LXXXIX. CHARLES PEACE AND THE DYSONS…

LXXXIX. CHARLES PEACE AND THE DYSONS

Everybody will agree with us when we declare that Peace’s acquaintance with the Dysons is altogether incomprehensible.

How he managed to force himself upon these two persons, how he contrived to have so strong a hold on Mrs. Dyson, appears to be the strangest and most inexplicable part of his career.

He persecuted her with a pertinacity which was almost unparalleled.

Whether he was really attached to her it is not possible to say, but it must be admitted that his conduct at this time was more like that of a madman than of a rational being.

Mr. Dyson, the ill-fated gentleman who was murdered in 1876 by the miscreant Peace, was married in 1866 at Cleveland, Ohio, and took a house at Finsbury. From thence he removed to Highfield, afterwards to Heeley, and again to Darnall, and from Darnall they moved to Banner-cross-terrace.

There is just a short period of the history and phase in the existence of Mr. Arthur Dyson after his arrival in this country from America, says a fellow countryman of his, which may not be uninteresting. Soon after his arrival he made application to the resident engineer of the North-Eastern Railway Company at York for employment as a civil engineer and surveyor, and his credentials were of such a character that an engagement was entered into with him. The character of his occupation in America led to the anticipation that he would be able to find “his way about here,” and that in fact his services might prove to be of a most useful character.

On presenting himself for the purpose of commencing his duties, his personal appearance was the source of considerable curiosity and surprise amongst the remainder of the officials in the engineer’s office.

He was extremely thin and singularly tall, measuring over six feet; and he wore a low felt hat, as he afterwards explained to one of the staff, for the purpose of abstracting from his great height and from the observation which it had led to amongst those with whom he had to associate.

He cut a singular figure when engaged in his occasional duties as a draughtsman at the table which was general to the rest of the staff, and to mitigate the inconvenience which must have attended his tallness in the performance of this part of his duties, some special arrangements were made by which he might be able to keep a more upright position. Despite his great height, he is described as being as “straight as a poplar.”

The general bearing of Mr. Dyson was that of a gentleman, and whether in conversation or written communication with those around him, he never bent from this position, and, as a consequence, commanded general respect.

When he took his engagement in York, he dated from the Firs, near Rotherham, where he said that his wife was residing; and whilst he remained in the ancient city he lodged with a Mr. Waddington, of Holgate-lane.

He was engaged there for only about two months, much of the time being occupied in surveying various stations on the York and Whitby line.

He had at last been sent for this purpose to Grosmont Station, and as after his departure, as it was expected, for that place, nothing was heard of him for a fortnight, inquiry was made at Grosmont, and it was found that he had not been there.

This led to an intimation being sent to him at the address near Rotherham that his return to duty was not required, and to the termination of his engagement with the North-Eastern Railway Company.

Peculiarity was noticed about the unfortunate gentleman, which gave rise at the time to the impression that something preyed upon his mind, and he on more than one occasion, in intimating to one of his superiors a desire that he should be allowed weekly to visit his wife, hinted that he suffered from some domestic trouble.

What the nature of this domestic trouble was it is not easy to say.

Possibly it might be in some way connected with the mischievous, tormenting little rascal, Peace.

While the Dysons were at Darnall Peace was a frequent visitor at their house.

Mr. Dyson, for some considerable time after his first becoming acquainted with our hero, conceived a certain amount of partiality for him, and, in consequence of this, Peace soon became on intimate terms with both husband and wife; his connection with the latter has never been clearly established.

It is, however, quite certain that his attentions to Mrs. Dyson were most marked and persistent.

She went about with him to various places of amusement, and was with him also at the Sheffield summer fair, 1876, and also to several public-houses――this was proved at the magisterial examination.

This familiarity with Peace greatly annoyed Mr. Dyson, who was a discreet, equably-disposed, well-conducted man.

He was greatly incensed at his wife’s intimacy with our hero, and as time went on he spoke his mind pretty plainly, but Peace was not a man to be snubbed easily――he openly defied Mr. Dyson, and continued his persecutions of his erratic wife.

It is certain that for a considerable period he had a powerful hold of her――not of her affections perhaps, but her vanity was such that she continued on friendly terms with him long after her husband had expressed his dislike to the man.

One afternoon she had been with him to his brother’s public-house, where, it appears, there were singing and dancing.

She bent her steps in the direction of Darnall. Peace insisted on accompanying her, and as the pair were proceeding along they came in sight of a well-known roadside inn, with a garden in its front; here they stopped and had some refreshment.

“It’s no use your thinking of giving me the cut, old woman,” said Peace. “I’ll stick to you while I’ve life, and I’m not going to be shunted.”

“I wish you’d hold your tongue, or, at any rate, not speak so loud,” cried his companion. “I never met with such a man in all my life.”

“I am devotedly attached to you, and you know it,” whispered Peace; “and nothing in the world shall make me give you up.”

“You are talking like a fool.”

“No matter about that――I’m saying what I mean. I tell you again, I won’t be cast off. I love you too well for that. Do you hear?”

“I hear, of course; but I have a kind good husband, and must not listen to your nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense――it is the solemn truth. You don’t know what sort of man you have to deal with. I would give up everything for your sake. Can a man say fairer than that?”

“I don’t want you to give up anything for my sake. All I want is for you to keep at a respectful distance.”

“Then I won’t do anything of the sort,” cried Peace, in a fury, and making such a hideous grimace that his companion was frightened.

“I won’t――not for you or any one else,” he repeated in a louder tone.

“Do, for goodness’ sake, mind what you are saying,” murmured his companion.

“I do mind, and I hope you do also. I tell you again, I won’t give you up. We’ve been companions and friends for a long time, and it is not because your stately, mighty big fellow of a husband has taken a dislike to me that our friendship is to cease. Listen; I’ve got a good lump of money, and it will be yours if you’ll only consent to fly with me.”

The woman burst out into a loud laugh.

“Fly with you!” she exclaimed. “You must be mad to make such a proposition. No, no, my friend; I know what is right and proper.”

“I’ll make you do so,” he exclaimed, making another grimace, and regarding her with a malicious grin, which was more like that of a satyr than a human being.

He caught her by the arm, which he pinched with savage grip.

“Leave go!” she ejaculated. “What have I done that you should treat me thus?”

“I’ll never leave you, never give you up as long as I have life,” he returned.

“Oh! you tormenting man! I will not remain with you any longer.”

“You shall!” he returned quickly. You shan’t leave; I won’t let you. Don’t think to get the better of me, my lady. You shan’t go.”

Mrs. Dyson gave utterance to a faint scream, when, to the surprise of her and her pertinacious companion, Mr. Dyson came in front of the arbour in which they were seated.

“What is the matter?” he inquired. Then, for the first time, catching sight of Peace, he said, in a tone of anger――

“How is it I find you, sir, annoying my wife again?

I must request you to abstain from this unseemly conduct. If you do not, I shall take means to prevent you.”

“Shut up!” cried Peace, “and mind your own business. This is a public place, and as such, I have as much right to be here as you have. So shut up, I say.”

“You are an impertinent fellow,” said Mr. Dyson, seizing him by the collar, and dragging him forcibly from the alcove, “and deserve a thrashing.”

Peace slipped deftly from the grasp of his assailant, and retiring back for some little distance, he bent down his head, and rushed forward, making a full butt at him.

The attack was so sudden and unexpected, that Mr. Dyson fell to the ground with considerable force, and was for the space of a few minutes utterly powerless and prostrated.

One of the waiters of the establishment came to his assistance, helped him up, and there was a general expression of surprise and disgust at the cowardly action. A search was made for Peace, who had however, deemed it prudent to beat a retreat.

He was nowhere to be found.

“The contemptible, despicable little wretch!” exclaimed Mr. Dyson. “The spiteful, malicious scoundrel!”

“He is the torment of our lives, dear,” returned Mrs. Dyson. “Oh, I do wish we could find means of being rid of the ruffian.”

“I’ll get a summons against him, and punish him, as he deserves to be punished.”

“That’s the best plan, sir,” observed the landlord. “There are plenty of witnesses who can speak to the assault.”

“The man is our evil genius, I do believe,” said Mr. Dyson. “I have thought so for some time. He has been the bane of our existence, and has caused us more anxiety and trouble than I can at the present moment describe. He’s a most venomous creature.”

“He’s a reptile, that’s what he is!” cried Mrs. Dyson. “But, never mind, dear, we can take measures to bring him to justice.”

Mr. and Mrs. Dyson returned home; the former was greatly disgusted with Peace’s conduct, and upbraided his wife for having consented to be his companion. The latter offered every possible excuse, and said that it was no fault of hers, that she was afraid of him, that he was a dangerous designing man, who persecuted her in a manner which was altogether unaccountable.

In his reply to this Mr. Dyson said she must have given him some encouragement, or he never would be so pertinacious.

After a wrangle Mr. Dyson left the house and proceeded in the direction of the line where his services were required, and his wife strove to calm herself as best she could.

Evening came on, and as she sat at her toilette in one of the upstairs rooms of her domicile, she was suddenly aroused by some sand or gravel being thrown violently against the window panes of her bedroom.

She looked out and beheld Peace at the side of the house.

“What do you want now?” cried she, opening the window.

“You,” he returned, whereupon he threw a pebble stone, round which a piece of paper was wrapped, into the open casement.

“Go about your business; I will have nothing to say to you,” said Mrs. Dyson.

“Won’t you? I know better than that. Read!”

She unfolded the paper, and read its contents, which were as follows:――

“Don’t flatter yourself that you can elude me. I am here, as you see, again. Come down, or it will be worse for you.”

“Go away!” said Mrs. Dyson, looking out. “I don’t want to have any conversation with you, and I positively refuse to come down.”

“You do?” screamed Peace, making a face at her. “You refuse?”

“Most positively.”

“I’ll break into the house, and force you to hear me!” he cried, with a malicious grin. “You know enough of me that I am not likely to take such an answer. I will make you do what I wish.”

“Oh, you horrible man!”

“Horrible――am I?” He drew a revolver from his pocket. “You will make me do something horrible if you don’t mind,” he ejaculated.

“I’ll call my husband, and let him answer you,” returned Mrs. Dyson.

“Your husband, the poor fool!” said Peace, in a jeering tone. “Do you think I am to be deceived? Your husband is far away. But if he were at home it would be much the same. Come down and let me in.”

The wretched woman was so alarmed, that she went down from the upper room and opened the front door.

“For mercy’s sake, Peace, do go away――there’s a good fellow. I must not and will not have anything to say to you, after your cowardly conduct.”

He tormentingly laughed at this last observation.

He placed one arm round her shoulders, drew her towards him, and endeavoured to embrace her.

She was a powerful woman, and struggled desperately to release herself from his grasp.

A violent struggle ensued, in which Mrs. Dyson struck Peace repeatedly with her clenched fist; but his perseverance was beyond all bounds.

He fought like a demon, and his conduct, taken altogether, was like that of a perfect madman.

How long the conflict would have continued, and what would have been its issue, it is not possible to say, had it not been for the unlooked-for assistance arriving.

A policeman, who happened to be passing, attracted Mrs. Dyson’s attention. She called to him, and he at once came to the rescue.

“Take this man away,” she said.

“Do you charge him?” inquired the constable.

“No. All I want of you is to take him away. Remove him from these premises.”

“Now then, you sir,” said the officer, “move on, or I’ll lock you up.”

He gave Peace a push, which sent him reeling.

“You keep your hands to yourself, and don’t assault me,” said he, “or I’ll lodge a complaint against you; mind you that.”

“Will you go? If you don’t――well I shall know what to do.”

“You’re a big man in your own estimation, but a very little one in everybody else’s,” returned Peace, who, however, thought it best to get clear off; and so, making mocking gestures as he went along, he went his way without further ado.

It was a great relief to Mrs. Dyson when he was out of sight; but she was not at all certain about his returning shortly.

However, he did not trouble her again that night.

This attack, together with a variety of others of a similar nature, was the reason the Dysons had for leaving Darnall.

They took a house at Bannercross, to be farther removed from their tormentor.

The trouble and misery brought upon the Dysons by Peace is almost incalculable. We cannot do better than place before the reader Mrs. Dyson’s own account of her connection with the murderer of her husband:――

“When we went to Darnall,” said Mrs. Dyson, “our troubles began.

“But for our going there, Mr. Dyson would probably have been still alive, and I should have been spared all that has happened since.

“You will naturally ask how I became acquainted with Peace. It was impossible to avoid becoming acquainted with him.

“Besides, at that time I did not know the sort of man he really was. He lived the next door but one to us at Darnall, and he used generally to speak to Mr. Dyson on going in and out.

“Mr. Dyson was a gentleman, and, of course, when Peace spoke to him he used to reply.

“But Peace wasn’t content with a merely speaking acquaintance. He wanted to force himself upon us. He did all he could until he succeeded in accomplishing this.

“One of his favourite means was to place his parrots and his other birds upon a wall. He would then call our attention to them, and to what they could do, and thus get us into conversation with him.

“Introduction! you say. No, there was no introduction. He introduced himself, and would have you to talk with him whether you would or no.

“At first Mr. Dyson did not object, and Peace became a constant visitor to the house.

“He was plausibility itself. To hear him talk you would have thought him the most harmless of men. I am certain that much which he has succeeded in doing, both before and after the murder, is the result of the power which he has been able to exercise by his tongue and manner.

“Of course, when we went to Darnall we did not know what he was. To us he appeared to be simply a picture-framer in anything but good circumstances, for he had but little business to do, and his wife used to go out every morning washing bottles.

“We considered they were poor. I am, of course, now speaking of the time when we first went to live at Darnall. Mr. Dyson soon begun to tire of him. My husband had travelled much, and could converse well on many subjects.

“Peace was plausible enough, but his language was not good; in fact, he very soon began to show that he was anything but a gentleman. Mr. Dyson could not stand that; and, besides, he had seen something which disgusted him.”

“Do you mind telling me what that was?”

“Well, it was some obscene pictures, and my husband said he didn’t like a man of that kind, and wouldn’t have anything more to do with him. Besides, another thing greatly repelled Mr. Dyson. It was this. Peace wanted to take him to Sheffield to show him what he called the ‘sights of the town.’

“Mr. Dyson knew what that meant, and being, as I have said, a gentleman, he became much disgusted at Peace and annoyed that he should force his company upon us.

“My husband had been accustomed to different society. But we couldn’t get rid of him. We were bound to show him common politeness. Though he must have seen that we didn’t want his company, he forced himself upon us.

“He would, for instance, drop in just when we were sitting down to tea, and we were compelled almost to ask him to have a cup.

“His constant visits to the house at last became intolerable to us, and then it was that my husband placed his card in the garden, desiring Peace not to annoy him or his family.

“When he found that he could no longer gain access to the house, Peace became awfully impudent.

[Sidenote: No. 47.]

“He would, for instance, stand on the doorstep and listen through the keyhole to what we were talking about, or look through the window at us.

“His persecutions at this time became almost unbearable. He did everything he could to annoy us. I was not afraid of him, and should have taken the law into my own hands, but my husband would not hear of such a thing. He always advised me to keep quiet.

“I could not stand his impudence and the way in which he went on. I had not been used to such society as his proved to be, and I rebelled against it. I can hardly describe all that he did to annoy us after he was informed that he was not wanted at our house.

“He would come and stand outside the window at night and look in, leering all the while; and he would come across you at all turns and leer in your face in a manner that was truly frightful.

“His object was to obtain power over me, and having done that, to make me an accomplice of his. I have told you that when I knew him first I thought him to be a picture-framer, and nothing more. Since then, however, I have learnt a good deal, and much that was difficult to understand has been made plain. He wanted me to leave my husband! Positively to leave my husband.

“‘What should I do that for?’ I said.

“‘If you will only go to Manchester,’ he answered, ‘I will take a store (American for shop) for you, and will spend £50 in fitting it up. You shall have a cigar store, or a picture store. You are a fine-looking woman. You look well in fine things, and I will send you fine clothes and jewellery, and if you wanted to pawn them it would be easy. The pawnbroker would think everything all right. Suppose, for instance, you had a grand pair of bracelets on, all you would have to do would be to go into the pawnbroker’s, take them off your wrist, and say, ‘I want to pawn these things.’ He also said, ‘If you will only do what I want you, there shall not be such another lady in England as you may be.’

“At the time I couldn’t understand what was his object. Of course, I see it plain enough now. I did not suspect he was a burglar.

“He was living at Darnall, making picture frames whenever he could get any to make, and his wife was apparently assisting to keep the house together by washing bottles at a wine and spirit merchant’s. How could I know that he was anything other than he represented himself to be?

“I was suspicious. I remember on one occasion he offered me a sealskin jacket and several yards of silk. Of course, he couldn’t have come by them honestly. I now know they must have been part of the proceeds of a burglary. And well I should have looked if I had accepted them! I should then have been quite in his power.

