentleman again. I wonder who and what he is. We shall see.”

Miss Stanbridge retired to rest, well satisfied with the evening’s adventure.

Between eleven and twelve o’clock on the following morning the maid came into the parlour, and gave her mistress a card.

On it was “Mr. Thomas Gatliffe.”

“Show the gentleman in,” said Miss Stanbridge. “’Gad, he’s not lost much time,” she murmured, when the girl had left.

“As I happened to be passing this way,” said Gatliffe, as he entered, “I thought I would take the liberty of giving you a call to inquire how you are after last night’s fatigue.”

“You are very kind, I’m sure,” returned Laura, handing her visitor a chair; “and I need not add that I am pleased to see you, as it gives me assurance that I am not forgotten.”

Gatliffe’s manner was a little constrained――to say the truth, he was not altogether at ease.

In the first place he was surprised to find the lady the only occupant of the room when he entered.

He had expected to see some of her relatives present. He did not know the character or the ways of the alluring creature whom he had imprudently chosen to visit.

He was miserably dull and wretched in his lonely home at Wood-green, and it is therefore not surprising that he should be glad of almost any change to break the painful monotony of his existence.

“Now tell me,” observed Laura, in a playful sportive manner, “what do you think of your newly-formed acquaintance by the morning’s light?”

Gatliffe looked confused, and did not very well know what answer to make.

“I think you look remarkably well,” he muttered, “and only wish I looked half as well.”

“Oh! you flatterer. But come, let me beg of you to have a glass of wine.”

“Thank you, I had rather not.”

“Nay, but you must.”

“I’m a business man, and have much to attend to, and therefore seldom take anything in the morning.”

“A little brandy and seltzer won’t hurt you. Bah! don’t make a wry face――you are strong as a young Hercules.”

“Am I? I dont feel so,” returned Gatliffe, with a smile.

He, however, consented to quaff the contents of the proffered glass.

“I dare say you think me a singular sort of person,” remarked his companion; “and, to say the truth, I believe I am.”

“I have never said so.”

“Possibly not; but you have thought so, doubtless. Our acquaintance has been made in a casual accidental manner; but it sometimes happens, you know, that acquaintances of this sort ripen into a lasting friendship. I hope it may prove so in this case. At present we know but little of each other.”

“Yes, at present.”

“But there is no reason this should always be so. You are in business?”

“Yes, foreman to a large engineering firm.”

“And are single, I presume?”

“For the present, but――――”

He hesitated.

“Enough, I do not seek to pry into your secrets. You are very good and kind――of that I am perfectly well assured; and that is quite enough for the present.”

Gatliffe thought her manner was very charming and ingenuous, but he was at a loss to know whether she was mistress of the establishment or not, and he was too diffident to make any inquiry.

“I must take my leave now,” he ejaculated.

“What! going so soon? Dear me, yours is a short visit.”

“You see, my time is not my own, and when I tell you that, I am sure you’ll excuse me.”

“Oh, certainly. But I suppose I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

“Yes, on the very first opportunity.”

“Then I will not attempt to detain you, Mr. Gatliffe,” said she, rising and offering her hand to her visitor.

“He’s by no means forward or fast,” she murmured, when he had gone.

“He wants bringing out. I shall work him all right enough. He’s a bit smitten, that is very clear. I wonder whether he has a wife. I rather fancy he has. It is most fortunate that Alf is away in the country with his select companions. I shall have to deal with that fellow in a way he little expects, but for the present I have enough on hand.”

She dressed herself in fashionable garments, and sallied forth.

She paid a visit to several places of public resort, and amused herself for that day.

She expected to see Gatliffe on the succeeding one, but he did not make his appearance.

Three days elapsed. On the fourth he paid her another visit.

He was reserved and thoughtful, as on the previous occasion.

She told him that she had two tickets for the opera stalls, and asked him if he would like to make use of one――they were numbered seats, of course, and he might please himself about coming――any time would do, she herself would make use of the other.

He took the ticket, and promised to be there as early as circumstances would permit; then he left the same as before.

“He wants a mighty deal of humouring, and is evidently shy. No matter for that, I shall find means to banish his shyness. Good――doubtless he will be there; anyway I shall.”

She made a most elaborate toilette, with bare arms, a low-necked dress, together with all the devices which the ladies of the upper ten have recourse to when paying a visit to the opera in the full height of the season.

It is needless to say that Miss Stanbridge looked extremely lovely. Art had done something towards improving her personal appearance.

When her toilette was complete she desired her maid to go for a four-wheeler, in which she was conveyed to the opera-house. Upon taking her seat she found the adjacent one unoccupied. Tom Gatliffe had therefore not yet arrived.

Possibly he might think better of it, and not put in an appearance――there was no telling. However, she made up her mind to assume an air of cheerfulness and wait patiently.

He did not arrive till after the overture had been played, and the curtain drawn up. Upon presenting himself he was full of apologies for being so behind hand, saying that he had been unavoidably detained at the works.

Laura Stanbridge pouted a little, but accepted his apologies with grace and good humour.

At the close of the first act an animated and pleasant conversation was carried on between the two――the same formula took place during the succeeding intervals in the performance. The gentleman ordered ices and other refreshments for the lady.

When the opera was over, Laura Stanbridge passed out of the stalls with her friend.

“I must get you to fetch a cab, dear,” said she, “for I have come in my opera cloak just as you see me.”

“Certainly, by all means,” returned Gatliffe. “You wait here. I won’t be more than a few seconds.”

He returned, conducted her into the cab, and got into the vehicle himself.

He sat by her side, a little reserved perhaps, but in far better spirits than she had ever seen him.

When they arrived home the supper things had been laid, and the table “groaned,” to make use of a hackneyed phrase, with the best of everything it was possible to procure.

Gatliffe looked surprised.

“You are going to have some supper with me, of course?” suggested Laura.

“Umph, oh, yes,” he replied in a half hesitating manner.

Miss Stanbridge cast aside her opera cloak and stood before the young man in a costume of the most faultless description.

Her arms and the upper portion of her bust were bare, and Gatliffe was taken completely aback at the elegance of her attire and the beauty of her form.

He, however, said nothing, but sat down to supper, the girl waiting on her mistress and her visitor.

When the supper was over, and the things removed, Miss Stanbridge said to the girl――

“You may go to bed, Lucy. I shall not require you any more to-night. I will see my friend out. But stay, before you retire bring in a little hot water in the kettle.”

The girl did as she was required, and then took her way upstairs.

At the request of Laura Stanbridge Gatliffe lighted a cigar and mixed himself some grog.

An hour or more passed away.

* * * * * * *

The two companions were seated in the parlour, side by side――the hour was late, but Gatliffe still lingered.

“You have told me your sorrows and troubles,” said his female companion, “and no one can sympathise with you to a greater extent than myself, for I too have been deserted by a cold, cruel, heartless man, but it is all over now and I strive to forget the past――the bitter past.”

After this exordium she told her companion a specious tale, in which she made herself a most self-sacrificing creature.

She wound up by declaring that she was living on her means all alone in the world.

“Alone――eh?” cried Gatliffe. “Well, yes, I had a female companion, it is true, and a young man whom I have brought up, making this place his home; but he is like the rest, ungrateful and selfish.”

She sighed, and drew her chair nearer to his.

“Ah! if I could find but one sympathising friend,” she murmured; “for, oh! Mr. Gatliffe, we can none of us live only for ourselves. It is not in the nature and order of things――is it?”

“I don’t think it is,” he murmured, glancing at her dark, dreamy, voluptuous eyes――glancing at her marble bust, which was at this time a little more revealed than it had been upon their first entrance into the parlour.

“You agree with me, then?”

“As far as that is concerned, I do,” he returned.

“I expected you would do so, and your wife is so unmindful of this. You love her, I suppose?”

The engineer made no answer to this query.

“It is evident enough you do,” observed his companion.

“I did. It was impossible for me to do otherwise. When I first made her acquaintance I thought her the most charming creature I had ever seen.”

She placed her hand on his, and looked earnestly into his face.

He grasped her hand and drew her towards him. Her head fell upon his shoulder, and he inhaled the fragrance of her breath. A tremour seemed to creep through his frame; he placed his arm round her neck, and pressed his lips to hers in one long, lingering kiss.

She made no resistance.

Presently she wound her arms round him and returned the embrace. She breathed into his ear words of endearment, and Gatliffe was fairly enthralled; his hand accidentally came in contact with her bosom.

“You will not leave me to-night, dearest?” she murmured. “It is too late for you to think of returning home. You will not be cruel enough to leave me all alone after this brief interval of happiness?”

Gatliffe was bewildered; he knew he was acting in a most indiscreet manner, but had not the courage to break the spell that bound him.

The clock on the mantel-piece struck two.

“Goodness me――is it so late?” he ejaculated.

“It is late,” said his companion, “but what of that? The hours fly swiftly by when in the society of those we love.”

“But I really must be thinking of going.”

“Why so? You cannot reach Wood-green to-night, seeing that it is now morning, and what does it matter?”

“Upon my word,” said he, “I have been so charmed, so pleased with your society, that it appears I have forgotten all else.”

“And so you ought,” she cried, with another embrace.

“Ah,” he murmured, “I am powerless in your arms, and even unable to exercise any will of my own. This ought not to be.”

“Why not? I am pleased to think I have such power over you. Ah, Mr. Gatliffe, we are neither of us accountable to any one, and if――if――you find happiness in my society――――” She broke off abruptly, and hid her head on his shoulder.

Gatliffe, who had been quite unprepared for this display of affection, was no longer master of himself. He took her on his knee and kissed her passionately.

[Sidenote: No. 41.]

Laura Stanbridge, who had been playing her part to perfection, smiled.

She had him in her toils. Of that she felt assured. Unimpressible, and in a measure phlegmatic as he had been to the allurements of a designing woman, he was now, to make use of a nautical phrase, fairly capsized.

The beautiful creature in his arms affected to love him, and he, poor weak fool that he was, believed her.

“Now, dearest!” he exclaimed. “Will you excuse me? May I go?”

“As you please,” she answered, pouting.

“It is not as I please. It is for you to determine.”

“You would not think of leaving at such an hour. Are you not contented?”

“Certainly, but――――”

“But what?”

I shall compromise you by remaining.

She laughed. “Ah! don’t mind me,” she cried.

“But the hour――ten minutes to three.”

“Well, I know that. When you desire to retire you have only to say the word. There is a bedroom already prepared for your reception. This house is my own; I am mistress here, and am a lady of independent means――what more do you desire to hear?”

Gatliffe had a very natural wish to know a great deal more, but he had the prudence not to broach so delicate a question.

“Oh! nothing――nothing more,” he stammered out.

“Good――you are weary. I will show you to your sleeping chamber,” said his companion, lighting a wax candle, and rising from her seat.

Gatliffe made no observation, but rose also.

The lady led the way upstairs and conducted her visitor to an elegantly-furnished bedroom on the second story of the house.

She placed the light on the toilet-table, and then turned towards the bewildered young man.

“You will be able to rest tranquilly here till morning, dearest,” she murmured.

Gatliffe nodded. Then he sprang forward and caught her in his arms. He pressed her form to his, and covered her with burning and passionate kisses.

“Enough!” cried Laura. “Good night. Susan will be up early, and you can have breakfast at what hour you please,” and with these words she passed along the passage.

Gatliffe closed the door of his bedroom, sat down in one of the chairs, and endeavoured to collect his thoughts――his head was in a perfect whirl.

“She is a beautiful creature,” he murmured. “A lady of independent means! Eh! what a strange adventure! Well, I have no reason to complain.”

He threw off his clothes and tumbled into bed, but he was too much disturbed in his mind to sleep. He thought over and over again of his mysterious inamorata. It would have been in vain for him to deny that he was very much taken with her.

He believed that he had made a conquest, and that she had conceived an overpowering affection for him. Who and what she was he found it difficult to determine; neither did it much matter――love levels all distinctions.

When he arose in the morning he went into the parlour, where the breakfast was served by the maid, who informed him that her mistress would be down in a few minutes.

Presently Laura Stanbridge made her appearance. She was attired in an elegant morning costume, and seemed to be none the worse for her carouse on the preceding night. She did the honours of the table with infinite grace, and paid every possible attention to her guest.

Gatliffe was charmed with her manner. He thanked her for all her kindness, and when the morning was over told her that he must leave to attend to his business at the works.

She acquiesced and offered her hand. Gatliffe drew her towards him and embraced her; then he took his departure with a promise that he would pay her another visit.

The more he thought over his adventure the more puzzled he was, but he could not keep long away from the woman who by this time had him enthralled.

He visited her again and again until he became a regular frequenter of the establishment. He slept there two or three nights out of the week. As time went on all restraint was thrown off, and Laura Stanbridge became his mistress.

Those who had known him in his earlier years would have found it difficult to believe that this could have come to pass.

But so it was. He was no match in cunning and duplicity to the heartless woman who had him in her toils.

When he thought of Aveline he felt abased and humiliated. He could not at first realise the depths into which he had fallen. The events of the last few weeks seemed to him more like a dream than an actual reality.

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LXXVIII. HUNTING UP EVIDENCE FOR A DIVORCE――MR. SLINGSBY SET TO WORK

While the intrigue was being carried on between Laura Stanbridge and her victim, Tom Gatliffe, Aveline’s grandfather was in deep consultation with his lawyer as to how a divorce was to be obtained for his darling pet, who was by this time moving in the best society, and surrounded by fashionable admirers. Mr. Chicknell did not know very well what course to advise.

The earl was persistent in his demands. A divorce he was bent upon having, at all hazards.

An opportunity most suddenly and unexpectedly presented itself.

Mr. Wrench was commissioned to wait upon the engineer at his house at Wood Green.

He called several times, but could not succeed in meeting with the owner of the establishment.

He ascertained from the loquacious servant in charge of the place that her master came home only occasionally. She said, in answer to the detective’s persistent inquiries, that Mr. Gatliffe had been for some time past in the habit of remaining in London, in consequence, as she alleged, of pressure of business at the works.

Mr. Wrench heard all she had to say, and very soon began to draw his own inference therefrom.

“Stays in town, does he?” murmured our astute officer. “Umph! there is some special reason, for this business is all very well in its way, but there may be another cause. Formed some new connection perhaps, illicit love and all that sort of thing. The case looks more promising. If I succeed in finding out anything the earl, my patron, will be in a state of delight, but after all it’s too contemptible and paltry a business for me to be engaged in. Well, we will see what can be done. Something’s in the wind――that’s quite certain. The question is, how is it to be worked?”

Attached to the staff of gentlemen of which he (Wrench) was a distinguished ornament was a man who was a sort of supplementary or occasional detective――his name was Slingsby.

His services had been frequently called into requisition to hunt up evidence for his superiors. Mr. Slingsby had no objection to push his inquiries in channels where his superiors did not choose to venture. He was a sort of sleuth hound, who would stoop to any mean artifices to obtain the desired information.

Mr. Wrench, upon his return home, sent for Slingsby without further ado.

“Well,” said the last-named, when he was closeted with his superior, “Naggs said you wanted to see me.”

“Naggs was right――sit down,” returned Mr. Wrench.

“Anything on hand? Any fresh business?” inquired Slingsby.

“Yes; if you will have a little patience you shall hear.”

“I’m all attention, sir.”

“Very well. In the first place there is a young man named Gatliffe, who is by trade an engineer. He resides at Wood Green.”

“I can go there, and soon ascertain about him.”

“Don’t you be so fast. I don’t want you to go to Wood Green. To do so would be an act of the greatest imprudence. Besides, I have already been there myself. What I want you to do is to watch him as he leaves his work. He is foreman to an engineer in the Euston-road. I will give you the name of the firm and the number of the house. He generally leaves the works at six in the evening, but sometimes he stops till seven or eight, and indeed on special occasions even later than that; but, as a rule, you will be able to make sure of him between six and seven, or from that to eight. You understand me thus far.”

“Oh, perfectly. I quite understand, Mr. Wrench.”

“Very well. What I want you to do is this――when he leaves, follow him and notice where he goes to. It’s probable he may make for the station; in which case push your inquiries no further, as you may rest assured that he is about to return to his own home.”

“But if he doesn’t do so?”

“If he does not, follow him and see where he goes to. This done, come to me.”

“And what’s he been up to――forgery or something of that sort, I suppose?”

“Nothing of the kind. He has not done anything wrong――at all events, nothing against the law.”

“What is he wanted for, then?”

“He is not wanted. All I require for the present of you is to ascertain where he goes to on the nights he does not return to Wood Green. We have good reason for believing that he has taken up with some woman. Should this be the case we must learn more about it.”

“Then that’s all you want me to do at present.”

“That is all. Here is the name and address of his governor. Now do your best. I have written underneath the address, between the hours of six and eight, and here is his photograph, by which you will be able to recognise him.”

“All right, Mr. Wrench. Never fear, I’ll find out what you want;” and with these words Mr. Slingsby took his departure.

On the following night he watched the entrance through which the workpeople passed in and out of the works in the Euston-road.

In the course of half-an-hour or so he observed Gatliffe pass through the door, and Mr. Slingsby followed at once. He was, however, much disappointed at finding his man make direct for the railway-station, and had in accordance with his instructions to give up the chase for that night.

On the succeeding evening he was again at his post, and very shortly before seven Gatliffe again passed out of the building――this time to look a different direction. He walked on westwards, and entered a coffee-shop, where he remained for about half-an-hour or more, Mr. Slingsby keeping watch and ward on the outside.