“But I knew better than that. I declined his present, and told him that if he had a sealskin jacket and some silk to spare, he had better make a present of them to his wife and daughter.

“I also told him that they wanted them much more than I did, and that if I desired to have a sealskin jacket, I would wait for it until my husband bought it, and that if he couldn’t I was content to go without. Some time afterwards he offered me a gold watch; but I wouldn’t have it. That, of course, was stolen.

“I consider that he offered me these presents as one means of getting me into his power. I would have nothing to do with him, and so he tempted me with sealskin jackets, and silks, and watches. I remember when he was speaking to me about Manchester, he said――

“‘If you will only go, I’ll fix you up there nice. You will have a splendid business, and will live like a lady.’

“‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I always have lived like one, and shall continue to do so quite independently of you.’

“I was getting downright mad with him, because of his constantly bothering me. What he wanted me to go to Manchester for was to pass off his stolen goods――at least that is my opinion. He never said so in so many words, but he could have had no other object.

“To do this, he wanted first to get me in his power, and not only did he try, but other members of his family did their best. When he found that he could not succeed by fair means, then he tried what threats and persecutions would do.

“He once came into my house, and said as I would not do what he wanted, he would annoy and torment me to the end of the world.

“‘Don’t you ever come into my house again,’ I said, ‘or ever darken its doors.’

“But it was no use my saying that. He still came whenever he could get in, and when he couldn’t, he watched for me and followed me wherever I went. I have known him to go to the railway station and say to the booking clerk after I had taken my ticket, ‘Give me a ticket for where she’s going.’ That’s how it was he followed me to Mansfield, and then came into the same house there where I and my companion were staying. That was, too, how it was that he was seen with me in the streets.

“So it was as regards his being with me in the fair ground, about which so much has been made. I went to the fair with a neighbour and her children, and when we got into the photographic saloon my intention was to have the children photographed. I had no intention whatever of having myself taken with Peace, but he stood behind my chair at the time my likeness was taken.

“That was quite unknown to me, though, at the time. You can have no idea, unless you know the man, how he persecuted me and attempted to get me within his power. I remember doing something in the kitchen, and my back was turned to the door. Hearing a slight noise, I turned round, and then I saw Peace standing just inside the door.

“The expression on his face was something dreadful. It was almost fiendish――devilish. He had a revolver in his right hand, and he held it up towards me and said, in an excited and threatening manner――

“‘Now, will you go to Manchester? Now, will you go to Manchester?’

“I did not shriek, but I cried out ‘No, never! what do you take me for?’

“Finding that I was firm, he dropped his hand, and went out; but I can assure you I was frightened at the time.

“He had a way of creeping and crawling about, and of coming upon you suddenly unawares; and I cannot describe to you how he seemed to wriggle himself inside the door, or the terrible expression on his face.

“He seemed more like an evil spirit than a man. I have told you that when we knew him first we thought him a rather nice old man; but I soon found out, after he had taken against me, that we were sadly mistaken in our impression of him.

“He turned against me solely because he could not make me do as he wanted. I would not have done as he wished for anything in this world. He wanted me to be an accomplice in his doings.

“That has been his endeavour all through, and because he could not succeed he turned round on me and was determined to have his revenge. He thought he could handle me as he liked, that I was a weak sort of a woman, and could be got over like others who have been associated with him; but he found he was mistaken.

“I was terribly tried by him, though, and at last I was frightened――I don’t deny it. There have been times when I haven’t feared him, and when I should have thrashed him if Mr. Dyson would have allowed me.

“I once did give him a good hiding, because he had insulted and annoyed me, but perhaps I had better not say much about that now. I used to be especially afraid of him at nights, because he had a habit of continually prowling about the house, and of turning up suddenly. He would, too, assume all sorts of disguises.

“He used to boast how effectually he could disguise himself; and I was afraid of his coming in some guise or other at night, and carrying out his threats.

“He was very determined. I never saw anything like it in my life. I have been about a good deal, but I never saw such determination and persistency as he has. It seems to me there was scarcely anything which he couldn’t accomplish if only he was determined to succeed.

“He once said, ‘I never am beaten when I have made up my mind. If I make up my mind to a thing, I’m bound to have it, even if it cost me my life.’ You could not shake him off, do what you might. The only way to get rid of him was to knock him down as I once did.

“Determined as he was one way, I was equally determined the other, and that was why he never succeeded with me. He once made use of this expression to me: ‘I don’t care how independent you are, I’ll get hold of you some way or other.’ But I said as firmly as I could, ‘Never!’ and so I have always said.

“We went to Bannercross because we were afraid of Peace. Before going there, my husband took out a warrant against him. That was in July, 1876, and as soon as Peace knew of the warrant he left the town. It was soon after this that Mr. Dyson decided to go to Bannercross.

“What became of Peace I never knew, except that I heard he had gone to Manchester. He suddenly disappeared, and I did not see him again until on the very day that our furniture was being removed to Bannercross. I and my husband saw him coming out of our new house there.

“So annoyed and irritated was I at this that I really should have caught hold of him, and held him until a policeman could have been fetched. But my husband would not hear of such a thing.

“Just fancy Peace coming out of the house we were going into! I really felt quite mad at it. This was on the 25th October, and I did not see him again till the night of the murder.

“I didn’t really know that Peace was a burglar until after the murder. If I had he would never have entered our doors. But what I know now explains a good deal. For instance, when we were out walking together, if I happened to look into a shop window, he would say to me, ‘Is there anything there you would like? If there is I will get it for you before morning.’

“He would say that if I looked into a jeweller’s or a draper’s shop. I did not know what he meant then, but I do now. My suspicions were aroused, for I used to see him leave his house at Darnall in the evenings with a little satchel under his arm, and he would come back early in the morning carrying a large bundle. The satchel, I suppose, contained his housebreaking implements. He often used to go to Manchester with this satchel. He came to my door one morning just as he was going to Manchester. He then had his satchel with him. Looking into the room where I was, he said――

“‘I’ll have you alive or dead. I’ll have you, or else I’ll torment you to the end of your life.’

“On another occasion, when I had defied him, he said――

“‘I’ll make you so that neither man nor woman shall look at you, and then I’ll have you to myself.’

“I answered, ‘Never. What can you do? What are you capable of?’

“‘No matter,’ he replied, ‘I’ll do it.’

“My opinion of Peace is that he was a perfect demon, not a man.”

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Chapter XC

THE BANNERCROSS MURDER――PEACE’S ADVENTURES AFTER THE DEATH OF MR. DYSON.

The Dysons found it impossible to shake off Peace, who continued his annoyances to them with a pertinacity which occasioned them the greatest possible trouble and anxiety.

Peace was irrepressible; he was most ingenious in the way of persecution.

He followed Mrs. Dyson about, threatened her, and watched outside the house to catch sight of her.

It was in vain that Mr. Dyson sent him a communication, requesting a cessation of his visits. This, coupled probably with a discountenance of Mrs. Dyson’s friendship, seemed to almost madden Peace, who swore to be revenged on them both.

But too well did he carry out his wicked purpose.

In July, 1876, he threatened to blow out their brains, accompanying the threat with pointing a pistol at the head of Mrs. Dyson.

A warrant was taken out against him for this, but he evaded apprehension, while continuing to annoy the family, and on October 29 the Dysons removed to Bannercross, with the hope of being free from his disagreeable visits; but on the very night they removed Peace appeared at Bannercross and confronted Mrs. Dyson, saying in a malicious tone of voice, “You see I am here to annoy you, wherever you may go.”

Mrs. Dyson remonstrated with him, and told him “he was a wretch.”

Peace only laughed derisively at this, and said, “he was not to be shaken off, that he would follow her if it was to the end of the world.”

Just one month after this he went to Bannercross at eight o’clock in the evening, and perpetrated the murder for which he afterwards suffered death.

Peace proceeded to Sheffield the night after the trial of the unfortunate young man, William Habron, and he went to Bannercross in the evening.

At the back of the house where the Dysons lived, which was in one of the houses in the terrace called Bannercross-terrace, there was a low wall.

Peace wanted to see Mrs. Dyson――so he afterwards declared――he knew the house very well. He stood on the low wall at the back of the house. He was well acquainted with the back premises as also the front, and he knew that the bedroom was at the back.

For some time Peace’s eyes were directed towards the apartment in question; presently he noticed a light at the window.

The blind was up, and he could, with tolerable distinctness, see her carrying a candle and moving about the room.

The guilty man watched her for some time, and saw that she was putting her boy to bed.

He then “flipped his fingers,” as he termed it, and gave a sort of subdued whistle, to attract the attention of Mrs. Dyson, as he had frequently done before at different places.

He had not long to wait, the assumption being that she was aware of the presence of her tormentor.

Anyway, Mrs. Dyson left the bedroom, went down stairs, and entered the closet.

Peace got down off the wall and gained the yard.

He then went towards the passage of the house.

According to his own statement, the only object he had in paying a visit to the house was to induce Mrs. Dyson to withdraw the warrant which had been taken out against him. Whether this was the real purport of his visit has never been clearly established――we have only his bare word for it, but that is not very reliable testimony. He said “he was tired of being hunted about, and not being able to go and come as he liked.”

Mrs. Dyson, according to his account, became very noisy and defiant, and made use of fearful language against him.

Peace became angry, and taking his revolver from his pocket, he held it up in her face, and said:

“Now you be careful what you are saying to me. You know me of old, and know what I can do.

“You know I am not a man to be talked to in that way.

“If there is one man who will not be trifled with by you or anybody else, it is Charles Peace.”

She was highly incensed, and would not take warning, and continued to threaten Peace, who soon became wild with fury.

All the bad passions of the man were now dominant.

While loud and angry words were being exchanged, Mr. Dyson made his appearance.

It was most unfortunate for him that he came forward.

Peace threatened to shoot Mrs. Dyson, who took refuge in the closet.

Peace turned round and fired twice, the first shot striking the wall, and the second striking Mr. Dyson in the temple.

Peace saw the unfortunate gentleman fall, but was not aware at the time that he had received his death-wound.

His murderer rushed into the middle of the road, and stood there for a brief period, apparently hesitating as to his course of action.

He was, as may be readily imagined, under the greatest agitation, and as he observed a number of people gathering about, he at last decided to fly.

He jumped over the wall on the other side of the road, and as he did so a packet of letters fell from his pocket, just as he was jumping over the fence.

Mr. Dyson died in about an hour after he had been shot.

Peace managed to effect his escape.

How he contrived to get clean off has been a matter of surprise to everybody; and how he afterwards managed to elude the vigilance of the police and continue his lawless career in London and the suburbs, is still more surprising.

The following is his own version of his movements after the murder.

“I want it to be properly understood,” says Peace, “that, from the moment I left Bannercross on the 29th of September, 1876, I felt sure of making my escape.

“I felt I had no cause to do so, for I knew that I had done nothing wrong; for in the first place when it happened, I came down the passage and stood in the middle of the road not knowing what had happened.

“I did not know whether to run away or walk away, till I heard Kate (Mrs. Dyson) scream; and then not knowing what had happened, I took across the road and fields to Hentcleff (Endcliffe) crescent. I then walked to Broomhill Tavern, and took a cab into Church-street.

“I then went to see my mother, and remained with her for more than half an hour. I then went down to the Attercliffe railway station, and took the train for Rotheram.

“I then booked from Masborough for Hull, but having got into the York part of the train (not knowing) in place of the Hull part, when the Hull part of the train was liberated from the York part at Normanton I was taken forward to York.

“I remained at York in the Railway Hotel in the station yard all night. I took the first train next morning for Beverley. I took the next train for Cottingham. I went from Cottingham to Hull.

“I went to see my wife and family at 27, Collier-street; this would be about ten o’clock in the morning. I had been away from my family a fortnight, and was talking to them in the kitchen when I heard two dectives (detectives) talking to my wife in the shop, asking if a young man of the name of Peace lived there.

“My wife said ‘Yes; but he has gone to Sheffield to see his grandmother,’ thinking that they meant my son.

“But I in the kitchen, hearing this, felt that it must be me they meant, went upstairs into my son’s bedroom, put the window up, and went between the two roof’s of the building, and remained there till the detectives had searched the house, and when they had gone out I came back again into the kitchen of my own house, and took my things and began to wash myself; but before I could finish washing myself I heard them in the shop again, so I went upstairs through the windows between the roof till they had searched the house and gone out again. So I then went down again into the kitchen.

“My wife and daughter were sobbing fit to break their heart, for they did not know what was the matter and I could not tell them.

“So I washed me, and put on my clothes, and bid them all good-bye, and went out through the window again between the roofs. I remained there again for some hours, till just before dusk.

“I then went down the spout at the further end of the building, which brought me into the next yard but one, and went to a woman’s house that dealt at our shop, and told the woman I had to get away out of the shop over a warrant, or something of that, and asked her if she would go into our house and ask my wife to send me something to eat out, but mind the detectives did not hear and see her, and I had my tea in this woman’s house.

“I then asked the woman to let me go through her kitchen window in her back yard and also go ask the woman in the next yard if she would let me go through her kitchen window, and pass through the house into another yard.

“She went and asked and got consent, so that I went through the window and house into the other yard. This was three clear yards away from my house. It was then just dark.

“I walked out of the passage end, and turned to the left down Collier-Street, towards the fair ground, and went away――but not out of the town――and got lodgings; and I remained in Hull for nearly three weeks, and done some places for money.

“I then left Hull and booked for Doncaster. I then booked from Doncaster to London. I then took the underground railway to Paddington, and booked from Paddington for Bristol. Bristol was the first place I saw a reward out for my apprehension.”

“I remained in Bristol till January. I booked from Bristol to Bath. I stopped at Bath all night. I booked from Bath to Oxford, and in the carriage with me there was a police sergeant on his way to Stafford Assizes. We rode and talked together to Dickcot Junction (Didcott Junction), and arrived there in the middle of the night.

“We slept together in the waiting-room for four hours, and then went forward to Oxford by first train. We then shook hands and parted; he went forward to Stafford and I remained at Oxford all day.

“I then booked for Birmingham. I remained at Birmingham four or five days. I then went on to Derby.

“I stopped at Derby at an eating-house oppersite the railway, and there was a young man there just joining the police force, and the police-station was not more than 150 yards from there. I remained at Derby for something more than a week.

“I then went to Nottingham, and took lodgeing at a little shop three or four doors from the police-station on the Burton-road right oppersite a timber-yard where I was stopping, and the police-station is at the corner of Leanside.

“I remained with them till they left there and went to live with them in a yard a bit lower down, that led out of Leanside into Narrow Marsh, but not more than fifty yards from the police-station.

“I remained with them some time, working Nottingham and the towns round about. I then went to live with Mrs. Adamson, a buyer, next door to the ‘Woodman Inn,’ in Narrow Marsh. It was there I became acquainted with Mrs. Thompson.

“Upon one occasion I booked from Nottingham to Sheffield, but got out of the train at Ely (Heeley) station, and walking past the police-station at Highfield. Inspector Bradbury was stood at the police-station door, at about seven o’clock at night, and I passed close by him, and he did not know me.

“Then I went right away up to Sharrow, and crossed over quite close to Bannercross, down into Hesclehall (Ecclesall) road, turned down towards Sheffield, and crossed through Broomhall Park, into Havelock-square.

“I that night did a house over at the corner of Havelock-square. They was away from home. I got about £6 in money and a lot of jewerley.

“The watchman on the beat fancied he heard something in the house, but I saw him stop the sergeant when he came his round, and I got away backwards. By certain papers I brought out of the house they called them Barney Swincourse (Barnascone). I went to Ely (Heeley) Railway Station, and from Ely to Nottingham.

“At Nottingham I done a big tailor and draper establishment and took a lot of overcoats.”

It was at the last-named place, as he declares in the above statement, that he met with the woman who played so conspicuous a part in Peckham.

Mrs. Thompson’s name was Susan Gray, and she was lodging at a house where Peace had apartments.

It is said that she was married to a commercial traveller named Bailey, but discarded him for Peace; and it was while at Nottingham that a detective surprised them in the night.

There had been a robbery in the town, and the officer was in pursuit of the thief. Peace induced the constable to go down stairs, stating that he was a pedlar, and would bring down his pack for examination. He escaped, half dressed, through the window; and the officer, after waiting for some time, returned to find the bird flown.

Peace afterwards talked of this with great glee.

He afterwards returned to Hull with Mrs. Thompson, and six months subsequently to the murder at Bannercross had the audacity to take apartments with a police-sergeant in Albany-road, near to Hengler’s Circus. Peace and his female companion were the front parlour lodgers, and as the sergeant kept other lodgers, mainly “professional,” Peace was quite at home, and the life and soul of the company.

While residing with the sergeant he committed one of his daring burglaries, and frequently had conversations with his landlord about the supposed burglar. The pair stayed here for nearly two months under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.