He saw Gatliffe emerge from the coffee-shop, and then walk on at a smart pace, the detective following at a respectful distance. After this the young engineer went into a hosier’s shop, and purchased a pair of gloves.

He then made direct for Covent Garden Theatre, paid the entrance money, and went into the Promenade Concerts.

The detective did the same, and kept a sharp eye upon the movements of his man, who in the course of a few minutes was joined by a female, in whose company he remained for the whole of the evening. When the performance was over the two, upon reaching the street, called a four-wheeled cab, into which they both got. When the vehicle was driven off Mr. Slingsby jumped into a hansom, and told the driver to follow the four-wheeler.

The driver of the hansom obeyed the order given him, and in the due course of time the four-wheeler was brought to a standstill at the house in the occupation of Miss Stanbridge.

Mr. Slingsby saw its two occupants alight and enter the house in question; then he discharged his cab, and watched the house for some considerable time.

He saw a light in the parlour, and saw also the shadows of two or three persons, one of which appeared to be that of a man, the others those of females.

He remained watching the house for an hour and a half, or perhaps two hours; then, when the front parlour was in darkness he went his way, well satisfied with his night’s adventure.

Early on the following morning he waited upon Mr. Wrench to make him acquainted with the successful nature of his expedition.

“You have done well, wonderfully well, Slingsby,” said the detective. “Nothing could be better. You are quite certain as to his identity.”

“Oh, quite certain――he is the image of the photograph.”

“Say, rather the photo is the image of him.”

“Yes, it is. There cannot be any mistake as to that; and the lady――do you know her?”

“No, never saw her before.”

“A fashionable party, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear yes, quite up to the knocker.”

“Good-looking?”

“Yes, she’s what you would call a fascinating sort of woman, and appeared from what I could see of her to be quite the lady. When I say a lady, I mean of course one of doubtful repute.”

“Ah, just so. That is no more than I expected. So much the better.”

“The better?”

“Certainly, the matter will be more easily worked.”

“Most likely; but what is to be my next proceeding?”

“You have to watch him again, and see if he pays another visit to this establishment. When this has been done we will consider our next course of procedure.”

Mr. Slingsby acted in accordance with the instructions given him by his superior.

He was at the works in the Euston-road on the following night, but the result was not quite so satisfactory. Tom Gatliffe went to the railway-station, and made for his home at Wood Green.

He did the same on the following evening, but Mr. Slingsby did not despair. He kept his man steadily in view, and never missed a single night from his post.

All this time Gatliffe was in ignorance of the surveillance which was kept over him.

On the third night he bent his steps in the direction of Laura Stanbridge’s residence, the detective following at a respectful distance.

The gentle rap which Gatliffe gave at the door caused it to be opened by the servant girl, when without a word the visitor entered.

Mr. Slingsby remained curling his heels on the pavement on the opposite side of the street.

Presently the owner of the house came out with her admirer.

Mr. Slingsby judged rightly enough that the two were going to some place of entertainment. He did not deem it expedient to follow them, but went his way, and returned to his post a little before eleven o’clock.

In about half an hour after that time the lady and gentleman returned, the former letting herself and her companion in with a latch-key.

A gleam of light shot from the parlour window as on the first occasion, and Mr. Slingsby watched the house until he concluded all the inmates had retired to bed, then he returned to his own lodgings, very well satisfied with his night’s work.

“It is pretty clear we have run him to earth,” said Mr. Wrench, when his emissary made him acquainted with all the facts which had come to his knowledge. “You have done this job to-rights, Slingsby. Everything is satisfactory, as far as it goes, but, of course, much remains to be done. For the present, however, let the matter rest till I have seen my employer; then I will let you know how to act. Say nothing to anybody; keep quite quiet, and we shall win in a hand canter.”

“All right, sir; I am to do nothing till I hear from you.”

“Nothing whatever.”

When Mr. Slingsby had taken his departure, Mr. Wrench rubbed the palms of his hands together in great glee.

“Ah, I wasn’t far out in my surmise!” he ejaculated. “I thought there was a woman in the case. Well, I should never have thought it of him, for, to say the truth, he appeared to be altogether a different sort of man; but, Lord, one never knows whom to place faith in. Still he seemed so discreet, so high-minded, so far removed from temptation. But, then, after all, it is but a natural consequence. Here’s a fine handsome young fellow finds himself suddenly deserted by one who, if the truth must be told, ought to have cleaved to him through good and bad fortune. Yes, it is but natural that he should form another connection, and it is withal most fortunate, as far as we are concerned.”

He put on his hat and gloves, and sallied forth.

He made the best of his way to Mr. Chicknell’s chambers.

The lawyer was perfectly staggered when he heard the news.

“You don’t mean it? Can it be possible?” he ejaculated.

“Fact, sir――an indisputable fact.”

“Do you think he is living in open adultery with this woman?”

“I fear――or rather I fancy so.”

“Umph! sit down. Pray, be seated, Mr. Wrench. The earl must know of this; he will be most delighted.”

“There’s but little doubt of that, sir.”

“None――none in the least, Wrench. Dear me, you have done well. The only obstacle in our way is at once suddenly and unexpectedly removed.”

“Not quite.”

“Eh, what do you mean?”

“We must have proofs.”

“Ah, true. But these are easily obtainable, I suppose, eh?”

“I don’t suppose there will be any great difficulty in the matter; but as yet only half our task is accomplished.”

“Umph! Certainly that’s right enough, and the other half, as you term it, is perhaps the most difficult part.”

“It must be managed, sir――that’s all I know.”

“Yes, most decidedly; that is quite clear. The earl has the highest opinion of your ability and discretion. He speaks in the most flattering terms of your――ahem!――your wonderful powers of penetration.”

“Does he? I am sure I am much obliged to his lordship for his good opinion of me,” cried the detective, with a short laugh.

“Oh, I am not joking, Wrench. Don’t imagine that,” observed the lawyer.

“I don’t for a moment suppose you are, sir.”

“And so he’s taken up with a woman of doubtful repute――has he? Dear me, it seems almost incredible.”

“Well, it’s only as we suppose at present, sir. As I said before, proofs are necessary. It would never do to jump hastily at a conclusion. I have never been accustomed to do that.”

“No, no, of course not. That we know perfectly well; and so, upon second consideration, it would be perhaps just as well to hold the matter over for the present, and not mention the subject to the earl till we have clearer evidence.”

“I should not do so, not till such time as we are more certain of our bird. He will fall into the web, I dare say, in good time.”

“And what do you propose doing then?” inquired the lawyer.

“Well, sir, that is the reason for my waiting upon you. He has been seen in places of public resort with this woman; he has been seen entering the house with her, and there is every reason to suppose that he has remained there all night; but this, as you know, is not positive evidence. We must have more than this.”

“Certainly; that is quite clear――much more. Do you know any of the inmates――any servant in the house?”

Mr. Wrench shook his head, and said, “Not a soul――not one person.”

“There is a servant, of course, or servants?”

“Only one, I believe.”

“Oh! only one――eh?”

“As far as I have been able to ascertain.”

“And is she to be got at? Most domestic servants are.”

“Well, that remains to be seen. I have not made any attempt to enlist her in our service, and for this reason: should she be faithful to her mistress――which is more than likely――it would be putting them on their guard.”

“Just so; that is clear enough, Wrench. Well, I cannot do better than leave it in your hands. You know what is requisite――proofs, clear and unmistakeable proofs, that he has committed adultery.”

“When I obtain further information I will see you again,” returned the detective, as he left the lawyer’s chambers.

Mr. Wrench pondered over the matter.

At present he could not very well see his way. He had, as he termed it, a delicate and difficult bit of steerage.

A rash or imprudent step might ruin all.

He was by no means disposed to tamper with Miss Stanbridge’s servant. He had ascertained that she had been a long time with her present mistress, and the people in the neighbourhood said she was “true as steel.”

The detective, therefore, concluded possibly enough that the girl might prove a troublesome customer.

He sent for Mr. Slingsby, with whom he had a long consultation.

In the end it was agreed between the two that other attempts should be made before having recourse to the servant for information.

Mr. Wrench now came to the front. He watched the house in the occupation of Laura Stanbridge, and made several inquiries in the neighbourhood in a careless manner.

He ascertained by the merest accident that a charwoman was occasionally engaged by the maid servant to clean the house and do the rough work of the establishment.

This was just the sort of person Mr. Wrench was desirous to meet with.

A few shillings would go a long way with a woman of that description, and the chances were that she had a tongue, which she could make very good use of.

He had ascertained that she was known as Mrs. Mumms, that she was a widow, with a son and a daughter. The son was shopboy to a greengrocer in Jermyn-street, the daughter was in service in one of the western suburbs――Richmond or Twickenham it was said――but there was no positive certainty as to this.

Mr. Wrench elected to try the son, to begin with. He went to the greengrocer’s where he worked, and bought some fruit, had the satisfaction of seeing the lad in question, but he did not deem it advisable to make any inquiries of him at that time――he awaited a more fitting opportunity.

On the following morning he paced up and down Jermyn-street till he saw young Mumms come out with his basket on his arm.

Mr. Wrench waited till he came by his side, then he said――

“Hold hard for a moment――I want to ask you a question.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lad, coming to a halt.

“Do you happen to know the name Crowdace in this neighbourhood?”

“Can’t say I do. What street does he live in?”

“I have been told he lives in Ryle-street.”

“Don’t know the name.”

“Sure?”

“Quite sure.”

“Do you know the name of Stanbridge?”

“Oh, yes, I know that name. I’ll show you where she lives if you want her. I shall have to pass the house.”

“I don’t want to see her. What I want to know is, has she a lodger with her of the name of Crowdace?”

The name of the gentleman whom the detective was inquiring for was of course a pure invention.

“I never heard that she had, but mother will be able to tell you; she works there occasionally.”

“Is there any gentleman lodger there?”

“Well, there you bother me. She don’t take no lodgers, I believe, but there is a gentleman or two there occasionally.

“Is she a married lady?”

“I don’t know as she’s what you might term a married lady, but still she may be for aught I know; but mother will be able to tell you more about it.”

“Where does your mother live?”

“Close by here; I’ll show you if you like.”

“Do――there’s a good chap.”

Mr. Wrench slipped a shilling into the boy’s hand, for which he appeared to be duly grateful.

He took the detective to a narrow court, and halted in front of a dirty-looking house with five bell handles one above the other on the side of the doorway.

He rang the third bell, whereupon a woman, wiping the soap suds from her bare arms with her apron, made her appearance in the passage.

“Mother, a gentleman wants to speak to you,” said the greengrocer’s assistant, as he left to go his rounds.

“Your sarvint, sir,” said Mrs. Mumms, coming forward.

“Oh, your son informs me that you know Miss Stanbridge. Is that so?”

“Yes, sir, I work for her at times.”

“Ah, just so. Do you happen to know if she has had a gentleman named Crowdace lodging at her house?”

The woman shook her head.

“I never heard the name before,” said she.

“And you don’t know, I suppose, whether there is anyone of that name lodging in the same street?”

“Well, sir, not as I’ve overheard. There may be, but its unbeknown to me, if there is.”

“My object is simply this. A gentleman of that name is missing, and his friends are anxious to ascertain something about him.”

“Ah, I’m sorry I can’t tell you.”

“Will you be kind enough to make inquiries in the neighbourhood for me? If you succeed you will be handsomely rewarded.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good. Here is a card with the name written thereon. Good morning, Mrs. Mumms.”

“Will you call again, sir?”

“Most certainly I will, in a day or two.”

This was certainly going a most roundabout way to obtain the desired information, but Mr. Wrench’s object was to throw the woman off her guard.

There could be no possible harm in his inquiring for a fictitious individual. His doing so would not arouse suspicion. In the due course of time he hoped to have Mrs. Mumms as an ally.

He called again upon her; of course no such person could be found. He gave her five shillings for her trouble, and engaged her on the day as charwoman to his own establishment.

She came and cleared up his house. He treated her liberally――gave her a plentiful supply of beer and gin, and she was greatly pleased with her new employer.

She went her ways, and in about a fortnight was again hired by our cunning detective.

In the evening she was directed by Mrs. Wrench to dust and clean her husband’s library. While she was occupied with this task Mr. Wrench entered. The charwoman was about to withdraw, but the detective requested her to remain.

“Don’t go, Mrs. Mumms,” said Wrench. “I want to have a little conversation with you. Sit down.”

The woman looked a little surprised, or it might be alarmed, but did as she was requested.

Mr. Wrench closed the door of the room, and then took a seat himself. As a preliminary, he insisted upon his companion taking a glass of something short. This done, he proceeded to business.

“I cannot find the person of whom I am in search,” said he. “Will you just answer one or two questions. Mind you, I will make it worth your while. I don’t expect anybody to work for nothing.”

“In course not, sir. You’re a different sort of gentleman to that.”

“Well, you see, Mrs. Mumms, it has occurred to me that probably the party to whom I allude is passing under a different name.”

“Likely enough, sir; but I hope as how he aint bin doing anything wrong.”

“Oh, dear me, no such thing. But, now, tell me――there is a gentleman living at the house owned by Miss Stanbridge, or has been, eh?”

“She’s always had a relation――a cousin or nephew I believe he is――living with her. She brought him up from a mere lad, so I’ve been told, but he aint there so much as he used to be, and of late I’ve not seen much of him.”

“Ah! a relation, eh?”

“Yes; so I believe, but he’s not the party you are in search of. He’s been there for years.”

“And is not there somebody else?”

“Yes, lately there has been.”

“And do you know his name?”

“Certainly――Mr. Gatliffe.”

“You’ve been given to understand. Now tell me plainly. This Mr. Gatliffe is living with her not as a lodger but as――Well, you know what I mean, you are a woman of the world, Mrs. Mumms. Please answer me truly.”

“I shouldn’t like to say, sir. It aint no business of mine. There’s a good many couple a living together as aint man and wife, but that’s nobody’s business but their two selves. They both on ’em act on the square as far as I’m concerned, and there’s no call for me to round on ’em.”

“A very proper observation on your part. I wish everyone had your discretion, Mrs. Mumms; but you need not be afraid of speaking frankly to me. I know they are living together without your telling me so, and you know it.”

“S’pose I do, what of that? He’s a fine honourable young fellow as ever stepped in shoe leather, and everybody likes him.”

“That is true enough, but he is not there always――only occasionally.”

“No, he’s not always there; but I do hope and trust that you don’t intend him any harm.”

Mr. Wrench burst out into a loud laugh.

“Oh, dear me, no. Harm indeed! Of course not. What could have put that into your head?”

“Oh, I begs parding, sir. Meant no offence, but I should be sorry to get anybody into trouble.”

“You are not likely to do that. Now answer me one question before you go. See, here are five sovereigns, if you answer me truly.”

Mrs. Mumms was astounded at the sight of five sovereigns. Her breath seemed to be taken away.

“Do you consent?” cried her companion in a severe tone.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Speak the truth, that’s all. Mr. Gatliffe and Miss Stanbridge occupy one bedroom when he visits the house. I know they do, but that is one thing――I want to hear it from your lips.”

Mrs. Mumms took up the corner of her apron with which she wiped her lips, then her nose, and lastly her eyes.

“You hear what I say. Give me the desired information and the five pounds are yours. Why need you hesitate? If you won’t tell me I shall have no difficulty in finding somebody who will, possibly for a tenth part of this sum.”

“Well, then, they do occupy but one bedroom.”

“In short, he is to all intents and purposes her husband――in every respect but the marriage ceremony?”

“I should suppose so, but I do hope you are not going to bring them into trouble. I wish I had not said anything about them.”

“Don’t you be alarmed; nobody will interfere with your pair of turtle doves,” observed Mr. Wrench, with a short laugh. “Be of good cheer, Mrs. Mumms, and take up the money.”

He handed the gold pieces to his companion, who wrapped them up in a piece of dirty, crumpled paper, and transferred them to her pocket, without saying a word.

“What is the name of the girl who is servant to the establishment?” asked the detective, carelessly.

“Her name? Oh, Susan.”

“Susan what?”

“Susan Tarver.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Wrench wrote it down on a sheet of note paper which lay on the table before him.

“What do you want with her?” cried the charwoman, in a tone of alarm.

“I want nothing of her.”

“I hope you won’t mention anything about this to Susan――I do hope that.”

“I promise you not to do so; neither is it likely, seeing that I don’t know her and have no desire to make her acquaintance.”

Mrs. Mumms now rose and left in a state of trepidation, for she half-repented of having given the information for which she had been so liberally paid, but when she got home she was in better spirits and was well satisfied with her day’s work.

Mr. Wrench had now obtained as much as was necessary for his purpose, the cumbrous and expensive machinery of the law could be put in motion as soon as Mr. Chicknell and his aristocratic client chose. Mr. Wrench hastened to the lawyer’s office, and after this the sagacious attorney hastened down to Broxbridge.

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LXXIX. THE EARL AND HIS LEGAL ADVISER――A WIFE’S TREPIDATION

Mr. Chicknell knew perfectly well that he would be a welcome visitor to his client’s ancestral home, and he was in the best of spirits when he passed into the vestibule of the grand old mansion.

Earl Ethalwood was busily engaged in his laboratory when the lawyer made his appearance.

Aveline and Miss Jamblin had been sent to London for a change, under the charge of the good-tempered and vivacious Lady Marvlynn, so that the master of Broxbridge was without the companionship of the young ladies or the gouvernante.