From Hull they went to Lambeth, changing their quarters to Greenwich, and finally to Peckham. It was here that Mrs. Thompson found out who and what her companion really was.

He told her he had never been married; and rummaging among his boxes one day, Mrs. Thompson discovered a funeral card in memory of his son, aged four. The name Peace at once disclosed the real character of the man to whose fortunes she had allied herself.

She charged him with being the Bannercross murderer; which he did not deny. Then his whole manner changed. He had been kind to her up to that period; but he now took an opposite course, and tyrannised over her.

Mrs. Thompson, it must be admitted, was much addicted to drink and snuff-taking to an inordinate extent.

She used to frequent public-houses. She was prohibited from going out, but could have as much as she liked to drink at home.

It then occurred to Peace that if Mrs. Thompson had thus found him out his wife and his step-son, whom he had left in Hull, might divulge the secret. He therefore devised a plan, and Mrs. Thompson was compelled to fall in with it.

Both went down to Hull, and Mrs. Thompson one fine day presented herself at Mrs. Peace’s home with a letter, in which Peace expressed his penitence for all the misery he had caused her, and said he was most anxious to make her some reparation.

He told her he was now in a good position, and could not bear to see her drudging at Hull. Finally he prevailed upon her to go to London with her son Willie, stating that he had bought a business in Tottenham-court-road, and that he would pay a year’s rent in advance, and never come to molest her if she desired him not to do so.

She believed him, and journeyed up to London――agreeable to his request――poor confiding woman as she was.

On the morning after the murder, according to his account, he walked into his mother’s house, to her great surprise just as she was sitting down to breakfast. Willie Ward and two other relatives were there at the time, and perhaps their presence disconcerted him, for he left again directly for the purpose, as he said, of seeing his brother Dan.

He promised to return shortly, but did not go back till ten o’clock the same night, when he had a wild expression in his eye, his face was discoloured, and his clothes daubed with mud.

He told his mother that he had “been and shot Mr. Dyson,” assigning as the reason that he had taken out a warrant against him for using threatening language and that if it were brought before a magistrate his prison life would go against him.

He hastened at once to clean himself, and after saying “Good-bye” to his mother he left the house never to see her again in this world.

Peace, as we have before observed, took great delight in boasting how he could deceive the police, and often declared――

“That he could dodge any detective in existence.”

The fact of his having baffled his pursuers is doubtless to be ascribed to his facial peculiarities, especially the length and mobility of the lower jaw, and the flexibility of his muscles. This was one of his most remarkable characteristics. He said to some friends one day――

“Do you want to know how I dodged the bobbies?” and on receiving a reply in the affirmative he said, “Well, I will tell you,” then he asked them to turn their backs to him a bit.

They did so, and were astounded to find that Peace had completely altered the expression of his face, and so protruded his chin and curled his lip that under ordinary circumstances it would have been impossible to recognise him, especially as he had by the peculiar contortion of his features forced the blood into his face until he looked like a mulatto. One of the inspectors said――

“No wonder you could get clear from Sheffield when you can change your face like that.”

Whereupon Peace laughed and said――

“I can do more dodges. I can dodge any detective.”

The circumstances surrounding his connection with the Dysons form the most remarkable and inexplicable portion of his career.

It would appear that he completely lost himself in his infatuation for Mrs. Dyson; his usual caution forsook him, and he run greater risks in the pursuit of Mrs. Dyson than he did by any of his daring burglaries.

The end we know. He paid the last dread penalty of the law for the murder of the unfortunate gentleman who fell a victim to his bloodthirsty spirit of revenge.

When the Dyson’s first went to live at Eccleshall, some five weeks before the murder, Peace made it his business to wait upon the vicar, the Rev. E. Newman, to warn him against the new arrivals in his parish.

He then told Mr. Newman some most incredible stories, making grave charges which it would be indelicate and unjust to even hint at.

Mr. Newman was incredulous that things could be as Peace represented them, and asked him how it was that he had chosen to make such statements to an utter stranger.

“My object,” promptly replied Peace, “is to put you on your guard.”

It struck Mr. Newman at the time that there was something behind, but Peace persistently stuck to his story. As it was not believed he left the vicarage, stating that he would return with proofs such as would leave no doubt of his speaking the truth.

The following particulars of a subsequent interview will be read with interest at this time:――

“At twenty minutes past six on Wednesday evening (November 29th), ‘a thin, grey-haired, insignificant-looking man’ presented himself at the front door of Eccleshall Vicarage. He rang the bell and announced himself as Peace, stating to the servant that he desired to see Mr. Newman.

“When Mr. Newman saw him Peace at once produced what he called his ‘proofs’ of the statements he had made about the Dysons on his first visit. He represented himself as a very respectable man――indeed, taken at his own estimate he was about as near perfection as he could get, and he attributed all the troubles and wickednesses into which he had fallen to the people he has now so fearfully revenged himself upon.

“He said he had come to Mr. Newman ‘to make a confession――a clean breast of all his wickedness.’ Mr. Newman tried to turn his thoughts to the only source of forgiveness, but Peace would have none of his counsel. He was determined to confess to Mr. Newman, and then began a narrative, which, in the abundance of the abominable, is beyond belief.

“His allegations were not only wicked, but most extravagantly wicked. Peace put himself forward as having been all that was right and proper until Mr. Dyson became jealous of him.

“He told Mr. Newman that he said to Mrs. Dyson, ‘That they had better give him (meaning her husband) something to talk about,’ and that from that day commenced all his trouble.

“Peace produced to Mr. Newman a vast number of letters, photographs, cards, and other things, and was eager in pressing them upon the vicar, adding that he could bring any number of the same sort. His great grievance against the Dysons appeared to be the issuing of the warrant against him.

“Owing to that he had to break up his house and become a fugitive in the land. He consulted a solicitor, who advised him that he was liable to four actions if he did not make himself scarce. So he was obliged to ‘dodge’ the authorities.

“This trouble seems to have made him almost mad, and the mere recollection of it roused his wrath as nothing else could. He spoke in words of forgiveness――forgive the word!――of Mrs. Dyson; but nothing could exceed his hatred of her husband, the person whom, if his own story was to be believed, he had most deeply wronged. He said he was determined that wherever the Dysons went he would follow them. He had quarrelled with his own wife, and would never go back to her again.

“Peace added that he had come to Sheffield that morning with his daughter to see a relative, and having a little time on his hands he thought he would go up to Mr. Newman’s with the proofs he had promised. On his way up he said he had ascertained――as he had ways and means of doing――that Mr. and Mrs. Dyson were at home, and he knew how they were (making another charge against him).

“Going out and while on the door-step, he turned to Mr. Newman and said, ‘I won’t call at the Dyson’s to-night, but I will call at the Gregory’s.’ He then left, bidding Mr. Newman a cheerful ‘good-night.’

“He left the vicarage at twenty minutes to seven, Mr. Newman being indeed anxious to get rid of him, as he had a meeting to attend that evening. It afterwards transpired that Peace had gone to Gregory’s shop.

“He would get there about seven or shortly afterwards. Mr. Gregory was not in, and Peace left, going down the road as if returning to Sheffield. He was watched as far as a lamp, 150 yards from the house. Very shortly after he must have returned and secreted himself in Mr. Dyson’s garden, with the dreadful purpose of murdering that gentleman.”

The following remarks were made by a journalist on the interview at the time:――

“There can be no doubt that when Peace sought that remarkable interview with the vicar he had meditated murder and decided upon his diabolical plan.

“All the time he was talking in Mr. Newman’s study he must have had murder in his heart, and the revolver with which he meant to do it would be in his pocket, probably loaded.

“Had Mr. Newman known the desperate character to whom he had granted the interview he would not have sat so easy in his study chair. Peace could only have one purpose in his visit. He knew that after he had done the deed he would have either to shoot himself or fly the country, and his communication to the vicar therefore was in the nature of a last will and testament.

“He evidently desired the public to know his side of the transaction, and the clergyman of the parish would naturally occur to him as the most likely party to entrust it with.

“His communication, however, is of such an atrocious character that its publication is simply impossible, apart altogether from matters of truth and justice. There can be little doubt that Peace is a great liar.

“He gave Mr. Newman the idea that he was a superior kind of workman and rather a respectable person. He was guarded in his language, composed in his manner, and during the whole of the interview never betrayed the slightest indication of the horrid business he had in hand.

“The fine character he gave himself, however, was all a fable. He has been frequently in prison, and small and insignificant as he is he has served a term of penal servitude for a daring burglary at Salford.”

It is pretty clearly established that Peace wanted Mrs. Dyson to leave her husband and take up with him, and doubtless he would have had very little compunction in deserting his own wife, and leaving her to shift for herself as best she could.

He was a man who would not let anything stand in his way when he was bent on any particular project, and would sacrifice friend or foe without pity or remorse.

A more unscrupulous man never lived, and there can be but little doubt as to the fact of his being impelled by a blind fatuous spirit of revenge to commit the Bannercross murder as it has been termed.

Every effort was made by the constabulary to find out the perpetrator of this outrage, and the probability is that the real culprit would never have been discovered had it not been for the attempt on the life of the policeman, Robinson.

An arrest was made some time after the commission of the crime.

On December 9th, 1876, Police-constable Barker apprehended a man at Barrow-in-Furness who was strongly suspected of being Peace, but Inspector Twibell, who was sent up to identify him, found that a mistake had been made. Early last year the same man was apprehended at Hexham, and until Police-constable Boreham had been able to prove his non-identity it was firmly believed that the murderer had been run to earth.

Upon inquiry, however, it was found that the man was not, as had been supposed, the celebrated Charles Peace, and he was therefore liberated.

The murderer of Mr. Dyson and police-constable Cock now deemed it advisable to bid adieu to the scenes of depredation and heinous crimes. He had succeeded in persuading his wife to hasten at once to the metropolis. The poor broken-down woman had not the heart to refuse the miscreant. As we have already signified she left Hull for London.

We now arrive at another phase in the history of this great criminal.

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Chapter XCI

PEACE’S DOINGS IN LONDON AND THE SUBURBS――HIS HOME LIFE AT EVELINA-ROAD, PECKHAM.

After changing his place of residence two or three times, Peace ultimately settled himself permanently at Peckham with his two housekeepers――Mrs. Peace and Mrs. Thompson――together with Willie Ward, his step-son, and it was at this time that he committed a series of burglaries in the suburbs of London, which are altogether unparalleled in the history of any criminal.

The house he had chosen for his residence was No. 5, East-terrace, Evelina-road, Peckham. It was very conveniently situated for the masterly operations of the crafty burglar’s nefarious art; he selected it manifestly with an eye to business.

It was the end one of a row, and was bordered with a hedge on one side, that abutted on the Palace railway embankment, near the Nunhead Station. A gateway leading to the rear of the house gave entrance to an ordinary vehicle, and the exits from the dwelling were so numerous that a rascal of Peace’s type would rarely be so ambuscaded as to block his flight in case of surprise, however cleverly contrived.

He came into the neighbourhood as a retired gentleman, possessed of a modest competence, which would enable him to live quietly without business cares, and also enable him to indulge little whims in a scientific direction, in which indulgence he gave out that he had lost thousands.

Mr. Cleaves, the greengrocer at the corner, was commissioned to “move him,” as Mr. Cleaves says, from Greenwich, where he had been living a retired and peaceful life, allowing his days and nights to ebb in the cause of science.

Mr. Cleaves charged a sovereign for the job of transporting, and the convict was so beneficent as to add 2s. and a fried steak and beer, in appreciation of the services rendered.

The furniture was costly, and somewhat extravagant for a man of the convict’s simplicity, there being two suites of drawing-room furniture, and loads of knick-knacks that only a luxurious taste would covet, and a heavy purse undertake to own.

But unquestionably a large amount of plate and a considerable collection of pictures that the convict owned were not transported openly in Mr. Cleaves’ vans, but forwarded secretly from Greenwich to Peckham.

The neighbours in the course of a few weeks made acquaintance with the new comer, but none of them divined the being he was, although most of them seemed to have thought him singular.

He was a man of independent means, yet he had no servant. He was able to maintain a pony, and ride behind it in a gig.

Yet in the small house of two parlours and a kitchen and three bedrooms he had two women living, one of whom is conjectured to have been his wife, and who certainly had borne him a son, and the other had passed as Mrs. Thompson, Peace himself proclaiming that his name was Thompson.

How the real wife and the mistress, or how both the mistresses came to live in one house, is only to be explained by the knowledge that both of the women had of the convict, and their fear of being held accountable as accessories after the fact in his crimes. The mixed family did not live in harmony.

Mrs. Thompson had frequently a black eye, and indeed was rarely without one, and shrieking and cursing were not uncommonly heard proceeding from the house in the midnight hours and in the afternoon.

Peace was very rarely seen in the morning, or until late in the day. People in the vicinity who gave the matter any attention supposed he was busy with his scientific invention, of which he was fond of talking in an effusive manner.

He conveyed the impression that he was a man of moral tone.

“I would not do anything to injure the poor,” he said one day to the greengrocer, as he pulled out a handful of sovereigns, the number of which the greengrocer magnifies into seventy; and when in conversation with the landlord of some new houses near the “Railroad Tavern,” he informed Mr. Gosling that he did not approve of public-house fellows who went to the bar so early in the morning.

This was a reflection upon the milkman and the greengrocer, who had presumptuously saluted him.

Nevertheless, he occasionally invited his neighbours into his mansion to take something, and by all accounts he was a jovial host.

He was possessed of seven or eight guitars and almost as many violins, and in his leisure moments he took pleasure in musical performances that brought out to the full the qualities of the instruments.

The greengrocer owns a musical bell of glass, which belonged to the convict. When he came outside the gate in the afternoon, and took a cast around the sky with his furtive eye, Peace was communicative and critical to whoever was passing that knew him, and he especially delighted in a chat about crime and criminals with the watchful policemen of his district.

In conversation, he had an odd habit of digging his hands deep into his pockets, and twisting himself round in the pantomimic contortions of a clown. Social visits were never paid, and, except informally, he did not encourage them to his house.

The large menagerie of pets that he formed at Peckham was certainly extraordinary for so unpretentious an establishment, but he was a gentleman devoted to science, and might be allowed to indulge a hobby for zoology.

Whether he was really attached to animals is doubtful, for there are many traits of his nature that indicate he was cruel and remorselessly selfish.

The collection embraced thirty-two guinea pigs, some goats, cats, dogs, canaries, fowls, pigeons, and he had a pony which apparently was much beloved, and which he wept over with tears of regret when “Tommy” died.

Some of these pets he had trained to execute tricks wonderful enough to earn a showman his living. His pony especially had a marvellous obedience to command. At a word he would rear up and remain standing, and at another word he would lie down and remain as if dead.

In short, “Tommy” had been trained to be a silent partner in burglary. The custom of Peace was to go out during the day, with Mrs. Peace and Mrs. Thompson and the son in his trap, himself driving, and take a survey of the mansions he intended to rob during the night, and the precise spots to which he would carry the booty for subsequent recovery and resetting. He made two attacks, as the neighbours express it.

He went out early in the evening when the family were downstairs, and robbed the house upstairs, and later in the evening, or far on in the morning, when the family were upstairs, he roamed through the lower regions and abstracted the heavy articles of plate and gems, of pictures, and all valuables that were portable and transmutable into money. He went out alone on these expeditions.

The son, Willie Ward, was seen by the greengrocer at Forest Hill one morning at six, driving rapidly, as if he had business; and the greengrocer’s man saw the son on two occasions out early in the morning. It is surmised that the son took these early rides in the vehicle, by arrangement with the father, for the purpose of collecting the plunder of the night, and conveying it in an unsuspicious way to the town.

Peace encountered a man at Lewisham one night, who had passed Nunhead, and was obliged to walk back. The two had a most interesting conversation upon botany, in which science Peace seems to have laid magnificent foundations for studying, having selected for culture, in a plot of thirty square feet, several hundreds of choice plants.

The pony went out from Peace’s stables at most unearthly hours, and sometimes the neighbours woke up when it returned. One night the driving in at the gate was furious, and the pony knocked over the gate, and made such a racket that the attention of No. 120 policeman was drawn to the circumstance.

The policeman was on the threshold of discovery but suspected nothing. Peace unquestionably had just returned from an expedition with spoils, but when he saw the officer he blandly invited him in, although it was one o’clock in the morning, and lifting up the lid of a long box, he explained that he had been engaged in perfecting an invention for raising sunken vessels, which he and a Mr. Brion were about to patent.

“And you know it would not do to let people know about this in the day-time,” added the convict, upon which the policeman drank his health, and hoped he didn’t intrude, and assisted Mr. Knight, the milkman adjacent, to re-adjust the gate on its hinges. On another occasion the convict was surprised while occupied at two o’clock in the morning in his back yard.

The milkman had returned home with his waggon, and was astonished to discover old Peace at work in the garden digging.