He consented to part with them upon the condition that their visit to the metropolis was not of too protracted a duration.

To say the truth, Aveline did pretty much as she liked, and her grandfather did not oppose her in anything but the one grand wish of his life――this being a divorce from her low-born husband, as he was pleased to term him.

Mr. Chicknell gave his patron a succinct account of those circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted.

The earl was thunderstruck.

He had never for a moment counted on such an issue, but in the goblet of pleasure he drained there were a few drops of bitterness.

His pride was wounded.

Although he affected and, indeed, did treat the very name of Gatliffe with unmitigated disgust and contempt, he did not like the idea of his being so faithless to even the memory of his wife.

To take up with a woman of Laura Stanbridge’s class was most reprehensible.

“He’s a low-bred hound, and in saying this I have said all,” cried the earl. “I always told you so, Chicknell, and we have had many wrangles――if I may so term them――upon this subject. However, the worst is over now, and we have every reason to be thankful that the fellow has acted in such a discreditable way. Nevertheless his conduct rather surprises me.”

“It has surprised me, my lord, and it will surprise many others, I expect――more particularly your grand-daughter.”

“Poor girl! She clung to his memory with a pertinacity which was most remarkable.”

“She is not to be blamed for that, my lord.”

“I say she is!” cried the earl, in one of his tantrums――“I say she is! It is the only thing we disagree upon――have always disagreed upon.”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but did not offer any observation in reply.

“Mr. Wrench has done exceedingly well in this business, as, indeed, he always has done, and he shall not go unrewarded. Now what are your ulterior proceedings.”

“Matters are now simplified, and a divorce can be obtained without any difficulty.”

“You have enough evidence?”

“Wrench says so. It will, of course, be an unopposed suit, that is already understood.”

“Dear me, Chicknell, this is indeed joyful news. It seems to remove a weight off my heart, and give me renewed life and vigour. I cannot sufficiently express to you my sense of gratitude. Do, my dear friend, set to work at once. Lose no time, but avoid as much exposure as possible. I don’t want any public scandal.”

“You need not be under any apprehension, my lord; we shall run it through the court as quietly and expeditiously as possible. We have a plea, and that will suffice our purpose.”

The earl rose from his seat, rang the bell, and ordered wine and refreshments to be served. He was in a perfect delirium of delight, was loquacious, cheerful, and passed many flattering encomiums on the wisdom and zeal displayed by his legal adviser.

Chicknell had never seen him in such spirits. The dream of his life was about to be realised, and his darling Aveline would be separated for ever from the connection which he deemed a blot upon his escutcheon.

It did not occur to him that Gatliffe was the father of the boy who was destined on some future day to represent the long line of the Ethalwoods; had he thought of this possibly there might have been a few drops more of bitterness in his cup of pleasure.

Mr. Chicknell remained at the hall that night, and on the following morning hastened up to London to institute a suit in the Divorce Court, agreeable to the instructions received from his client.

Meanwhile Aveline was enjoying an uninterrupted round of pleasure in the metropolis. She was surrounded with hosts of fashionable swains, who flattered her to her heart’s content.

Lady Marvlynn knew everybody, and everybody knew Lady Marvlyvn.

She was one of those active, quick-witted, good-natured busybodies whom everyone appeared to like. She had the entrée into every coterie of fashionable society, and could say smart things without giving offence to any one.

Miss Jamblin was not taken everywhere with Aveline and her chaperon, but she saw more pleasure than she had seen during her whole life at Stoke Ferry Farm. Her position at the earl’s town house was a sort of union of friend, companion, or lady’s maid to the greater star in the firmament, Lady Aveline as she was termed.

Of course Aveline and the farmer’s daughter were to pay a visit to the opera before they returned to Broxbridge Hall. Lady Marvlynn had made her two young friends understand that they must see Patti.

She was the rage at the time. People felt disposed to fall down and worship her, and declared that there never was such a singer.

The same remark has been made when other celebrities have been alluded to, but that does not much matter. Patti was in the zenith of her popularity, and possibly she was at her best about this time.

So the two young ladies, Lady Marvlynn, and the Honourable Tufnel Oxmoor seated themselves in the earl’s carriage, which made direct for the grand entrance to Covent Garden.

It is needless to say that the house was crammed――it being a Patti night.

The opera was “La Somnambula,” one of her earliest triumphs――the opera in which Malibran, many years before, had so entranced the town by her matchless vocalisation and marvellous histrionic powers.

Lady Marvlynn, having adjusted her opera-glass to the right focus, began to proceed to take a survey of the leading notabilities in the stalls and boxes. She pointed out to Aveline many distinguished persons, and gave a running commentary on them.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “as I live, there is my old friend, the Marquis of Fincairn. I’ve not seen him for an age, indeed; but he’s looking remarkably well. I wonder who the lady is he has got with him?”

“Don’t you know?” said Oxmoor.

“No. I confess I do not.”

“It’s Totty Pinkstream, who was the reigning belle in Paris some short time since,” observed Oxmoor, in a whisper. “He doats on her――so I’m told.”

“Bah! he’s an old fool then.”

“Oh, Lady Marvlynn!” cried the gentleman.

“Hush, don’t speak so loud――and that’s the Totty we have heard so much of. Well, she’s distinguished in appearance, but not particularly beautiful.”

“She’s not bad-looking, and has a lovely pair of eyes.”

“I allow you gentlemen to be the best judges of female loveliness,” said Lady Marvlynn, hiding her face coquettishly behind her capacious fan.

Her companion bowed, but made no reply.

“Who is that lady in the second box from the stage?” inquired Aveline.

“Who, my dear? Well, that’s the Countess of Lanfoil――very charming, isn’t she, and dressed in such good taste? Her husband chooses her dresses, I have been told, and is very proud of her, but she is cold and unimpressionable, and cares but little for him. She has, however, hosts of admirers.”

“What! a married woman have admirers!” said Patty Jamblin. “How very odd.”

“Not at all, my dear; but hush, they are about to begin.”

The band struck up and played the overture, the curtain was raised, and the performance commenced. When Patti made her appearance she received a perfect ovation――the applause was prolonged to an inordinate extent.

Aveline and Miss Jamblin were both delighted with her. No wonder, seeing that they had never heard her equal.

When the first act was over, Aveline said――

“She’s grand――truly magnificent!”

“Yaas,” drawled Oxmoor, “very good, indeed. A most delightful creature――a child of impulse.”

“And cultivation,” suggested Lady Marvlynn.

“Oh, of course, she has cultivation――that’s generally admitted.”

“Nature has something to do in forming a singer, and art also. It is the union of the two that helps to form a great artiste.”

“Spoken like an oracle,” said the gentleman. “Upon my word, you are a practical philosopher, a critic, and a commentator all in one.”

“You flatter.”

A gentleman opened the door of the box and peered in.

“Ah, Rolf, how are you? Come in,” said Oxmoor, addressing the new comer.

“Let me introduce you. Lady Marvlynn, Mr. Rolf, theatrical critic to the Portsoken Gazette――Lady Aveline, Miss Jamblin.”

They all bowed and smiled, as is usual in such cases.

“She’s very fine to-night, better than usual, I think――is she not?”

“Yes, excellent,” returned the critic.

“Wonderful singer, is she not, sir?” observed Lady Marvlynn, not knowing very well what to say.

“Yes, has a magnificent organ.”

“There you go again,” cried Oxmoor. “A magnificent organ! A voice is not an organ.”

“It is not a barrel organ, I admit,” said Rolf.

“No, nor is it an organ at all. It is produced by the vocal and respiratory organs. By means of these organs a sound, or a series of sounds, either better or worse, as the case may be; but the voice itself is not an organ. I positively and emphatically deny that it is.”

“I have heard you say something of the kind before,” returned Rolf. “Perhaps you are correct in your theory. After all, it is but a figure of speech. It is necessary to speak by the card, it would appear, when addressing the Honourable Tufnel Oxmoor.”

“Oh, I can’t cope with you fellows of the press, you know,” observed the young aristocrat, twirling his moustache.

His friend laughed.

“I should like to have a voice, or organ as you term it,” said Oxmoor. “I would astonish their weak nerves.”

“You can’t astonish any person’s nerves,” cried Lady Marvlynn, “that is impossible.”

“And why not, pray?”

“Astonishment must proceed from the brain, or sensorium. Nerves are but threads of communication from the brain, and are not sentient. There are, it is true, nerves of voluntary and involuntary action, but they are incapable of being astonished. The phrase is, therefore, quite incorrect.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the critic. “You’ve got your answer now, Oxmoor. I would not presume to contradict her ladyship. The only answer I can give is that it is like your ‘organ,’ a mere figure of speech.”

“As you are so very particular, it is just as well to be correct, you know,” said her ladyship, tapping her friend on the elbow with the end of her fan. “Don’t you see, Oxmoor, dear boy?”

“Ah, I see and feel, too,” he returned, with a good-humoured smile.

The curtain drew up for the second act, and cut short this playful badinage.

Aveline Gatliffe had been charmed with the magnificent vocalisation of the prima donna, with the admirable orchestral effects, and the grandeur of the scenery; indeed, her attention had been so fixed upon the performance that she had given but little heed to the conversation which had been going on in the box.

Now she had no longer ears and eyes for the performers on the stage.

She turned deadly pale, and something seemed to deaden the pulsations of her heart.

She saw a gentleman in the fourth or fifth row of stalls; by his side sat a lady dressed in the height of fashion.

The gentleman was whispering soft words into her ear――so Aveline judged, for ever and anon she turned her face towards his and smiled.

At first she could not bring herself to believe that the gentleman was her husband, Tom Gatliffe, but she was but too well assured of this fact when she scanned the pair through her opera-glass.

She saw that he was attired in a dress suit, and that his companion was a woman of extreme beauty. She saw also, with the penetrating eye of a jealous woman, that they were on the most friendly and familiar terms.

She felt like one who is about to swoon. Her colour came and went, and the very tremour seemed to pass through her frame, and her evening’s amusement was at an end. She would have given worlds to be at home in her own boudoir.

How to sit out the performance she could not divine. Had she been by herself she would have left there and then, but, situated as she was, such a course was quite impracticable.

It was in vain that the voice of the gifted singer gave expression to the most seductive and entrancing strains. It was in vain that the chorus and orchestra poured forth a flood of melody.

Aveline heard them not. Her attention was revitted upon her husband and his fair partner.

“The green-eyed monster” was pressing with a leaden and oppressive weight upon the jealous wife, who forgot at this trying hour that she had deserted her husband for wealth and luxury.

“I hate and despise him,” she murmured, with supreme bitterness. “He never was my equal. Now he is a false, deceitful monster. How I despise him!”

“What is the matter with my darling pet?” exclaimed Lady Marvlynn, leaning forward, and whispering in the ear of her young charge.

“Oh nothing-nothing at all.”

“Nay, my dear, something seems amiss. You look pale, and do not seem yourself. Tell me what it is? Do you feel faint?”

“I have a headache――the heat is oppressive,” cried Aveline, not knowing what excuse to make.

“Ah, you cannot deceive me, my child. I feel assured that you are not well. When this act is over we will retire for a while.”

“I shall do very well where I am.”

But Lady Marvlynn was of a different opinion; so when the act drop fell she conducted her friend into the lobby, and from thence to the refreshment stall, where Aveline had some cooling drink.

“You are not looking at all well, dear,” said her ladyship. “And there must be some reason for this.”

“There is a reason,” whispered Aveline, “and a powerful one, but do not breathe a syllable to anyone.”

“My dear, do you suppose――――”

“No, no! I do not suppose. You have too much discretion.”

“What is it, then?”

“In the stalls my husband is seated.”

Lady Marvlynn gave a prolonged “Ah!” and looked astonished.

[Sidenote: No. 42.]

“And is he alone?” she inquired.

“No, he is not; he has a lady――I mean a female――with him; but take no more notice of this――I am better now.”

They returned to the box, and secretly, unobserved by any one, Aveline directed Lady Marvlynn’s attention to Gatliffe and Laura Stanbridge.

Her ladyship nodded, but said nothing.

“Lady Aveline is overcome with the heat, which, to say the truth, is most oppressive,” observed Oxmoor.

“Yes, no doubt. She’s fresh from the country, and not used to London life, hot theatres, overpowering gaslights, and all that sort of thing, you know,” said her ladyship, coming to the rescue.

When the third act was over Oxmoor, to the great relief of Aveline, took his departure, upon the plea that he had to meet someone at his club who was about to depart for Calcutta, and prior to his departure the members of the aforesaid club had invited him to a farewell supper.

Whether this plea was a pure invention mattered but little. The troubled wife was but too glad to be relieved of his company, for she felt that he had his eyes upon her for nearly the whole of the time he remained in the box.

It was a great relief to her when the curtain fell upon the performance, the last two acts of which had been entirely lost upon her.

Before she left the box she observed Gatliffe pass out of the stalls with his female companion. She remained in the cloak-room longer than there was any occasion for, that she might give time sufficient for her husband and Laura to pass out of the theatre.

She felt assured that she should faint if by any chance or accident she met them face to face.

Enveloping her head and shoulders in a shawl she passed through the grand entrance, and tripped into the earl’s carriage. When once in this vehicle she felt that she was safe.

Her husband and his fair enslaver would not be likely to cross her path. She was silent and thoughtful during the journey home, and Lady Marvlynn, who was at no loss to divine her thoughts, had the good sense to refrain from making any observation upon a subject which she knew must be a painful one.

She therefore contented herself with giving a running commentary upon the evening’s entertainment, and her conversation was chiefly directed to Miss Jamblin, who was at a loss to understand the reason for the altered demeanour of Aveline.

To say the truth, the farmer’s daughter’s experience of fashionable life did not in any way make her discontented with her own humble sphere. The more she saw of the “upper ten,” as they are termed, the more assured she was that real happiness was as little known or experienced by the votaries of fashion as it was by those who could not aspire to so exalted a position.

Patty was a simple-minded unsophisticated girl, who had but little taste for the blandishments of wealth and power; nevertheless she had become greatly attached to Aveline, who, throughout their brief acquaintance, had treated her with uniform kindness. She was, as a matter of course, much pained to find her so sad and thoughtful, and had sufficient penetration to comprehend that there was some powerful cause for this.

What the cause was she was at a loss to divine.

When they returned to the earl’s town mansion Aveline excused herself upon the plea of indisposition, and retired to her own room. She kissed Patty and Lady Marvlynn, and then withdrew.

“She’s not well,” said the farmer’s daughter, after she had left the reception-room.

“No, not very well. You see, my dear, she is so excitable, so remarkably impressionable, so delicately organised that it does not take much to upset her. Poor Aveline, she’s very sensitive.”

“I think she is, but there has been nothing to put her out――that I am aware of――nothing has occurred to-night.”

“Ah, dear me, no, nothing――positively nothing――except the heat and over-fatigue, but after a night’s rest she’ll be herself again.”

“I hope so, I’m sure,” murmured Patty, who did not, however, see that the excuses offered by the diplomatic Lady Marvlynn were sufficient to account for the distraught manner of Aveline. However, she did not venture to disagree with her ladyship, and so sat down to the supper-table with the best grace she could.

We have intimated that Lady Aveline returned to her own chamber. When she had reached this she closed the door, bolted it, threw herself in an easy chair, and burst into a passionate flood of tears.

“I never would have believed it,” she exclaimed. “The perfidious monster! I abhor and contemn him, and never wish to set eyes on him again.”

With all her affected indifference and love of position, she still had, deep down in the bottom of her heart, some latent love for the man who, in an earlier day, she had sworn to love, honour, and obey.

How unmindful she had been of this vow we have already seen; but, notwithstanding that she had cast him on one side and given him up for the new sphere of action which presented itself to her with so much witchery, she could not bear to see him whispering soft words in the ears of a rival――and such a rival!

The thought was a maddening one, and as it passed through her brain the tears fell thick and fast from her swollen eyelids.

She was glad, however, to have her hour or two of poignant sorrow alone, and under the present circumstances could ill brook companionship.

She sat for some time in her bedchamber a prey to tumultuous and agonising thoughts. She would have liked half an hour’s interview with the gentle and good Mrs. Maitland, who had been more than a mother to her. Did she know the sort of life Tom Gatliffe was leading?

She upbraided herself for neglecting Mrs. Maitland. If it could be arranged she would like to have her at the hall. She resolved to send her an invitation when she got back to Broxbridge. The earl would give his consent. He would not be cruel enough to make any objection to one who had been so many years the guardian of his grand-daughter.

Aveline retired to bed and sobbed herself to sleep, which throughout the life-long night was fretful, broken, and disturbed.

On the following day, at her own request, she returned with Lady Marvlynn and Patty Jamblin to Broxbridge Hall.

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Chapter LXXX

HOME LIFE OF CHARLES PEACE――A MUSICAL EVENING――THE DETECTIVE’S STORY.

As far as outward appearance was concerned, our hero at this time was leading a quiet, respectable sort of life. He was to be seen at work in his shop for the greater portion of the day, and was on friendly and familiar terms with most of his neighbours.

In the evenings he entertained his visitors in a rational way――playing his violin and singing duets with his step-son――so that most of his friends regarded him as a genial fellow, a little egotistical perhaps, but withal an agreeable companion.

He appears to have had remarkable control over animals and birds, having at his house the billygoat before alluded to, two cats, three dogs, several guinea pigs, a parrot, and a cockatoo, together with a collection of canaries and other song birds.