“It’s only me, Mr. Knight,” said Mr. Peace, as he heard a door grate, and discovered the milkman scanning his midnight toil. The milkman went nearer, and perceived that Peace had dug a hole long enough and deep enough for a grave, and Peace explained that the exhumed earth was intended for potting, and that the hole would do for manure from the stable.

But Peace played it on the milkman some time later than this to a prodigious extent.

“Poor Tommy” died, and was lamented with bitter lamentations by his bereaved master, and a few days afterwards the bland Peace, with a truly sympathetic manner, went to the milkman, and said, “Mr. Knight, I see your stable is very damp, and I don’t like to see any animal treated to damp quarters. Since ‘Tommy’ died I have had no use for my stable, and you might as well put your pony in there, where it is dry, and you know I am a man of means, and will take every care of him. In fact I am very fond of animals.” The milkman had commiseration for his beast, and stabled him in Peace’s stable.

The convict consideratedly said he would not charge anything, and he showed an interest in his charge by providing a new bucket for the pony, and supplying good litter. But in the mornings the milkman noticed that his pony was often bespattered thickly with mud, and was eating hungrily from the manger.

[Sidenote: No. 48.]

He threatened to kick his stable-boy for not having scrubbed the beast down, but was astonished, on reckoning with himself, to remember that on the previous evening he had both washed and curried the pony with his own hands. In addition to these strange manifestations, the pony from having been a brisk trotting animal suddenly developed a turn for laziness, and was, in fact, as jaded and listless a trotter as could be seen on the road.

The milkman never found the reason why his pony was dispirited. It was Box and Cox in the stable, with the pony in the role of both, and the play lasted three months.

The pony obtained repose when the brutal midnight driver was arrested after his murderous attack on the police-constable at Blackheath. Peace’s pets were not chosen without some regard to his profession.

He had studied dogs; and it is said that, stranger as he must have been in his burglarious prowls about mansions, he never had any difficulty in silencing the most ferocious mastiff or impudent terrier.

It was a sight to see him on a Sunday walking through Peckham, followed by the six dogs that owned him as master.

The impression of the neighbours about his appearance was exceedingly various. When abroad on his raids he was accustomed to stain his face, and some considered him a retired Jew from Ratcliff-highway.

The lower part of his face was mobile to a surprising extent, and he could at will assume a disguise very bewildering.

He allowed it to be understood that his left arm was maimed; he wore across the palm of the hand a dark bandage, and when he sat down to meals he fastened on the arm an apparatus of indiarubber, into which as a socket a fork was secured. It was all a blind to produce the belief that he was weak and helpless.

His house at Peckham was most beautifully furnished. In the drawing-room was a suite of walnut-wood, worth fifty or sixty guineas; a Turkey carpet, mirrors, and all the et ceteras which were considered necessary in the house of a gentleman of good position.

Upon the bijou piano was an inlaid Spanish guitar worth thirty guineas, the result of some depredation, and said to be the property of a countess.

His “sitting room” was a model of comfort: there was not a side table missing where it appeared requisite. In every essential it was fit for an independent gentleman, and even the slippers which were provided for his convenience were beaded so as to show their value.

The residents of Peckham wondered, for the favours in the way of burglaries which for a year past had seemed the exclusives of Lambeth and Greenwich, recommenced in that neighbourhood.

The police were again on the alert, but of no avail. The public press called attention to this abominable state of things; householders lost their goods, and Charles Peace prospered. He added to his earthly store of wealth and furniture.

Peace had always loved a “bit of music.” Even in his less prosperous days he had bought a wooden canary which could sing a song, and as the residents of Peckham wondered why, in addition to the robberies of plate and jewels from their abodes, there was always sure to be a good fiddle missing if it had been near the plate, yet the store of musical instruments in Peace’s dwelling gradually and more surely increased.

At length he had so many musical instruments that his new sanctum would not hold them, and he was obliged to ask a neighbour to place a few in his house.

He was considered, as before observed, to be a “gentleman of independent means,” and as he “never played anything but sacred music” people believed him to be a discreet and proper sort of man.

His home life at Peckham appears to be quite different to that of his previous career――to say the least, the occupants of the house in the Evelina-road were not altogether a happy or united family.

Peace, with the heavy burthen of the murders on his conscience, was in many respects an altered man. He had his hour of conviviality and relaxation, it is true, but he was soured in temper, and at times was brutal to his two female associates or housekeepers.

Despite his bravado and cruelty he was afraid of them turning round upon him, and accusing him of the Bannercross murder.

Clever as he was he found it no easy task to get along with the two ladies of his house.

He could manage his two cats, his three dogs, his billygoat, his Russian rabbits, his seven Guinea pigs, his young thrushes, his collection of canaries, his parrots, and his cockatoo――to say nothing of his pony――for which he had an inordinate affection. This varied family gave him little trouble till the pony died.

His pets, indeed, afforded him much amusement in the quiet hours of the afternoon, before he went on his evening expeditions. But two “wives” were too much for him. All the stories which have been told about his domestic surroundings are either grossly exaggerated or altogether untrue.

When Peace arranged to live at Peckham he sought out Mr. S. Smith, of Ryde-villas, St. Mary’s-road, who had several houses to let. Peace had a large number to choose from, and he at last hit on No. 5, East-terrace, Evelina-road――“the first house through the viaduct.” I was directed to it.

Mr. Smith, however, is a careful man. He does not let his houses to everybody who asks to become his tenant. He knew not “Mr. Thompson,” and demanded references.

Mr. Thompson was evidently prepared for the request, and at once offered to give him any number, which he did, driving Mr. Smith over to Greenwich for the purpose.

Mr. Smith was perfectly satisfied, and let him have the house, which was admirably adapted for Peace’s purpose.

It was the last house in the terrace. The railway is close to it, and when he went out on his midnight business he was not obliged to use the front door, as he could slip out at the back, steal up the embankment, cross the railway, and find his way to the quarry he had “spotted” during the afternoon excursions when he drove his ladies out for an “airing”――always in the direction of the better-class houses towards Blackheath and Greenwich――“cribs which were worth cracking,” as a policeman put it.

No. 5, East-terrace, was rented at £30 a year, and Mr. Thompson paid his first quarter all right――the landlord lacks the last quarter, though he knows where the furniture is, and can follow it if he pleases.

One curiosity of the establishment Mr. Smith found after his tenant left――the crucible which Peace must have used to melt down the jewellery he got in his burglaries, and which he wanted to put off the possibility of detection.

Since Thompson’s real character came out, Mr. Smith tells me he might by selling bits of his goods as relics have recouped himself for his rent and more, the morbid curiosity of visitors having been equal to anything of the kind experienced in the case of previous remarkable criminals.

The new tenant appears at first to have favourably impressed Mr. Smith, for he found himself frequently at No. 5 taking tea with Mr. and Mrs. Thompson and the other lady. Everything, he tells me, was very clean and comfortable.

Mr. Thompson was a kind and pressing host; the best of everything was put on the table, and the appointments in china and silver, to use the landlord’s own words, “were always up to the knocker.”

Thompson conversed freely on the various subjects of the day, took an interest in politics, and impressed his guest with the intelligence and knowledge he possessed.

Whilst Mrs. Thompson deftly served the tea, her husband enunciated his views on the different topics he had found to interest him in the newspapers, of which he was a diligent reader. It may interest Russophiles to know that this distinguished character took a great interest in the war, and favoured their views of the question.

Mr. Smith tells me that though he frequently talked about the war, he never indicated his views in his presence.

Another gentleman, who was the recipient of Mr. Thompson’s opinions on more than one occasion, says that he expressed very general regret that nations could not find a more humane way of settling their differences than by the sword.

He wanted to know what our Christianity and civilisation meant by countenancing such murderous ways of deciding disputes.

He thought that the Turks had shown themselves a cruel race――he admitted they had good qualities, particularly in the matter of abstaining from intoxicants, which was a hobby of Mr. Thompson’s――and he was glad that they had been punished for their cruelty. The Emperor of Russia, he held, had undertaken a high Christian mission, and our Government were greatly to blame in interfering with him.

He was confident that the Ministers would be punished (that was a favourite word of his) for their interference with the only Power which had shown any practical sympathy for the “suffering races,” and so on.

With tea, toast, and talk, and anything in season from the neighbouring greengrocer’s at the corner, the evening passed pleasantly away, the later hours being filled up with music by Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Thompson and the boy “Ward,” who had been taught to play on many strange instruments until he was almost equal to Peace himself in his proficiency.

Shortly after tea, Mr. Thompson would quietly rise from his chair, and the guests――usually only one, or at the most two――would take the hint and leave, Mr. Thompson apologising by saying that he was not quite so strong as he once was, and late hours being detrimental to his health and opposed to his habits, he was obliged to go to bed at what other people would consider very early hours.

This idea he seemed anxious to impress upon the neighbourhood, and succeeded in doing it.

Mrs. Long, who lived near him for the most of those six months, tells me that they were very early people――“the light,” she says, “was out at No. 5 before any other house in the neighbourhood.”

The explanation, of course, is easy. Peace might ostentatiously lock his front door at half-past ten, and half an hour after, when the people supposed he and his family were sleeping the sleep of the just, he would be stealing out at the back, climbing the railway embankment, and off on his midnight raids, which always meant robbery and plundering, and, if necessary a murder.

Mrs. Thompson played a most conspicuous part throughout the latter part of Peace’s career. How she and Mrs. Peace could have consented to live under the same roof with the burglar Peace is altogether unaccountable.

The ladies of the house in the Evelina-road are thus described by one who had an opportunity of learning something of the doings in that abode of bliss.

I am afraid (says the narrator) I must knock on the head a good many of the stories that have been printed about Peace’s establishment, as well as about his ways of life.

In the first place he had no servants at all. There were in the house, in addition to himself, the younger person who passed as Mrs. Thompson, the other elderly woman, who gave herself the name of Mrs. Ward, and a lad of seventeen, who was named Willie Ward.

Tempted by the stories about Mr. Thompson being a gentleman of independent means, a girl once offered herself as domestic servant.

“She saw a man,” she says, “who told her he did not believe in servants, as they were always gossiping.”

Probably Peace had too much experience of the information to be got from servants’ loose tongues to have one about his own premises.

That girl did not get the place. Mrs. Ward, I find, acted as a kind of working housekeeper.

She is described to me as having usually the appearance of a cross between a washerwoman and a monthly nurse, wearing an apron, her arms akimbo, and altogether a slattenly, unlovable, unclean-looking personage.

Mrs. Thompson, on the other hand, was a likely lady for a companion. She was much taller than Peace, walked in a firm manner, carrying her head with a somewhat jaunty air, until latterly, when Peace’s cruelties “took it out of her,” as a neighbour put it to me.

She was a good figure, inclined to full habit, had pleasing brown hair, which she sometimes wore in curls; a good, fresh complexion, dark eyes, Grecian nose (but no snub), and altogether, as I have said, a person of a rather attractive appearance.

She dressed well, and never appeared to want for anything, Mrs. Long and other neighbours telling me that her wardrobe must have been very rich, and extensive, as she never wanted for changes of dresses――appearing sometimes in tightly-fitting costumes, and at others in richly trimmed and fashionably-cut jackets, donning for the afternoon drives a superb sealskin paletot.

The neighbours say that Mrs. Thompson’s weakness was drink.

The boy who piloted me about Peckham told me that the first week they came he fetched 4s. worth of whiskey for Mrs. Thompson, “who,” he added, “was a very nice person when she was herself,” meaning when she was sober.

Mrs. Long, to whom Mrs. Thompson seems to have confided her troubles, believes that she would not have “gone to the drink” if it had not been for the cruelty to which she was latterly subjected.

But that she did drink is beyond dispute.

Indeed, the old woman, Mrs. Ward, gave it out to Mrs. Cleaves, a most intelligent neighbour, from whom I had many most interesting details, that her principal business at No. 5 was to watch Mrs. Thompson, whose drunkenness grieved Mr. Thompson very much.

He was a very temperate man himself, and could not do with drunken people about him.

Mrs. Ward was eloquent about Peace’s liberality to the younger woman.

“He did not care,” she said to Mrs. Cleaves, “what she costs him in dress; he never refused her anything she asked, and what was very kind of him, he always bought it and brought it himself.”

Of course he did, the clever scoundrel!

He knew the places to get his goods on easy terms.

“She could swim in gold if she liked,” said Mrs. Ward, on another occasion. “He does not mind what he gives her, he is so fond of her, if she would only keep off the drink.” That was good Mr. Peace’s greatest trouble, “and that,” added the old lady, carefully removing a tear from the corner of her eye, “frequently puts him out, and makes him angry, till I’am afraid the neighbours hear him.”

And the neighbours did hear him. Frequently, there were sounds of quarrelling at No. 5. In the shrill tones of a boy’s voice would be heard the cry, “Don’t, father, don’t,” succeeded shortly after by the shriek of a woman.

When the storm had reached this height it speedily subsided. It was no part of Peace’s plan to be a noisy neighbour. These disturbances, however, were repeated, and the neighbours knew that things were not going well at No. 5.

They wondered why it was that the afternoon, or the early hours of the evening, should be selected for these scenes, which in ordinary households usually come on later in the evening; but they were not sufficiently curious to follow the matter up.

On one occasion when the boy’s voice was heard, as imploring “father” to stop, the shriek of the woman, who was evidently suffering some outrage, was so agonising that a person passing ran up the steps and knocked for admittance.

In an instant everything was still. The man who could strike the woman was equal, no doubt, to gagging her mouth when her cries attracted attention. Mrs. Ward, the next day, always made a point of explaining the sounds in her own way.

Mrs. Thompson had been drinking again, and Mr. Thompson was angry with her. She did wish Mrs. Thompson would leave off the evil habit, as she was sure it would break the heart of her husband.

Her husband all this time seemed more bent on breaking Mrs. Thompson’s head than his own heart, but Mrs. Ward played her part well――so well that some of the neighbours appear indisposed even as yet to believe any good whatever of the poor creature who, in an evil hour, linked her fate to the burglar and murderer.

One time Peace’s cruelty reached a crisis.

Mrs. Thompson ran from the house, and sought shelter from Mrs. Long, who lives in Kimberley-road, a short way off. Thompson, she said, had struck her insensible, and amongst other marks of ill-usage she pointed to her eyes, which were frightfully discoloured.

Her face was cut――the effects of a blow he had given her with his fist. He always wore a large diamond ring――sometimes two of them――and that afternoon, Mrs. Thompson having offended him at tea, he coolly rose up from his seat and “landed her” a couple of frightful blows on the face.

This was the outrage which had roused Mrs. Thompson to leave the house whenever Peace’s back was turned. She began to tell Mrs. Long her miserable story.

She had met Thompson――she did not say where――and believing he was an honest man, as he represented himself to be, able to keep her in a comfortable position, as he also represented, she began to receive his advances favourably.

He told her the old story about his being a gentleman of independent means, with a liking to travel about. She listened, and was deceived. Not so her mother and father. Both of them took an instinctive dislike to the plausible villain who came after their daughter.

She did, as many other daughters do, and will do to the end of the chapter――she believed the stranger, and left her home with him.

She insisted that she was properly married to him at church――which, if true, would add bigamy to Peace’s other offences against the law――but never gave any indication where the ceremony took place.

“I never quite liked the man,” she said, “even though I disobeyed my parents to follow him; and on my way to church to get married a strong feeling took hold of me to turn back. How I wish now I had done it!”

Then she would burst afresh into tears, and exclaim――

“But it serves me right. It is but a just punishment upon me for disobeying my parents. They did not want me to have anything to do with the man, and I ought never to have spoken to him. It was a sorry day for me I ever saw him.”

She went on to say that she had relatives in a good position in the North. “I wonder,” she cried, “if my brother would take me in.”

Her brother, she told Mrs. Long, was a medical man, and her sisters, of whom she had several, were well married.

She asked Mrs. Long if she would advise her to write to them. Mrs. Long thought that would be the best thing she could do, and here came a strange bit of feminine jealousy, which showed of what a contradictory compound some womenkind are made.

“Mrs. Ward” passed in the pony trap along with Peace, evidently going out for a drive. Mrs. Thompson, in a moment, was herself again.

“No,” she said, with decision, “I’ll not leave him. That woman’s in my place, and he would no doubt like me to leave; but I won’t――I’ll go back to my husband, and assert my rights.”

And back she went to be brutally abused as before, to bear upon her face and body the marks of his blows, and to endure all the mental agony which was now hers as the truth gradually oozed out about her husband’s real character.

Mrs. Thompson found too late what sort of a man she had so imprudently taken up with. About this time the real character of Peace was presented to her in all its hideous deformity. But she found it difficult and next to impossible to detach herself from the cunning and cruel rascal who held her in bondage. It was not possible for her to be an inmate of the house in the Evlina-road, without having some inkling of the goings on in that delectable establishment. Numberless boxes were coming and going. Thompson or Peace was absent at strange times. On the evenings he was absent he returned at all hours, nobody knew when or how, but with his return was associated an accession of worldly goods.