His family gave him but little trouble: indeed, they ministered to his pleasure during his hours of relaxation――and, with all his faults, it is pretty generally admitted that he was remarkably kind and indulgent to his docile pets.

The sociable evenings in his house at Sheffield were in many ways pleasurable ones.

The police speak of him as being a clever fellow, who, as a cracksman, was A1 in his profession.

The London police speak of him with respect, and it takes a good deal for them to get over their contempt for provincial people in the burglarious and other professions.

Though he gave evidence of having a thorough contempt for the suffering inflicted on persons, it has been asserted “that he would not kill a mouse” if he had been required to do so.

He further declared that if he had to kill his meat he should have to go without it all his life.

Whether from curiosity or interest, he had studied carefully the major portions of the Scriptural writings, had read opinions on them, and manifested much skill in controversy on theological questions.

One afternoon when Peace lived in the Brocco he had a long conversation with the Rev. Dr. Potter on religious topics, and astonished that gentleman by the knowledge of the subject.

Even the most prejudiced against the convict, and who knew anything of his antecedents, admit that he was not a man adicted to drinking intoxicating liquors. He appears to have had a horror of a drunken man, and it is asserted that he never exceeded, save in very rare instances, the bounds of moderation.

This, the more remarkable, seeing that his fiddling at public-houses would lead him into the habit of taking more than was good for him. It is, however, quite clear that he had strength of mind sufficient to resist any such temptation.

One evening, when it so chanced that our hero had one or two friends in his parlour, Bandy-legged Bill happened to drop in.

“Ah, you are engaged. I’ll call again some other time,” said the gipsy.

“No time like the present――come in you old cripple,” returned Peace, “and make your miserable life happy.”

Bill did not want a second invitation. He was introduced to the company present, and sat himself down.

“We are just having a little practice,” observed Peace. “This young girl is a pupil of mine.”

The gipsy glanced at the person alluded to, and beheld a sweet-looking child, who, to all appearances, was about ten or eleven years of age. She held in her hands a flutina.

“A pupil, eh, and a very clever little thing, I’ll dare be sworn,” said the gipsy.

“Pretty well,” returned Peace; “but you shall hear and judge for yourself. Now Esther, dear,” this was addressed to the girl, “let the gentleman hear what you can do, or rather what we can both do.”

Music was placed before Esther, then Peace led off with his violin, while the child accompanied him on the flutina.

The duet was most creditably performed. The girl was a little nervous at first, but gradually gaining courage as she proceeded, did credit to her master.

The occupants of the room were loud in their praises, and the general impression seemed to be that Peace’s pupil was a prodigy. Without going so far as this, it must be admitted that she was possessed of considerable ability, and her master was very proud of her.

She was the daughter of a poor operative; Peace therefore gave her lessons gratuitously. He had an eye to business, however, and very shortly after this he took her with him to public-houses where she sang and played duets with her master.

“And who has taught you to play so beautifully?” said one of our hero’s visitors, addressing herself to the child.

“Mr. Peace; I never had any other master,” she answered.

“Ah, but you don’t know half her accomplishments. She sings like a nightingale. Now, dear, let the gentleman hear you sing. Let’s have the ‘Life Clock.’ Come, don’t be bashful.”

After some hesitation the child commenced, Peace playing a violin accompaniment. The words were as follows――

There is a little mystic clock, No human eye hath seen, That beateth on and beateth on, From morning until e’en.

And when the soul is wrapped in sleep, And heareth not a sound, It ticks and ticks the live-long night, And never runneth down.

Ah! wondrous is that work of art Which knells the parting hour! But art ne’er formed nor mind conceived The life-clock’s magic power.

Nor set in gold nor decked with gems, By wealth and pride possessed, But rich or poor, or high or low, Each bears it in his breast.

When life’s deep stream ’mid beds of flowers All still and softly glides, Like wavelet’s step with a gentle beat It warns of passing tides.

When threatening darkness gathers o’er, And hope’s bright visions flee, Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar, It beateth heavily.

When passion nerves the warrior’s arm For deeds of hate and wrong, Though heeded not the fearful sound, The knell is deep and strong.

Such is the clock that measures life, Of flesh and spirit blended, And thus ’twill run within the breast Till that strange life is ended.

The voice of the singer was singularly sweet and sympathetic. The ditty was simple, but the words were set to a flowing melody, and the young, fresh voice of the little maiden entranced the ears of her audience.

“My word, Charlie, but she is most charming,” cried the owner of a public-house in the immediate neighbourhood. “You must bring her with you when you next come.”

“She’s too diffident at present to sing before all you ruffians,” cried Peace, with a smile. “No, no, guv’nor, I want her to do better things than that.”

“Well, but it ’ud be good practice, you know,” observed the gipsy.

“Possibly; but she’s not my daughter, and I can’t do as I like. She’s only my pupil, and is at present but a beginner.”

“She does jolly well for a beginner, old man,” cried the publican, “and there’s a lot in her. She’s a lump of talent――any one can see that.”

“Shut up,” said Peace; “you’ll make the child vain.”

“Well, I’m sorry I spoke, if you take it like that.”

“Here, this is your sort of customer,” observed Peace, making a motion to his billygoat.

The animal at once stood on its hind legs, and, as its master played a merry tune, danced to the sound of the music in a most comical and grotesque manner.

The occupants of the parlour laughed till they cried again.

Peace put the goat through a number of tricks and antics, which were irresistibly droll.

“He’s a regular stunner, that’s what he is,” said the gipsy. “I’d give the world to have an animal like that; but, lor bless you, I suppose I shouldn’t be able to do much with him. Horses are more in my line.”

After this performance was over Peace went through one with his two dogs, who were as docile as the goat; they seemed to understand every motion or look of their master.

The little singer, Esther Genge, petted and fondled the animals, who seemed to know her almost as well as they did their master.

“Why don’t you do a show, old man of this happy united family?” observed Bandy-legged Bill.

“It aint so easy as you imagine, and costs a lot of money in moving about from town to town,” said our hero.

“Ah, I ’spose it does.”

“Ah, yes, you want a lot of the rhino to begin that sort of business; besides that, I should soon get tired of it.”

“Well, pitch us a stave, Charlie,” said the publican; “fire away.”

“My voice isn’t up to much,” observed Peace, “but I’ll do my best.”

With this he played a long prelude on his violin, and then sang the following:――

HOLD YOUR HEAD UP LIKE A MAN.

If the stormy winds should rustle, While you tread the world’s highway, Still against them bravely tussle, Hope and labour day by day. Falter not, no matter whether There is sunshine, storm, or calm, And in every kind of weather Hold your head up like a man.

If your brother should deceive you, And should act a traitor’s part, Never let his treason grieve you, Jog along with lightsome heart. Fortune seldom follows fawning, Boldness always is the plan; Hoping for a better dawning Hold your head up like a man.

Earth, though e’er so rich and mellow, Yields not for the worthless drone, But the bold and honest fellow, He can shift and stand alone. Spurn the knave of every nation, Always do the best you can, And no matter what your station Hold your head up like a man.

Of course everyone professed to be delighted with the ditty.

Peace at one time had a very fair voice, but it told better in concerted pieces, not being so well adapted for solos, but he sang in time and tune. His knowledge of music could not fail to ensure that.

In the course of the evening he sang a duette with the little girl.

This was executed with remarkable precision, and created quite a furore.

Singular to relate, one of the persons present, was a retired detective, who had been introduced to Peace by Mr. Wrench.

He knew perfectly well that our hero had been in trouble, and had done his four years but that was no reason for his discontinuing his acquaintance with Peace, who he hoped and believed was at this time a reformed character.

“Upon my word, Peace,” said Mr. Hilton, the detective alluded to, “you ought to do well; for――I don’t say it out of flattery――you are clever in many ways.”

“It isn’t the most clever persons who get on in this world,” remarked Peace. “I am afraid, if we examined closely, that the contrary is the case. No one ought to know this better than yourself.”

“A man can’t do much nowadays without capital,” remarked the publican. “He may strive and work his fingers to the bone, but unless he has the fore horse by the head it aint of much use.”

“There’s a great deal of truth in that,” returned Hilton; “but we come into the world without anything, and when we go out of it we can’t take anything with us, so I suppose it’s pretty much the same in the long run.”

“Our friend here has seen something of life, mind you that,” said Peace. “He’s been a celebrated man in his day. You wouldn’t believe it, to look at him, that he has been a detective; but you see,” he added, with a smile, “we are all honest people here, and so it does not much matter.”

“All honest till you are found out, old man,” cried Hilton.

The company burst out in a roar at this last observation.

“We must be a little cautious,” remarked one of the company.

“Ah! don’t mind me; I’ve given up the business long since,” said Hilton.

“You found it a harassing sort of life, I suppose?”

“Well, I don’t know that I did. I have often heard it said that the best part of my life must have been a harassing and painful one, but it was not without its pleasures. The scene of my operations was chiefly in the city of Edinburgh, and as my reputation grew I was obliged to get up at midnight to pursue thieves and recover property, often with little or no clue, and was constrained to trust to chance and wait, like Mr. Micawber, till ‘something turned up.’”

“And something generally did turn up,” said Peace, with a knowing wink at the company.

“Well, yes, generally, I admit; for I need hardly say if any profession nowadays can be enlivened by adventure it is that of a detective officer.

“With the enthusiasm of a sportsman whose aim is to hunt and shoot innocent animals, he is impelled by the superior motive of benefiting mankind by ridding society of pests, and restoring the broken fortunes of suffering victims.”

“Charming occupation,” suggested Peace.

“It’s all very well for you to make game of our business, my friend, but let me tell you that the ingenuity of the detective is taxed, while it is solicited by the sufferers and repaid by the applause of a generous public. I need hardly say how very much is due to decision in the business of detection. A single minute will often peril the object of your inquiry, and then it does not often happen――at least I have not found it――that the patience that is required in ferreting is joined to the power of dashing at an emergency.”

“You can’t expect an impetuous man to be patient,” observed Peace. “All are not constituted alike, but it requires a man of exceptional qualities to hunt down thieves or robbers, and, as you say, inflexibility of purpose or decision is absolutely requisite.”

“My friend, M‘Levy,” said Hilton, “who was a celebrated man in his day, and who perhaps brought more offenders to justice than any other man of his class, given an instance, in his work called ‘The Curiosities of Crime,’ of the value of decision.”

“Does he? and what might the case be to which he alludes?” inquired Peace, who was always interested in anything appertaining to crime or criminals; it was an interest which might be said to be engrained within him.

“If you wish to hear it, I can’t do better than give it in his own words, for he was a far better hand at telling a story or narrative than I am myself,” said Hilton.

“On the 4th of January, 1852,” says M‘Levy, “as a man whose name has by some mischance been omitted from my book, was going along the head of the Cowgate, he was instantaneously set upon by three young men, thrown down, and robbed of his watch. A man of the name of W. Duncan, who came up at the moment to lift up the stunned victim, met the robbers as they made off. It was dark, and he had a difficulty in catching marks, so as to be able to identify them. All that he could say when he came to the office was only general, so that it would have been impossible to proceed with any certainty on his description. In addition to this disadvantage, it happened that any information that I could get from him was got at the door of the office, where I met him as he hurried in. I was just on the eve of setting out on a hunting expedition, accompanied by my assistant, Reilly, with a draper, who had got taken from his shop a quantity of goods, and whose case was urgent. How can I get so much from Duncan――enough to point my mind towards three young men――David Dunnett, Robert Brodie, and Archibald Miller――the last of whom I knew to be a returned convict.”

“Ah, you knew the gentlemen, eh?” cried one of listeners.

“Not me” said Hilton. “I am giving you the narrative as M‘Levy tells it in his work.”

“M‘Levy!――what a rum name!” observed the publican. “A Scotch Jew, I suppose?”

“Nothing of the kind. M‘Levy was an Irishman by birth, though he followed the avocation of a detective, like myself, in the city of Edinburgh. Of course it was impossible,” says M‘Levy, “that the man could give me a description of all three, but he said sufficient for me to draw my own conclusions, for when once a gang is formed, they generally act in concert, so that if you get a clue to one, the other birds are easily trapped. The particular line of the suspected persons, I knew perfectly well, was robbing from the person, and knowing this, I was more easily led to the conclusion that they were the guilty parties――at least such was my impression. It was only that, not a positive or absolute conviction; and, indeed, so much was I taken up with the draper’s business, that I sent Duncan to report regularly.”

“Duncan?”

“Yes, Duncan is in his grave now, and nothing can touch him further,” remarked Mr. Hilton, sententious.”

In the circumstances (continues M‘Levy narrative), the affair was soon out of my mind, occupied as I was with the poor draper, who sighed for his goods, and no doubt thought that I was the man to repair his loss.

A reputation thus gets a man into toils, but I hope I never regretted this consequence, so long as I could give my poor services to anxious, and often miserable victims.

How often have I walked through Edinburgh in the middle of the night, and far on in the morning――when all were asleep but those who turn night into day――accompanied by some silent man or woman, groaning inwardly over a loss sufficient to break their fortunes and affect them for life――threading dark, noisome wynds, entering dens where nothing was heard but cursing, and nothing seen but deeds without shame, endeavouring in the midst of all this sea to find the sighed-for property, or detect the cruel robber.

Wearied to the uttermost, I have often despaired, at the very moment when I was to pounce upon what I sought, redeem my spirits, and render happy my fellows.

In the present case I had a task of the same kind. We went through a great part of the Old Town, upstairs and downstairs; through long dark lobbies, and into all kinds of habitations, but the draper was not that night, at least, to be made happy.

We had entirely failed, and were all knocked up by disappointment and fatigue.

If the robbery at the Cowgate had scarcely taken hold of me when we set out, all interest had passed away, if not all recollection.

Some hope had taken us over to the far end of the Pleasance, and we were returning by that street. The hour was late――between twelve and one o’clock――and a dark night, every sound hushed.

We were worn out with fatigue, and were fit only for our beds. I think we had got as far as the foot of Adam-street, when up came three young fellows, so rapidly that they were within a yard of us before they saw us or we saw them.

I did not hesitate a moment. “Seize them!” I cried.

We sprang upon them on a sudden impulse. I seized Miller and Dunnett each with a hand while Reilly engaged Brodie.

A fierce struggle ensued, as you can readily imagine, during which I cried, “Search Brodie.”

And no sooner was the cry raised than Brodie threw something away from him as far as he could throw it. The sound of the article seemed to be music to the ear of the draper.

He ran at once to the spot and picked up a silver watch. The very “ticker” that had been taken from the man in the Cowgate three hours before.

In the meantime the struggle continued, and man but those who have had to deal with robbers can form an idea of the energy they display when caught suddenly after an exploit.

Then the worst passions are aroused, and the terror of apprehension gives them a power which is perfectly marvellous. Were this not so criminals would never escape as they have been frequently known to do out of the hands of courageous and determined officers.

At length, and receiving some aid from our valiant draper, who lost the sense of his loss in a kind of revenge against the class from which he had suffered, we succeeded in quelling them, whereto we were probably aided, too, by passengers who stopped to witness the row.

We landed them all safely, and they got their reward. Brodie, who had the watch, was sentenced to seven years’ transportation; Miller, the returned convict, got two years’ imprisonment; against Dunnet, not proven, for there was no proper identification. I have said that Miller was a returned convict. I am not sure but that the old notion that punishment tends to reformation hangs yet about many minds. For God’s sake, let us get quit of that.

I have had through my hands so many convicted persons, that the moment I have known they were loose I have watched them almost instinctively for a new offence. The simple truth is, that punishment hardens.

It is forgotten by the hopeful people that it is clay they have to work upon, not gold, and, therefore, while they are passing the material through the fire, they are making bricks, not golden crowns of righteousness.

Enough, too, has been made of the evident enough fact that they must continue their old courses because there is no asylum for them.

You may build as many asylums as you please, but the law of these strange nurslings of society’s own maternity cannot be changed in this way.

I say nothing of God’s grace――that is above my comprehension――but, except for that, we need entertain no hope of the repentance and amendment of regular thieves and robbers.

They have perhaps their use――they can be made examples of to others, but seldom or never good examples to themselves.

“There are instances of reformation, I suppose,” said one of the company. “Once a thief, always a thief, is not a very humane doctrine.”

“There are instances, of course, but they form the exception to the rule,” observed Mr. Hilton. “But that the habitual criminal, as he is termed, will always exist, is, I fear, fated; but modern experience tells us that they may be diminished by simply drawing them when very young within the circle of civilisation, in place of the old way of keeping them out of it.”

“Some will never reform, do what you will,” remarked Peace, “and this is a very sad reflection.”

He could moralise with the best of them, and went on for the space of several minutes discoursing upon the question of the treatment of the criminal part of the community. He blamed the government more than the public, or, indeed, the felons, and talked so morally, and in such a proper manner, that his listeners were charmed with his discourse.

Then when the subject began to prove wearisome he played a fantasia on his violin, and made the little girl, his pupil, dance to the sound of the music.

His guests appeared to enjoy themselves――indeed they could hardly fail to do so for Peace, in addition to being an entertainer, played the part of a host in a highly satisfactory manner. Mr. Hilton was the first to leave. After his departure the publican said――

“Ah! a very nice chap, that friend of yours.”

“Yes, pretty well, for a detective.”

At this observation they all laughed, as a matter of course, and some chaffing went on which Peace bore with admirable good temper until the remainder of the company left, with the exception of Bandy-legged Bill, who remained behind to have a tête-à-tete with his boon companion and accomplice in crime.

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