How these were obtained those around him could make a shrewd guess, but neither of his housekeepers had the temerity to ask any question.

Mrs. Long, who was in a great measure Mrs. Thompson’s confidant, declared that up to two months before No. 5 became famous, her friend Mrs. Thompson had no guilty knowledge of Peace’s nefarious doings. We are, however, of a different opinion.

We find it impossible to believe in her innocence, particularly in the face of her flight and continued concealment out of the way of the police; but she managed to make many people in Peckham believe it, and we are only repeating the version of their story as it relates to her.

They believe that Peace got to know that Mrs. Thompson was uneasy, and redoubled his vigilance over her.

This is likely enough. He certainly, according to credible authority, treated her at times in a most brutal manner.

Mrs. Peace or Mrs. Ward, as she was called at this time simultaneously, became more than ever watchful over her charge.

So, taken altogether, it was a pretty family party at Peckham.

The stories of drunkenness accounting for the quarrels became more frequent, and if Mrs. Thompson visited any of the houses she had been accustomed to drop into at Peckham, Mrs. Ward was quickly at her heels.

One day when she went to Mrs. Long’s, the old woman haunted the house till she came out. That very day Mrs. Thompson seemed terribly distressed. She appeared to have some dreadful load on her mind, which she was anxious to communicate to some one. At last she burst out with a cry――

“Oh, Mrs. Long, if I could only tell you everything――if I could but find the courage to make you acquainted with all I know!”

Mrs. Long, who was getting rather uneasy about Peace, for whom she had a strong but unaccountable aversion, did not encourage her to say any more.

She was afraid it would get her into trouble, as she had been given to understand that Thompson――it is immaterial whether we call him Peace or Thompson――disapproved of his wife’s visits to the house.

This he knew through Mrs. Ward, the constant spy upon the other’s movements.

Every effort was now made to keep Mrs. Thompson a close prisoner in the house.

The Longs at that time kept a dairy, and used to supply the Thompsons with their milk, where the little girl delivered the milk in the morning.

Mrs. Thompson would come for it, but at her back was the old woman to see and hear what passed.

Ultimately the Longs were told not to send any more milk――Peace and the old lady evidently hoping in this way to cut off the communication between the two houses.

On the evening to which we more particularly refer, Mrs. Thompson said “he,” meaning Peace, had gone to the theatre, and she did not know when he would be back.

She had seized the chance of running out unknown to Mrs. Ward. She deceived herself. At that very moment Mrs. Ward was at the door, waiting and watching for her return. And that evening she repeated the visit to Peace, who, in Sheffield phrase “paid” the poor wretch severely for her call upon Mrs. Long.

On that night Mrs. Thompson was in great fear.

She trembled all over her body, as she disclosed to Mrs. Long that she felt in danger of her life, adding, now and again, “Oh that I could tell you what I know――oh, that I knew what to do!”

It would be interesting to know if Peace really did play in the orchestra of any London theatre. Mrs. Thompson sometimes accounted for his frequent disappearances at night in this way, until she began to know better, or rather worse, and even she seems to have been undecided between fear of telling the truth and shame of keeping up the old lie in the face of Peckham.

Peace told her that he occasionally played in the orchestra――not that he needed to do so, but simply through love of music, and because, as he boasted, he was pressed to do so by the conductor, who said he was the best “bow” he had.

Peace’s skill on the violin, of course, is well known, having long earned him the distinctive title, of which he was particularly fond, of “the modern Paganini.”

It is not unlikely that one night he operated with his violin in the orchestra to Blackheath ladies and gentlemen, in one of whose houses he the following night operated with equal skill with the burglar’s tools, supplemented by a knife and a revolver slung to his wrist by a leathern thong.

One day Mr. Long was walking down Evlina-road, when he met Mrs. Thompson, to whom he spoke as usual. She seemed in a hurry and disconcerted, passing on at a quick pace, and not stopping to speak, as was her wont.

Further on he met Thompson, moving along with rapid strides and carrying an ugly-looking whip in his hand, which he was handling in a nervous yet vicious style.

“Good morning, Mr. Thompson,” said Mr. Long, adding, “Mrs. Thompson is just a little before you.”

Long held out his hand, which Thompson shook as usual, then nodding quickly, said “Good morning――I’m in a hurry,” and he expedited his walk till he overtook her he was after, and then they slowly returned to the house together.

What happened there did not transpire till some time after, when Mrs. Thompson took to pouring into Mrs. Long’s sympathetic ears the story of her “married” life at No. 5.

Thompson, when he got her inside, used his whip about the wretch’s shoulders, and beat her with the butt end of the stock, to frighten her into doing what he wanted.

The fact was, he began to be suspicious, and as a consequence his usual caution forsook him.

That scene in the street, which took place some two months before his capture by Robinson, was the most impudent thing he did at Peckham, and there is reason to believe that he was then contemplating another change of residence, where Mrs. Thompson’s tales would be in less danger of getting through the neighbours to the police.

Had he not “tried” that house at Blackheath, or had he succeeded in doing it and getting off, Peckham would speedily have lost the society of the independent gentleman with the interesting household.

Peace’s life at this time must have been something terrible to think of――that is, assuming he had any feeling or conscience, which, to say the truth, is very questionable.

With all his cunning he must have been in constant fear of detection.

His wife was faithful enough to him, but he had good reasons for mistrusting the woman Thompson, who was prone to gossipping, and given to drink, and who was, moreover, kept under subjection by cruel usage and a system of espionage; but, with all this, there was no telling how soon a man might be compromised by means of an incautious word, and it required a wonderful amount of pains and trouble to keep watch and ward over Mrs. Thompson, who, to say the least of her, was anything but a prudent woman.

In addition to all this, Peace had to elude the vigilance of the police. This he continued to do successfully enough for a considerable period, but it was not done without a vast amount of dodging, and even while at Peckham he was disturbed by them.

One morning the local policeman noticed a light in Thompson’s house at an unusual hour――about two o’clock. He was afraid things were not quite right, and was unwilling to let so estimable a citizen be robbed.

He knocked loudly at the door. All was silent. He knocked again, and then there shuttled along the passage some one who cautiously opened the door.

When Peace saw it was the policeman, and heard his business, he was instantly himself――the cool, impudent rogue that he was.

Flinging open the door, he insisted upon his coming in, saying――

“We are working here at all hours of the night at present. The fact is, I am busy on an invention by which I expect to make my fortune over again――it is for raising sunken ships, and I hope to start with the ‘Eurydice.’”

And the interested constable went in and had the invention explained to him. It is more probable that at that time Peace was busy at his crucible melting down some stolen goldware, and that he first cleared away all signs of the work and substituted the model of his patent to produce before the policeman. On one occasion Peace had a “scare.”

A “Long Firm” had been established at Peckham, and two detectives――one rather famous in his profession――came over from Greenwich.

At that time, an assistant to Mr. Cleaves――a man named Thomas, who looks after the removal of furniture――was helping Peace to erect his stable. Peace’s quick eye noticed the detectives stop opposite his house.

He said, “Thomas, are these not two policemen in plain clothes?” Thomas said they were. He knew one of them――naming him as the famous M――――.

Peace was frightened for the moment, but was reassured when Thomas told him they had come to inquire about a “Long Firm” case, mentioning one man he knew they were after.

“Oh! ――――,” said Peace, “the damned old scamp! Why can’t he get his living in an honest way?”

Had the famous M―――― known he was in sight of the Bannercross murderer, I fancy he would have let the other “old scamp” slide for the moment.

Thomas tells me that Peace did not go out much after his pony died.

That event seemed to take the heart out of him. He was accustomed to trot his pony very fast, and he always went out in the afternoon “prospecting.”

When his pony became ill he showed the greatest solicitude for its recovery, walking it up and down at a most gingerly pace, and stroking it tenderly, while nothing was too good for it to wear, or too expensive for it to take.

Mrs. Thompson used to tell Mrs. Long that, however great a villain he was, he was very kind to dumb creatures, and would not let anyone hurt a hair of their heads.

Mrs. Long has got his favourite black cat, and is very anxious to get possession of “Rosie,” a dog which had a great liking for Mrs. Thompson.

Once, when Peace struck her, Rosie sprang at him and bit him severely.

Rosie has disappeared. Every morning Mrs. Thompson cut down a big loaf for Peace’s pets, which he always saw fed himself. He was very careful, too, about their being cleaned, making it his rule to get down on his knees and scrub the stable flagstones himself.

Thomas once said to him jestingly while the stable was being built that “it was a good amusement for him――it kept him out of the public-house.” “The public-house,” said Peace, “is the ruin of all. I never go there. Keep out of it, my friend, if you would be a respectable man and do well.”

As a matter of fact he did go to the public-house. He would take one glass, never any more, though he would pay for any quantity for other people. He usually went to the Hollydale Tavern, Hollydale-road, and he never sat down. “He always stood up, near the door,” it was said, “as if he was ready to make a run for it.”

Meanwhile robberies went on night after night, and the magnitude of the depredations, together with the immunity of the burglar, was a matter of surprise to everybody. Letters appeared in the papers complaining of the inefficiency of the police, but all was in vain. Peace for a long time escaped discovery or capture. The wonderful way in which he disguised himself is most remarkable, and we doubt if it has ever been equalled by any other criminal, either great or small. We have already said that Peace was very careful in hiding his mutilated hand. That hand might have been to Peace what his heel was to Achilles. The tenant of No. 5 was more careful about keeping the missing finger from the not very prying eyes of the Peckhamites. He did not look like a man who was much given to the wearing of gloves, and anything new that way seemed to sit clumsily upon him, but upon the left hand he usually wore a glove, and to outward appearance he had the usual complement of fingers. He got over the difficulty by having one glove finger padded. When he had forgotten his glove, which was on very rare occasions, he pushed his left hand into his breast, and loitered about, but did not care to talk to anybody.

But, more important than the glove expedient, were his other measures to conceal his identity. He treated his hair in a variety of ways. After the Bannercross murder he eschewed beard and whiskers altogether, and in addition to getting rid of them he shaved his forehead, thus giving himself the appearance of a person with a bald head. In talking, the neighbours can now recollect how strangely he used to “lift up,” as it were, the whole front of his forehead, and let it quickly settle down again. When he elevated his eyebrows――he had not much in that direction to elevate, and these were usually “doctored” in various ways――it seemed to him as if the whole of the front part of his head went with them.

Indeed, this interesting old gentleman had begun to amuse his nearest neighbours by what they considered his little oddities and innocent eccentricities.

He was fond of wearing a wig, and he seemed unable to decide upon any given kind or colour of wig. At one time he would show the carefully-arranged locks of hair――not one awry――which always indicate the work of the peruke-maker――in the glossiest of black; then a few grey hairs would give him a venerable aspect, and anon he would fall in love with a pleasing brown, which the neighbours thought was a close imitation of the tresses of Mrs. Thompson. So much was he given to change that some people thought that the tenant of No. 5 was a trifle “cracked”――or, what Yorkshire people call, “silly”――in this respect.

Another method he had of disguising himself was the way in which he coloured his complexion. Peace had, no doubt, picked some walnuts in his day, and the singularly effective dye which exudes from the outer shell had not escaped his attention. It was walnut-juice he used to impart to his face that peculiar tinge which would enable him to pass himself off as a half-caste. Mrs. Cleaves, the lady to whom I have already repeatedly referred, includes walnuts among the articles she sells at her premises four doors off. “Mrs. Thompson” or “Mrs. Ward”――I forget which at this moment――used to ask Mrs. Cleaves to be good enough to save the walnut shells for her, and Mrs. Cleaves gave one or other of these “ladies” a basketful at a time, frequently wondering what the people at No. 5 could want with so many walnut shells. One day feminine curiosity got the better of her, and she asked Mrs. Thompson, who said Mr. Thompson had a secret of making “ketchup” from walnut shells, and that was what they used them for. Another day, the man Thomas, while he lived next door, observed his neighbour, “Mr. Thompson,” emptying some dark shell out of a black bottle, and he was curious enough to ask the mistress――by “the mistress” he meant Mrs. Thompson――what that stuff was. She replied that “he” had been trying his hand at pickling walnuts, and had spoilt them.

An intelligent young Peckhamite said that he and other lads had begun to notice something very peculiar about Mr. Thompson’s back hair. He sometimes wore a low hat which fitted loosely to his head, and the wind would occasionally “ruffle up” the hair at the back. They could then see that there were distinct colours, which were no doubt caused by the dyeing with walnut juice. He must have used it very freely about his face, chest, neck, hands, and arms, and well down his body, and on his legs, for when the police stripped him he looked even darker than the half-caste he professed to be. I am told that almost every morning he could be seen picking the shells of walnuts and throwing the nuts away.

Peace, as we have already seen, was as cunning as a fox, and in fact as far as scruples were concerned, he did not profess any. He would resort to any artifice for the purpose of carrying out his notorious practices. How “he obliged a friend,” is very well remembered by the inhabitants of Peckham to this day.

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XCII. AN OUTCAST IN LONDON――THE GIPSY’S TRIALS AND TROUBLES

The London career of Charles Peace was the most remarkable and daring one it is well possible to conceive. Indeed, we have nothing on record equal to it in the life of any criminal of ancient or modern times. We shall have occasion to shadow this forth in the succeeding chapters of our work.

We have followed the footsteps of our hero up to the time of his becoming a resident in Evelina-road, Peckham. For the present we shall have to leave him, that we may turn back to an earlier period and chronicle the doings of some of the other personages who have figured on the stage of our drama.

Mr. William Rawton, the gipsy, better known to the reader as “Bandy-legged Bill,” left Sheffield after Peace’s last conviction. To use his own phrase, he saw “the game was up,” and that his quondam companion had a “pretty good dose.” The gipsy, therefore, turned his thoughts in another direction, and sought out his patron, as he was pleased to term him.

The gentleman in question was distantly related to the Ethalwoods, but he was the black sheep of the flock――a restless, careless, ne’er-do-well, who ran through his patrimony by betting largely. In addition to this, he had other vices, which are too numerous to mention. To do him justice, however, he had been kind to the gipsy on several occasions. He advanced him money when very hard pushed, and put many jobs in his way.

It was, therefore, a sad blow to Rawton when he was informed of his patron’s demise. He felt that he had lost a good friend, and deeply deplored the loss.

In addition to this misfortune, another befel him.

The groom in Park-lane, who had been so staunch and true to him in times of great necessity, mistook his master’s property for his own, and had to decamp to save himself from a worse fate. So the ill-fated gipsy was left without a friend in the metropolis.

He went from bad to worse, and finally became so reduced that he was on the verge of starvation.

“He deserved no better fate!” the reader may exclaim. Possibly so, but it is hard for a fellow-creature to be in the most opulent city in the world without being able to obtain the common necessaries of life. Nevertheless, this is of almost daily occurrence.

The reports of similar cases in our public newspapers furnish us with proofs of this.

We have no desire to enlist anybody’s sympathy for wretches like Charles Peace, or Bill Rawton, or others who figure in this work; but starvation in a land of plenty is a melancholy fact which every right-minded person must of necessity deplore.

Starving, homeless, friendless, despised, and desperate, Bandy-legged Bill wandered through the streets of the metropolis.

It was a cold winter’s night, and the gipsy’s teeth chattered, and his limbs trembled.

“Nothing remains for me but death,” he ejaculated, “for most assuredly my life must soon come to an end if things go on in this way. The crimes and injustice of others have brought me to this, not my own.”

This is the specious way scoundrels of this type invariably delude themselves by false reasoning.

“It aint been my fault,” he repeated. “I always acted on the square with all my pals. Curse it!――but it’s hard lines to be in this sorry plight. I’ll cast all conscience scruples in one scale hereafter, and will be an outlaw as well as an outcast. A man gets no thanks for being honest in this world. I am at war with the world, even as mankind are at war with me.”

Bill crawled towards a street lamp as if he could derive warmth from its flickering flame.

“I aint a bit like myself,” he exclaimed. “Am as weak as a rat, and as down-hearted as a man just sentenced to a ‘lagging.’ Peace is better off than I am; he has food and shelter, such as it is, at the expense of Government. I should like to be in his place just now, and the chances are I shall be before long.”

The hour was late――approaching towards midnight, and the street in which he was stationed was pretty nigh deserted. Presently he heard the measured tread of a policeman, and the gipsy not being desirous of an official interview with the arm of the law, skulked away and hid himself in a dark alley until the constable had passed on.

“I must find some place to crawl to, but where?” exclaimed Bill. “That’s easier asked than answered. Mercy on me! how my teeth do chatter! I wish the night was over; but, lor’, what’s the use of wishing that? Morning will bring me no relief.”

Presently he heard footsteps. He guessed shrewdly enough that they were not those of a policeman. He grasped a thick cudgel he had in his hand and said, “Now for it!”

A well-dressed gentlemanly-looking person was advancing towards him with stately tread. He was a handsome man, in the prime of life, and was evidently a favourite of fortune; yet the expression of his face was evil.

The gipsy sprang forward, and grasped him by the collar of his coat.

“Quick! haul over your cash!” he exclaimed, “or I will knock you senseless. Do you hear? I’m driven to desperation, and money I must have.”

“Well,” exclaimed the gentleman, “you are either a madman or else one of the most audacious fellows I ever met with.”

“I am no madman. If you refuse or attempt to utter a single cry for assistance I’ll brain you.”

“You are a most extraordinary man.”

“Your money!――I am starving. Do not drive me to desperation. I am not to be trifled with. Do not drive me to commit murder.”

“Upon my word you really amuse me,” said the gentleman. “I thought the time was past for footpads or highway robbers, but we live and learn, it would appear. Unhand me.”

“Not until you have given me what I demand.”

“If I summon a policeman and hand you over to justice, which, to say the truth is my duty, you will be severely punished, but as you are starving, according to your own account――”

“I am dying with hunger, and don’t care about being sent to prison. It’s preferable to dying like a dog in the streets.”

“I will take compassion on you. This is something like an adventure. Again, I say take your hand from my coat. I will assist you. There, will that satisfy you?”

“It will,” observed the gipsy, in a softened tone; “for once I have met with one who has compassion on a fellow-creature.”

“You would not be very scrupulous, I suppose, in rendering services for kindness received――eh?” inquired the gentleman.

“Scrupulous!――well no, not very.”

“I should imagine not.”

“A starving man is not likely to be over particular,” said the gipsy, laughing bitterly, and looking attentively at the face of his questioner.

“Well, then, you must understand that this is not the place for a conference. I rather think you will suit my purpose. So, if you will accompany me, I will take you where you can enjoy both warmth and food. Then we can talk over this business. Follow me.”

Bandy-legged Bill strode onward.

He and his companion threaded their way through a number of streets, through which the winter’s blast howled dismally.

Nothing can be more desolate than the deserted streets of a great city at midnight.

The busy thoroughfares are as silent as the grave, and every house seems a tomb enclosing some tremendous secret.

What if, in the silent hours of the night, the walls of the dwellings should suddenly become transparent, revealing all that might be passing inside?

What astounding disclosures would be made!

Imagination shrinks from the picture, appalled.

“Here we are,” said the gipsy’s companion, pausing before a house of handsome exterior, and leading the way down into the basement.

Over one of the windows of this basement was a gilded sign, bearing the name “Doctor Bourne.”

The doctor unlocked a door, entered a room, and turned up the gas.

The gipsy now found himself in a very comfortable apartment fitted up like a surgery. There was a book-case, surmounted by the usual skull――there was the inevitable skeleton grinning in a corner――there were anatomical pictures, a case of surgical instruments, shelves of bottles and phials, nice sofas, a crimson carpet, and a highly-polished stove, in which a cheerful fire blazed.

“Sit down, my man,” said the doctor, with an air of superiority and condescension.

The gipsy thanked his host, and seated himself.

“Now in the first place I must get you something to eat and drink,” said the doctor. “By my faith, but you look like a starved cat, and yet now I glance at your face it seems familiar to me.”

“Does it? We have never met before, not to my knowledge.”

“No, no, of course not――I know that. Our spheres of life are widely different, I hope; but what the devil ever brought you so low as to set you prowling about the streets at night, dressed in rags, and threatening to brain people with a bludgeon?”

“The story of my life is hardly worth the telling,” returned Bill.

“Well, I should suppose not, but I suppose your downfall is partly owing to drink.”

“Partly,” observed the gipsy.

“Ah, so I thought.”

The doctor unlocked a cupboard, and took from it about two thirds of a cold boiled ham, a loaf of bread and sundry other articles, which he placed before Bill, inviting him to fall to and help himself.

The starving man needed no second invitation; he ate most ravenously. Meanwhile the doctor, rummaging in the cupboard, brought forth more eatables, which he placed before his guest.

After the gipsy had satisfied his hunger a glass of warm grog was mixed by his benefactor, which the gipsy was nothing loth to partake of.

He was, however, greatly puzzled at the reception he met with――it was altogether so much out of the common order of things, and he was curious to ascertain in what way his services were required, for he was acute enough to divine that all these attentions were not shown him without some ulterior object.

“Ahem――you spoke of some service, something you required me to do. May I ask its nature?” observed the gipsy carelessly.

“Oh, we won’t enter on the business just now,” said Bourne. “It is not of any immediate importance, but I suppose you will pass your word to do me a good turn when I require you to do so?”

“It is only my duty, sir. Anything I can do shall be done, provided it be such as a man can consistently perform.”

“Yes, precisely. Well, we will discuss this question when we are better acquainted with one another.”

“He’s jolly artful,” murmured the gipsy to himself, “and don’t let every fool see his cards. Well, he’s not to blame for that.”

“By the way,” said Bourne, “you have not told me your name?”

“My name?”

“Yes; don’t be afraid. I am not likely to hand you over to justice,” and at this the doctor laughed.

“I don’t expect you are. Well, I am not ashamed of my name. It is William Rawton――Bandy-legged Bill my pals call me, because, you see, my legs were a little warped in the drying process.”

The doctor gave an involuntary start. “Rawton, eh!”

“Yes, Bill Rawton. Have you heard the name before?”

“Well I rather think some of my patients have mentioned that name. To all appearance you are a gipsy?”

“Yes, I was born a gipsy, but our camp broke up years and years ago.”

[Sidenote: No. 49.]

“Have you been a jockey at anytime of your life?”

“I should rather think I had. I might say that I was, in a manner of speaking, brought up on the back of a horse.”

“Oh, that accounts for it. I have heard your name mentioned by some of my sporting and aristocratic patients.”

“And who might they be?” inquired Bill.

“I cannot at the present moment call to mind. You are a single man, eh?”

“I am single now, but I have been married.”

“Ah, I see. Wife dead, I suppose?”

“I haven’t seen her for years, but she may be alive for what I know.”

Then suddenly looking hard at his questioner, he said, in an altered tone――

“What makes you ask that question?”

“Faith, I don’t know why I made the inquiry. I was thinking if you had any one to share your troubles.”

“No, I have not, and what’s more, I dont want anyone to share my misery. It’s hard lines for one; it would be doubly hard if there were two doomed to the misery I have had to endure.”

“You are quite right, my friend, it would.”

The gipsy regarded the speaker with another furtive glance.

“By the way, you are not getting on. Let me mix you another glass――the night is cold, and drinking in moderation is beneficial. I am not an advocate for total abstinence.”

“Nor am I,” observed Rawton, with a laugh, “but of late I have been compelled to be a total abstainer.”

“Another glass and a cigar?”

“You are very kind, sir, I’m sure. I won’t refuse, since you are so pressing.”

The grog was mixed, and the gipsy lighted a cigar of the first quality.

“Take it altogether this is a strange night’s adventure,” observed Bourne. “Most remarkable. It pleases me, and for this reason: I am fond of searching into the character of man, and I feel convinced your history must be strange one.”

“I’ve seen something of life. Have had my ups and downs, more of the latter than the former, and as I feel just now――or rather as I did when we first met――I don’t think there is much worth living for in this world――not as far as I am concerned at any rate.”

“You mustn’t give way to despondency and look at the dark side of the picture. Brighter days may be in store for you――who knows?”

The gipsy shook his head.

“I doubt it,” he observed, sententiously.

There was a pause, after which the doctor said, carelessly――

“And so you have been married, have lost your wife, and don’t know where she is?”

“Haven’t the slightest notion, and don’t care to inquire. Ah, she left me of her own accord. It must be――well, let’s see――ah, it must be getting on for twenty years ago.”

“Dear me, how very remarkable! Did she”――then pausing suddenly, as if to check himself, the doctor added, “But then I don’t know that I have any right to inquire into your private affairs, which, after all, cannot be of any great interest to me.”

“Oh! I don’t mind telling you the whole history if you think it worth listening to. You see, in my early youth I was a very different sort of chap to what I am now――I was what you might call a smart young fellow, who got on pretty well with the girls.”

“Oh! I dare say. No doubt.”

“But since those days I’ve had a rough time of it, and had fallen into evil ways. At one time I associated with the upper classes――not quite as a companion, I don’t mean that, but I was in the secrets of a few of the big guns――but, zounds! that is all past now. I’ve come down right on my haunches, and the chances are I shall never get up again. This is a beautiful flavoured cigar.”

“Yes, I’ve got a very choice brand; the best I’ve had for many a day.” The doctor lighted one for himself. “Very good flavour indeed. Well, as you were saying――go on with your history.”

“Oh, I was merely observing that I was at one time thought a goodish bit of by some heavy swells.”

“Yes. Proceed. And your wife――was she with you at this time?”

“We didn’t live many months together.”

“Not many months! Your nuptial bliss was, indeed, of but a short duration.”

“No, not many months. You see she was too good for me. The fact is, she was but a chit of a girl when I married her, who didn’t know her own mind. It was a runaway match. I was passionately fond of her at the time, but I found out afterwards that I had made a mistake. She was a delicate sensitive thing, had been well brought up, and I was not the sort of man she ought to have chosen for a husband. She soon found that out. She got sick and weary of me, and――――”

“And what?”

“Well, we parted. She said she wished to leave me, and I knew she would do so in any case, whether I liked it or not; so I thought it best to consent to a separation. ’Cause, you see, she had an admirer.”

“An admirer, eh?”

“Yes.”

“A gentleman――a man of property, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, a baronight. She went to live with him. He took her over to India, and I have never seen her from that day to this. If she’s alive, which I don’t feel at all certain about, I hope she’s happy, for she was a right down good sort.”

“And pray, my complacent friend, is it a fair question to inquire the name of the baronet?”

“I don’t mind telling you. Sir Digby M‘Bride was his name.”

“And he went to India, you say?”

“So I was told.”

“Sir William has been dead for the last fifteen years,” said the doctor. “He fell on the field of battle, like a brave soldier as he was.”

“Did he though? I never heard that bit of news before.”

“It is a fact, I assure you.”

“Did you know him then?”

“No, not personally, but I was acquainted with those who did know him. What was your wife’s maiden name?”

“Hester Teige. Upon my word you seem greatly interested about her,” cried Rawton, with sudden warmth.

His companion coloured slightly. “No, oh dear no――not at all. You are mistaken,” he ejaculated, endeavouring to assume an air of indifference. “I know not why I asked the question, but I suppose she passed as Lady M‘Bride.”

“I dare say she did. She might have done for aught I know. She may have had a good many names in her time. She went on the stage, so I was told, and played under another name.”

“Oh, indeed, then possibly she’s had some strange alternations of fortune.”

Rawton shook his head.

“I know nothing about her. She’s passed away, and is nothing to me now――has not been anything to me for years.”

“You are evidently a character in your way. You’ve endeavoured to play the part of a highwayman――not very successfully, it is true――but you’ve made the attempt, and doubtless you have played many other parts in the drama of life. I must learn something more of you. Take my advice for the future――abstain from the committal of any lawless act. I have a wish to befriend you; for the present I will give you some temporary assistance――something to help you over your immediate difficulties――and for the rest you have my permission to visit mo again, when I will see what can be done for you.”

The doctor gave Rawton a sovereign, which the latter took, and at the same time overwhelmed his benefactor with thanks.

“That will suffice,” said Bourne. “I am glad to be of service to you, and will see what more can be done. Possibly I may be instrumental in procuring you a situation, but you must first of all be furnished with better garments than those you have on at present. Well, we will see what can be done.”

“You are very kind, I’m sure, and I ought to be grateful. Indeed I am, much more than I can express.”

The gipsy rose to take his departure, being under the impression that his company was not wanted any longer.

“You can give me a look in to-morrow, or next day, if you like. The most convenient hour to see me is after seven o’clock in the evening. As a rule my professional duties are over by that time, except in urgent cases, which happily don’t occur every day.”

“I’ll make bold to call again if you will permit it.”

“Certainly I desire you to do so,” returned Bourne, as he accompanied his visitor to the door.

Rawton was about to pass out of the house when the doctor beckoned him back.

“What might you want?” he inquired.

“Oh, just this,” returned Bourne. “It is a matter of no very great moment, and which I cannot exactly explain at present, but could you procure your marriage certificate and bring it with you when you call again?”

The gipsy was dumfounded, and hardly knew what reply to make.

“Can you do so?” again repeated his companion.

“Why what on earth do you want a worthless bit of paper like that for?” ejaculated the gipsy. “It aint of no use to mortal man.”

“Well, that’s a matter it is hardly worth while discussing, but I take it for granted that you wish to oblige me.”

“Most certainly I do.”

“Then you will greatly oblige me by doing this little favour.”

“But what for?”

“As a matter of good faith――as a proof that you have not been deceiving me.”

“Deceive you in what way?”

“It will give me assurance that you have spoken the truth.”

“Oh, that’s it. You don’t believe a word I have been saying, then?”

“I believe all you have said, but I tell you again, I should be much more satisfied if you would bring with you the marriage certificate when you next call. Now do you understand?”

“Of course I understand, as far as it goes. Well, I’m blest if this aint a new start.”

“Well, never mind. Let it be for the present. I will explain more fully when we next meet. Now go, for I am perishing with cold.”

The gipsy bade his companion good night, and left the house without further ado.

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XCIII. THE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERY――HUSBAND AND WIFE

Mr. William Rawton, after he left the doctor’s establishment, betook himself to a common lodging-house, where he slept for the remainder of the night.

He had found a friend, it is true, and the assistance afforded him was most welcome, as it saved him from perishing from actual want and privation; but the more he considered the matter over, the more puzzled he was to account for Dr. Bourne’s manner and demeanour. That there was something beneath the surface Bill had guessed long before he took his departure from his patron’s house. What that something was he could not possibly divine or even guess.

The thought crossed the gipsy’s mind that the certificate of his marriage was wanted to prove his (the gipsy’s) identity, and possibly criminal proceedings would follow.

He did not like the doctor’s manner; he did not like his looks, or indeed the man himself.

Anyway he deemed it expedient not to be in too great a hurry to oblige his patron, about whom he was desirous of learning a little more.

Rawton’s elopement and marriage with Hester Teige was a sort of boy-and-girl attachment, which was in reality but little more than a nine days’ wonder. Both the contracting parties found out their mistake, and it is likely enough that the gipsy was as glad to be rid of his bargain as she was to leave him.

Hester Teige was a beauty. In addition to her personal charms, which were of no mean order, she had grace, and an air of refinement which went far to commend her to persons in the higher walks of life.

The history of this fair but frail woman would fill a volume.

She had passed through various phases of life――had been the pet and idol of some of England’s proudest aristocracy.

Then when the sunny days of her youth had passed away she was left to the tender mercies of one who ruled her with a rod of iron.

As far as Bandy-legged Bill was concerned he had altogether forgotten the young and attractive girl whom he imprudently chose to marry. The only wonder was how such an ill-assorted match could ever have taken place, or how any well-educated young woman could have ever consented to be led to the altar by such a commonplace personage as our friend the gipsy. But so it was.

Bill had certainly one quality to recommend him――he was brim full of good nature, and was at this time one of the best tempered fellows out. He was good-natured enough to resign his wife to better hands, and after this had taken place he never afterwards interfered with her.

The gipsy husbanded his resources as carefully as possible. He could make a small sum go a long way when it suited his purpose, and the sovereign he had received from Bourne would last him some little time; besides, the chances were that a farther advance would be made when that was gone.

He did not deem it advisable to call the following day; but at about half-past seven in the evening he presented himself on the succeeding one. The doctor was in, and the boy who answered the bell showed him into the surgery.

“Ah――it’s you. Sit down, my man, and I’ll attend to you presently.”

The gipsy seated himself.

“Well,” said the doctor, after the boy had left, “so you are here again. I hope you have been conducting yourself in a proper and discreet manner.”

“I’ve done my best, sir; but it’s hard lines with those who cannot get anything to do. I don’t mind what it is, so long as I can earn an honest living.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. But, you see, my man, I am afraid you have lost your character――is that not so?”

“I won’t deny it, sir――I have.”

“Yes; by dishonest practices. Eh?”

“I don’t deny that. I have been in trouble.”

“Ah, I thought so. Have you brought that certificate?”

“No; I am sorry to say I have not; but of course I can get it if you wish me to do so.”

“Confound the man! What’s the use of saying if I wish? Haven’t I already told you what I wished?”

“Very good, sir. The next time I come will do, I suppose?”

“It must do.”

It was very evident that Bourne, for some cause or another, was in a bad temper.

At this juncture the boy entered the room, and said that Mrs. Moncroft wished to see his master.

“Oh! Mrs. Moncroft. Eh?” exclaimed the doctor. “Dear me. I will see the lady.”

“Shall I leave, sir?” inquired the gipsy.

“No; don’t go. I wish to have a little conversation with you, but――ah, you had better go into the consulting room and wait till I am disengaged. Walter, show this gentleman upstairs into the back room; he will wait.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lad, who conducted Rawton into a dingy apartment above what was called the surgery. In a minute or two after this a fashionably dressed comely-looking woman was shown into the apartment in which Dr. Bourne was seated.

“He aint altogether what you might call a nice-tempered, amiable sort of gentleman,” murmured Rawton, as he seated himself on the well-worn sofa in the room to which he had been conducted. “He’s far from that, I’m thinking; but then we all of us have our faults and weaknesses. Shortness of temper seems to be one of his. I confess I can’t quite tumble to him. However, we shall see how he turns out as time goes on. It’s jolly hard lines for a cove to be dependent on a stranger, but he aint the sort of man to do the generous all for nothing; leastways that’s my private opinion. I hope I don’t do the gentleman an injustice.”

Mr. Rawton whistled and beat a tattoo on the head of the sofa just to beguile the tedium of the hour. As he was thus engaged he heard the sound of voices, which appeared to come from the front parlour of the establishment. He paused and listened attentively; then he turned pale, and his heart seemed to sink within him. He listened again――two persons were conversing. One voice was strangely familiar to him.

He rose from the sofa, and walked hurriedly across the room. He partially opened the door, and stood spell-bound with astonishment.

“It’s many a long year since I heard that voice, or rather a voice like it; for I must be mistaken――it aint likely, and it’s well-nigh impossible; and yet the sound is so unmistakeable that it seems to knock me over.”

He heard the light step of a female in the passage. He opened the door and peeped out. A maid-servant was passing along the passage.

“I say, my dear, just a word with you, if you please,” said Mr. Rawton.

“I am not your dear, sir,” returned the girl, with a pout.

“Beg pardon, meant no offence, but you see I don’t happen to know your name.”

“Well, what do you want?” cried the girl.

“May I ask who it was I heard talking in yonder room?”

“Who? Why me and missus.”

“Ah, and who might your missus be?”

“Mrs. Bourne, of course, who do you suppose?”

“I don’t suppose anything. She’s the doctor’s wife then?”

“Yes, certainly. What makes you ask such a stupid question? Just mind your own business.”

“Now don’t be angry. You are a charming girl, as beautiful as the flowers――I mean, as a butterfly.”

“Get along with your nonsense――do.”

She was about to pass on, but he detained her.

“What on earth do you want?” she ejaculated.

“Only a word――only a word or two.” He drew her into the back parlour.

“Now, then, what do you want?”

“Where is your mistress?”

“In the front parlour.”

“Oh, will you do me a favour?”

“That depends upon what it is.”

“I want you to go back to your mistress and ask her if she knew a man named William Rawton.”

“And what if she does?”

“Well, then she will remember the name if she is the person I suppose her to be. Now do as I tell you, like a good girl, as I am sure you are.”

“You are a queer sort of fellow; ask her yourself.”

“No, I would not think of doing such a thing. I ask you again to oblige me by doing this.”

“There’s not much difficulty in the matter. I will do as you desire.”

The girl flitted past her questioner, hurried along the passage, and entered the front room.

When she had reached this Rawton heard a faint scream, and in a few moments after this the maid servant, pale and flurried, returned to the gipsy.

“Well!” exclaimed the latter.

“Well――it’s not well. When I mentioned the name of Rawton, my poor mistress was ready to faint; and when I left she had not recovered.”

“Ah!” said Bandy-legged Bill, “I am not surprised. I am almost inclined to do a faint on my own account; but did she make any inquiries――did she say anything else?”

“Yes; she told me to ask who and what you were, and wished to know if you wanted to see her.”

“I do want to see her,” returned Bill, “if only for a few minutes. I should like to see her. Tell her so. I don’t know your name.”

“My name is Amy.”

“Well, then, Amy, say I want to see her, if you please.”

The girl went to her mistress and delivered the gipsy’s message.

In a minute or so after this an elegantly dressed aristocratic-looking female entered the doctor’s consulting room.

“You wished to see me, sir,” she observed, with hauteur, addressing herself to the gipsy.

For a moment Bill was so taken aback that he could not find words to express himself. He stood gazing abstractedly on the wan features of the fair creature before him, and found it difficult at that moment to feel assured as to her identity.

“I beg your pardon, madam,” he stammered, “but you see I thought, as I listened to the conversation which was going on in the opposite room, I recognised a voice I had heard afore, though it be ever so many years back since I heard it.”

“I do not quite understand your meaning, sir,” observed his companion.

“Pray may I inquire whom I am addressing?”

“You do not know me, then?”

“I confess I do not.”

“I am Bill Rawton, the gipsy.”

Had a bombshell exploded in the room Mrs. Bourne could not possibly have been more astonished. She staggered back several paces and sank into a chair; she became deathly pale, and her whole appearance was indicative of terror intermingled with despair.

“You, William Rawton?” she presently ejaculated. “It is not――it cannot be possible. Rawton has been dead for more than fifteen years.”

The gipsy slowly shook his head.

“You are mistaken, madam,” he said in a tone of abject humiliation, “I am that man.”

“But he was drowned in Harcott’s Mill, I heard, years and years ago.”

“A man, supposed to be Rawton, was drowned there, and there was an inquest on the body, but it was not me.”

“I am ruined, undone, and the most miserable of mortals,” exclaimed Mrs. Bourne, wringing her hands. “What has brought you here, and what is the object of this visit?”

“Do not be alarmed. It has not been my own seeking. I am here by the merest accident, and the very last person in the world I expected to meet here is yourself.”

“I am appalled! Gracious heaven, what am I to do? And you――are in the depths of poverty, I presume?”

“That is so; but do not suppose I mean you any harm. We have been strangers for twenty years――let us continue to be so.”

“And my husband――do you know him? But of course you do, else you would not be here.”

“I know something of him.”

The miserable woman shuddered, and pressed her hands to her throbbing temples.

“My cup of sorrow is full to overflowing,” said she with extreme bitterness. “Exposure, disgrace, ignominy are before me. Oh! why have you come hither? and in such a garb too! Oh! but this is indeed terrible! Does the doctor know who and what you are?”

The gipsy hung down his head.

“I am answered,” she cried. “For mercy’s sake tell me what you want. If it be money, I will give you what you need, provided you do not come here again.”

“I shall not trouble you,” he exclaimed; “and I will not accept any money from you, seeing that I have forfeited all claim upon you; but I should like to have half an hour or so’s conversation with you, not on account of myself, but on your account. Is this man kind to you?”

“What man?”

“Doctor Bourne.”

She approached the speaker, and whispered into his ear the monosyllable, “No.”

The gipsy nodded significantly.

“Tell me when I can see you without fear of interruption. I’ve something to tell you; but it’s likely enough you’ve a bit to tell me.”

“May I trust you?”

“You may, as heaven is my judge.”

“On Thursday next the doctor will be away. He has to attend a patient in the country. You can see me on that day any time after five. But, hush! that’s his footstep.”

And with these words Mrs. Bourne hurried back into the front room. She had done so but just in time, for the doctor ascended the stairs immediately after she had disappeared, and, putting his head into the room where the gipsy was, he said, in a loud, pompous tone――

“I shall not have time to attend to you to-day, my man; so you had better call again. Do you hear?”

“Oh, yes; I hear, sir,” returned Bill. “I will call to-morrow or next day, whichever will suit you best.”

“Either will suit me; but I am busy just now.”

Bill Rawton passed out of the house. When he gained the street he saw that there was an open carriage at the front door of Bourne’s house. In this was seated a fashionably-dressed lady.

Presently the doctor emerged from the portico of his residence, jumped into the carriage by the side of the lady, and the vehicle rumbled over the stones.

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XCIV. BILL AND THE DOCTOR’S WIFE――A TALE OF SORROW AND MISERY

Mr. William Rawton, when he left the doctor’s residence, returned to the wretched lodging-house where he had taken up his quarters for a brief period during his sojourn in the metropolis. The events of the last two or three days had made a deep impression on him.

He was not a man given to sentimental or moral reflections upon either the past, present, or future, but he was, nevertheless, forcibly impressed with the remarkable series of coincidences which had recently taken place, and the appearance and manner of the woman whom he had wooed and won in the outset of his career gave unmistakable indication of the dark mystery which was hanging over her and enshrouding her even as a funeral pall.

Bandy-legged Bill was puzzled――there was evidently something lying beneath the surface, but what that something was he was at a loss to divine.

He felt abashed and humiliated when in the presence of Mrs. Bourne, and had it not been for his strong desire to learn something more about her, the chances were that he would never have sought her again; but he was “down upon his luck,” as he termed it, and did not know which way to turn. He had never in the whole course of his life been at so low an ebb as at this particular period; nevertheless, to do him justice, it was not for himself that he was so much concerned, as for the woman whom he had known in an earlier day as Hester Teige.

Bill Rawton, beyond a certain amount of good nature, had but little to recommend him. He had been a dodger and a cheat from boyhood, and his moral principles had in no way improved as he grew older. Nevertheless, deep down in the bottom of the heart of this coarse, common man there was one touch of honour and good feeling. Under any circumstances he would not of his “own free will” round upon the girl whom he had once loved; nay, more, he would not harm her by word or deed; and if he had thought she was happy in her present position he had sufficient respect for her never to trouble her again with his presence. For he had sunk so low in the social scale that he felt he was a disgrace to her. When he thought of this his dark, swarthy face wore a troubled expression, and something like a tear stood in his eyes. Many of my readers will find it difficult to believe that anything good and pure could be found left in the callous and hardened nature of the gipsy. My answer to this is, that it is nevertheless a fact. Bandy-legged Bill is sketched from nature, and many of the incidents I have described in his course are founded on actual facts, and are in short real occurrences.

Bill pondered over the words which had fallen from the lips of Doctor Bourne, and as he did so he felt they had a significant meaning. What this was he could not at present determine.

“He thinks me a bad lot, of course,” muttered the gipsy. “And I suppose he’s not far out in his reckoning. I look about as great a wretch as it is well possible to conceive――so people tell me. They seldom flatter a bloke who is so low down as I am at present. The fact is, I’m ashamed to present myself at a respectable house. That’s not to be wondered at.”

He glanced at his ragged dirty garments, and as he did so, his countenance wore an expression of disgust.

“I don’t know as I shall go there any more,” he exclaimed with sudden warmth. “It isn’t the cheese for me to do so. I shall only disgust her. Let things take their chance. I can but call when I am better off, if that ever comes to pass.”

He drank the lodging-house coffee――or a decoction of horse-beans would, perhaps, be the better term――and sallied forth. He had no particular place to go to, no business to transact, and was certainly not a pleasure-seeker, but, like the rest of the idlers in the great human hive, he paced the streets and stared about him. In the course of an hour or so, he discerned a face which was not unfamiliar to him. A fashionably dressed lady turned her head as she passed by, and came to a sudden halt. The gipsy was bold enough to walk up to her, as her manner seemed to be encouraging.

“Goodness me, it is you, then, but how strangely altered!” said the lady.

“I hardly know myself, and it’s a wonder you recognised me, Miss Stanbridge,” cried Bill.

“Why what in the name of all that’s wonderful have you been doing with yourself? You look the greatest ragamuffin out,” observed Laura Stanbridge. “Why, my friend, you are down upon your luck.”

“I should just think I was, and no mistake.”

“And Peace――Charles Peace――what became of him?”

“Don’t know. He had seven years, and I haven’t set eyes on him since he came out. He’s left Sheffield.”

“Left Sheffield, eh! And is he in London? I should suppose not, or I must have seen something of him?”

“No; I don’t think he can be in London.”

“And you――what are you supposed to be doing?”

“Nothing at all at present.”

The lady laughed. “Then how do you live?”

“I don’t live; I exist; how I cannot tell you.”

“Why, Rawton, this is a bad business.”

“Precious bad; but there are others as badly off as myself. I am too honest for this world.”

And here the speaker laughed, but it was a forced hollow sort of laugh.

“Well, I am vexed to see you in such a sorry plight; but you’ll never do any good while you present such a wretched appearance as this. Call on me this evening.”

“Where? At the old place?”

The woman nodded.

“At what time?”

“You will be sure to find me in after eight o’clock.”

“I’ll call, if you give me permission to do so.”

“Good! Call by all means. Adieu for the present. You won’t forget?”

And with these parting words she tripped lightly over the pavement.

“Ah! I’ll call; she may depend upon that,” muttered Bill, after she had left; “there won’t be any harm in my giving her a look in. Probably she may put me up to a thing or two. A clever woman――a mighty clever woman――and isn’t she up to the knocker? As fresh as a four-year-old, and jolly well groomed too!”

When the specified time arrived, Mr. Rawton gave a modest knock at the door, and was thrown into the presence of the mistress of the house, who treated him hospitably enough. A substantial repast was placed before him, together with some old ale. The gipsy elected to partake of the last-named beverage. He was not much of a hand at wine, but as to malt liquor, he could take any quantity of it.

“Here’s to you, marm,” said he, raising a foaming tankard to his lips. “My respects and thanks at the same time. You aint one of those who deserts a cove when he’s down, and I aint one as is likely to forget your kindness.”

“Never mind that. I don’t want any protestations. Eat and drink, and make yourself as happy as you can under existing circumstances. And so Peace had to do his seven years――had he?”

“Well, I ’spose they let him off after a five years’ stretch; they usually do that if a man behaves himself anything near the mark, and he’d be sure to get the blind side of them, if any man could.”

Miss Stanbridge was silent for some minutes.

“Oh!” she at length ejaculated, “poor Charles! he was very unfortunate to be nabbed; but the wisest men are caught napping at times.”

“You’ve known him for a long time, marm?” inquired Bill.

“Dear me, yes――since I was a child.”

“He was always square enough with me. I’ve no reason to complain of him. I only wish I knew where to find him.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think he’d let me go away empty-handed.”

“Neither do I intend you to go away empty-handed,” cried Bill’s companion.

The gipsy looked hard at the speaker.

“Do you mean it?” he said.

“Of course I do. You must not go about in your present plight. Everybody suspects a man who is in rags――and the police in particular. You must make a better appearance.”

“I wish I could.”

“Aye, but you must, my friend. Now, look here――I will advance you five pounds. You can pay me back when you are better off, you know.”

“Ah, my dear good creature, I’ll pay you back the first money I get hold of――never fear that. Five pounds! It’s a little fortune to me just now.”

“Will you promise to make good use of it?”

“Yes, I do promise.”

“And not give way to drink?”

“It aint likely.”

“I don’t know so much about that. I am afraid it is more than likely.”

“I have suffered too much for that. You may trust me――believe me you may.”

“Well, I will trust you. See, here are the five sovereigns. This sum will suffice for your present necessities. Possibly, in a week or two’s time, you will be able to turn yourself round and get something to do. You are not a fool, and I hope you are not an idler.”

“I am not afraid of work, marm.”

“No, no; Peace told me. I know but little about you from my own personal knowledge, but I am proud to say that Charley always spoke well of you, and it is for his sake that I am rendering you this timely assistance.”

“I don’t know how to thank you sufficiently. You are a downright good sort, and no mistake; and I shall never forget your kindness,” observed Bill, who was really grateful for the service rendered him.

He pocketed the money, and, after again expressing his thanks, took his departure.

He proceeded at once to the nearest clothier’s, and had what he termed “a complete rig out.” He then returned to the lodging-house, where he washed, shaved, and put on his new garments.

When this had been done, he did not appear to be the same man. His appearance was not aristocratic, it is true, but he looked a respectable member of society. In addition to this, he felt in better spirits and looked hopefully towards the future.

“If I am not up to the knocker,” he observed, “I am at any rate neat and tidy, and don’t look the forlorn and dilapidated wretch I did yesterday. Oh, I shall do, and I don’t mind paying a visit to the doctor’s establishment. To say the truth, I did feel down-hearted when I last called there.”

The gipsy made himself pretty comfortable till the evening, which had been appointed for him to pay a visit to Mr. Bourne.

He counted the hours till the time arrived.

As the hour approached he made himself look as presentable as possible, and then bent his steps in the direction of the doctor’s residence. He gave a timid knock at the door, which was presently opened by the servant girl, Amy.

To his inquiry, “whether her missus was in?” the maid gave a nod, and the gipsy entered. He was conducted into a room on the front floor, in which was seated the doctor’s wife.

“Ah, ’tis you,” she said; “I am glad you have come.”

“Are you alone?” inquired Bill.

The answer was in the affirmative.

“You are in much better trim than when I first saw you,” she said, glancing at his attire.

“Yes, a little better.”

“How came that about?”

“I have had assistance from a friend, marm.”

It is astonishing how respectful he was towards her. He treated her as a superior being to himself, and was humble and submissive to the last degree. He could not fail to observe that she looked pale and delicate, and that a settled melancholy seemed to be indelibly fixed on her thin but beautiful features.

“You have something to tell me,” she observed, languidly.

“Ahem――yes,” he stammered, not knowing very well what to say.

“In the first place, be good enough to inform me how you became first acquainted with Dr. Bourne?”

This was an awkward question――not a very agreeable one to answer――but the gipsy thought it best to tell the truth; so he made his companion acquainted with the attempted highway robbery, and all that followed after this.

“You have sunk so low as that,” she murmured, as a dark shade of sadness passed over her countenance. “Oh, but this is very dreadful!”

“I was driven to it, and bitterly regretted the act,” he returned, turning away his head. “Had I known――”

“It is of no use repining――it is done,” she interrupted; “so let that pass. Now for the rest.”

“I don’t so much regret the lawless act I was guilty of, not half so much as letting him know that I was married. He wants my marriage certificate, as I have already told you――what for I am at a loss to imagine.”

“He has a motive, and a strong one, or he would not be so importunate. I know him, and can read him like a book. Don’t give him any further information upon that or any other subject.”

“I will not. I am sorry I said so much.”

“Dear me, this is the most wonderful thing that ever occurred. It seems to me to be altogether impossible. I deemed you dead――I felt assured of it; and now in the hour of trouble and travail you rise up in judgment against me――you whom I have not seen for nearly twenty years.”

“Don’t imagine I am likely to trouble you,” cried Bill; “I’d sooner cut off this hand than harm a hair of your head. When I leave this house it will be for good and for all, and you may rest assured that, as far as you are concerned, Bill Rawton, the gipsy, will never cross your path. He’ll change his name, and no one will ever know that he is crawling about on the face of the earth. No, no, Mrs. Bourne; you have nothing to fear from me. This meeting is an accidental one, but our ways――our paths of life――are too far asunder for you to be in any fear of being troubled with my presence. I’ll go this very moment if you wish it.”

There was a tone of sincerity in Bill’s manner which went far towards reassuring the doctor’s wife.

“You speak fairly enough, and I have no reason to doubt you; indeed, in earlier days I was taught by experience that you were mindful of me, and never that I can remember thwarted me in one solitary instance.”

“You told me the last time we met that you were not happy. Is that so?” inquired the gipsy.

“Alas! yes. Happy! I am supremely miserable, more wretched than I can possibly tell you.”

“And the reason for this?” he inquired. “You are the mistress of this establishment, are the wife of a physician of good repute.”

“Good repute!” she exclaimed, with bitterness.

“Well, I should imagine so; and I hope I am not mistaken?”

“It is hardly worth while discussing that question. It was an unlucky hour that you ever met with my husband. Most of all fatal for me. You have made him acquainted with too much already, and he will never rest till he gets all from you.”

“He’ll get no more from me,” exclaimed Rawton; “I wish my tongue had been cut out before I told him what I have; but, Lord bless us, I had no idea I was doing anything wrong――had no notion that it would injure anyone, still less you.”

“Ah, you don’t know all, or you would not talk like that. Listen. This man――this Docter Bourne, my husband――hates me――he wants to be rid of me at any cost. The lady who was with him when you were last here is a rich widow, to whom he is paying attention. I am the one person too many in this house, and at any cost or sacrifice I must be removed. He has tried poison, but as yet has not succeeded.”

“Poison!” exclaimed Rawton, turning suddenly pale. “Do not tell me that.”

“It is a fact; I know it but too well. Every day, every hour I am in fear of my life. Oh, the miserable life I have led!”

She paused suddenly, and her eyes were suffused with tears.

Bill Rawton was touched. He could hardly believe his senses.

“The wretch!” he ejaculated――“the abominable, merciless wretch. If I thought that I’d――――”

“Hush, silence! Don’t be rash. It was wrong of me to say thus much, but it was done without due consideration. It is enough to know that he wants to get rid of me either by fair means or foul. I have good reason to know this. He has been placed in his present position through me, or, rather, through one who was my protector.”

The gipsy gave a prolonged “oh!” The real state of affairs began to dawn upon him.

“That’s it――eh?” said he.

“Yes, it is,” answered Mrs. Bourne. “He married for the handsome dowry he had with me. Nothing else induced him to make me his wife.”

“And who gave the dowry――if I may make so bold as to inquire?” said Rawton.

“Oh, it’s no secret; I’ll tell you――Lord Fullerton. It answered Bourne’s purpose, for at that time he was a poor man. With the money he had with me he was enabled to make a good appearance, without which a doctor has but little chance of getting on. He is mercenary, cold, cruel, and crafty, and is desirous of espousing the rich widow you saw in the carriage with him the other day. I am the only stumbling-block in the way. Now do you understand why he wanted the marriage certificate?”

“Well, not exactly. How is it possible that he could connect my marriage with you?”

“Doubtless he has heard of something of the sort. Perhaps he is better acquainted with my past history than either you or I imagine. There is no telling. If the idea once entered his head he would cling to it as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw.”

“Well, this quite gets over me――I never heard of such a thing. I wish I had died of starvation before I saw the varmint. That’s all I wish, and bad luck to him! I’m knocked clean out of time, and no mistake.”

“I have told you all, because I believe I can trust you. If he could prove a former marriage, he would have no scruples in casting me adrift without a shilling in the world.”

“He’d never do that, surely.”

“Aye, but he would. Too well I know it. It was a most fatal night for me when you met the doctor, for it will bring ruin and disgrace upon me.”

“Ruin and disgrace!” exclaimed Bill, in a tone of deep dejection and concern. “Your words drive me mad. I wish――I――I can’t express myself. Hang it all, I have been a fool; but, never fear, I’ll make it all right, if it costs me my life.”

“How can you possibly do that?” said Mrs. Bourne. “The mischief’s done. You have been most rash and imprudent. Oh, that I could see my way out of this difficulty!”

“I confess I have been imprudent, but what of that? It was not done wilfully. Who could or would have supposed for one moment the doctor’s object in questioning me so closely about my private affairs?”

“He seldom takes the trouble to question people closely upon any subject without a special reason. He has the wiles of the serpent, the cunning of the fox. Oh, he had an object in so kindly becoming your patron; he has some well-devised scheme in his head――some plot to be rid of me.”

“I would not stay with such a wretch if I were you,” exclaimed Bill.

“I would leave him to-morrow――be too glad to leave him――upon certain conditions. I cannot consent to go out of this house penniless; but enough of this. As I before observed, the mischief’s done, the train is formed, and it cannot be undone. I do not blame you, William Rawton. You had no desire to injure me, nevertheless I cannot conceal from myself that your presence here is likely to prove fatal to me.”

“Fatal to you――how so?”

“Oh, do not torment me with questions,” cried Mrs. Bourne. “The mischief’s done. This man――this Dr. Bourne, my husband――if he could by any means in his power find out that I had been married years and years ago, would not scruple to put the machinery of the law to work to ruin and crush me. He would be but too glad of the chance of prosecuting me for bigamy.”

“Bigamy――he can’t do anything of the sort. In the first place, you were what the law calls an infant at the time; and, in the second place, there was an inquest on the body of a man who was found drowned in a millstream, and whose body was identified as that of William Rawton, or supposed to be him.”

“Ah! supposed won’t do.”

“Well, hang it all, if my existence is so baneful to you――if there is no other way of repairing the mischief I had so unwittingly done――then I can throw myself into a millstream, or any other way to make an end of myself. I am only an encumbrance on the face of the earth. It is quite time for me to trot off into another world.”

“Peace! don’t be so rash. Your death would not make any difference now; and if it did, it is perfectly purposeless to make such a suggestion. I will consider the matter over, look at it from every point of view, and determine what had best be done.”

“Ah, I think I shall have to determine,” remarked the gipsy.

“You! What do you mean? How can you determine?”

“Well, you see it’s simply this. It unfortunately happens that I have been imprudent enough to blow the gaff; but I beg pardon――you don’t understand this sort of language?”

“I confess I do not.”

“Well then I’ve let my tongue run too fast――that you understand?”

“Most certainly I do.”

“If it costs me my life I’ll put matters straight. He may be jolly artful this same doctor, and no doubt he is; but I’ll take good care, if so be as it lays in my power, which I believe it does, to circumvent him.”

“Your language is altogether so foreign to what I have been accustomed to listen to that I hardly know what reply to make.”

“Don’t you trouble yourself to reply. I know my way about. It is true I have been most imprudent, but I will repair the evil. Oh! Mrs. Bourne――Hester I used to call you――be of good cheer; do not give way to despair. I can see my way out of this business.”

“But how? Tell me how.”

“Never you mind. Leave it to me.”

“I cannot possibly do otherwise now.”

“Very good, then rest satisfied. I think I can see through his little caper. I never liked him――now I hate and despise him, ’specially after what you have said. I’ll do him yet as dead as a nail. But――――”

“But what? Do you want my assistance?”

“In what way? You can’t render me any.”

“I mean as far as money is concerned.”

“I don’t care to take money from you. Still a trifle would be of service. I can return it you at some future time.”

* * * * * * *

Shortly will be published, “The Life and Recollections of Calcraft the Hangman” in Penny Weekly Numbers.

* * * * * * *

[Sidenote: No. 50.]

“I will give you what you require, for I believe you are sincere, and mean what you say.”

Opening her desk Mrs. Bourne drew therefrom several gold pieces, which she placed on the table in front of the gipsy.

“Take what you require,” she said. “The money is at your service.”

“I will not rob you of a shilling!” exclaimed Bill, resolutely. “Not a penny.”

“You are much more self-sacrificing and scrupulous than I gave you credit for. I say again take what you require for your immediate necessities. Surely you are not so proud as to refuse what is offered freely, and with the best intentions.”

The gipsy hesitated.

“Well,” he observed, after a long pause, “perhaps you are right, marm. I may need a little ready rhino to carry out a little bit of business on my own account.

“I hope it is not a dishonest one,” cried Mrs. Bourne, with some concern.

“You’ve no call to be alarmed. What I am agoing to do is right enough――leastways what I hope to do.”

Mrs. Bourne had no very exalted notion of her companion’s honesty, or way of life, about which, however, she knew nothing, but she guessed rightly enough that he had fallen into evil courses, and was therefore a discredit to her, and all who might happen to be acquainted with him; nevertheless she felt assured that he would not willingly harm her by word or deed. It was a terrible thing that he had become acquainted with her husband, as from this very fact ruin and disgrace might fall upon her in a way that she had never for a moment contemplated.

“I will not make any further inquiries,” said she. “All I might say would not alter your course of action, and therefore the least said the better, but I am free to confess that I tremble for the future. Your presence here has been most fatal to my happiness and peace of mind. If this man, my husband, could find any means of getting rid of me he would be but too glad to avail himself of the same, for I feel assured that I am a stumbling block in his way, which doubtless he will find some means of removing. Oh, no one knows but myself what I have suffered――what daily, what hourly dread I am in of this man. What if he should find out the church in which we were married? What if he should produce the certificate of the same? Oh, why has all this come to pass? I deemed you dead; could have sworn it.”

“You have not seen or heard anything of me for over twenty years, and you had a right to conclude I was dead. He can do nothing, rest assured of that. Hang him, I’ll take very good care that he won’t have it in his power. Be of good cheer, marm; when next we meet I hope to bring you good news, and so farewell for the present.”

Rawton rose from his seat, and, taking four sovereigns from the heap of gold before him, he descended the stairs and passed out of the house.

“Oh, heaven save me,” ejaculated Mrs. Bourne, “I am now in his power, but still I think I may trust him. I hope so, lost and fallen man as he is. Oh, Amy, it’s you?”

“Yes, marm,” answered the girl, who had crept into the room immediately after she heard the gipsy take his departure. “But how troubled you look!” cried the maid, as she glanced at her mistress. “What does that dreadful man want?”

“Oh, he’s better than you suppose him. He wanted a little assistance――that’s all.”

“Why, he’s quite a swell to what he was the other day. I hardly knew him when I opened the door, he looked so respectable. But he has such odd ways, and is so familiar――too familiar by half, to my thinking.”

Mrs. Bourne laughed. It was the first time she had done so for several days.

“Familiar is he, Amy?”

“Well, marm, I think so; not rude, you know, but he makes use of such odd words, and has such an easy, confident manner with him. Oh, he’s a card in his way――there’s no doubt about that.”

“Yes, he is a character; but there is no occasion for you to mention to the doctor that he’s been here.”

“Me, marm? Lord bless me, no――I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing.”

“Because, you see, he’s a man I knew when little more than a child. He appears to be so strangely altered since those days that I can hardly believe him to be the same person. He’s evidently quite a lost man; but this is only as I guess, for I know nothing of his mode of life, which, however, I fear, is not altogether a respectable one.”

“I wonder what the doctor wanted him here for. He wouldn’t have encouraged him unless he had some motive.”

“That’s not your business――neither is it mine,” observed Mrs. Bourne, reprovingly.

“No, of course not, marm; anyway it aint any business of mine.”

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XCV. MR. WILLIAM RAWTON’S CUNNING DEVICE――THE MISSING PAGE

With all the gipsy’s faults――and it must be confessed he had a few――want of consideration for Mrs. Bourne was not one of them.

He saw pretty clearly that a concurrence of circumstances, as unlooked for as unpropitious, threatened to environ the doctor’s wife in a labyrinth of difficulties. It is true that, morally speaking, no blame could be attached to her for consenting to become the wife of a needy and heartless physician.

She had not the faintest notion that Rawton was in the land of the living. Indeed, she had quite forgotten in the vortex of fashionable life that such a person ever did exist; but facts are stubborn things, and there was no getting over the horrible one which so immediately concerned herself.

Nothing would please Dr. Bourne better than having it in his power to cast her adrift on the world, to be released from the tie that bound him, and to espouse the rich and fascinating widow whom he had been dangling after for so long a time.

He knew perfectly well that his present wife regarded him with the greatest possible aversion, and the chances were that she would offer no impediment to a divorce, provided he gave her only a portion of the dowry he had received from the nobleman who was her former protector, but Bourne’s cupidity was so great that he could not bear to part with money. His device was to obtain a release by other means.

He had learned from a gossiping mischief-making Frenchwoman, who, at one time had been lady’s maid to his wife when she was in India with Sir Digby McBride, that in her early youth her ladyship, as she was termed, had been espoused by a gipsy named Rawton. Indeed the lady’s maid in question aided further than this, she gave the doctor a small miniature, which she said was a correct likeness of the gipsy in question. This the doctor treasured, and it was from this same miniature that he traced some similarity in the features of Bill Rawton, when he met him on the eventful night of the attempted robbery.

Well might his wife say that he had the cunning of the fox. He had a motive, and a strong one too, in patronising the gipsy. His motive was to worm out of him all respecting his――the doctor’s――wife. He had already become possessed of facts which he deemed might be of infinite service to him in carrying out his nefarious and contemptible plans.

He had, as may be readily imagined, married the nobleman’s cast-off mistress for the purpose of his own personal aggrandisement.

It was not a very creditable course of procedure; nevertheless it is one which has been frequently adopted. Bourne had no very nice sense of honour, and not much self-respect, or he never would have acted as he had done throughout the greatest portion of his selfish life.

He now thought he saw his way out of the difficulty. He believed if he could obtain the certificate of the marriage of the two persons named, William Rawton and Hester Teige, his own marriage contract would be rendered thereby null and void.

The chances were that he would have found out that he was, after all, only deluding himself with false hopes; but he was very much charmed with the idea, and believed in its efficacy.

Bill Rawton was under the impression that the plea would not hold good――nevertheless, he was sorely troubled in his mind. There was no telling; he did not understand much about the law――certainly not that part of it which related to matrimonial and divorce suits, but he was determined not to throw a chance away. He felt that he had already done an incalculable amount of mischief, and was determined to repair the evil at all hazards.

How he proposed to do this we shall presently see.

While at the common lodging-house, he met with Cooney, whom the reader will remember as being connected with Gregson and Charles Peace in the Oakfield House burglary described in the opening chapters of this work.

We have had no occasion to take notice of Cooney since he was captured by Mr. Wrench in the bar of Sanderson’s hotel. Since that time Cooney had gone through a series of gradations in crime.

How he obtained his living when Bill Rawton lighted on him it would be difficult to say. He did not, however, appear to be in very prosperous circumstances, being, as of yore, very glad to turn his hand to anything.

The gipsy came to the conclusion he was just the man for his purpose; so he at once made a pal of him, and told him what he required him to do.

Bill Rawton was married at a primitive village in Hampshire, called Wratton, and to this place he forthwith proceeded in company with Cooney.

“It’s a delicate little bit of business we are going on,” said Rawton; “and will require a good deal of artfulness to work properly, but it must be done, that’s certain. It is not a profitable job I admit, but we must take the fat with the lean.”

“All right, old man,” said Cooney. “I don’t much care what it is, as long as it’s worked to rights. Let me know what I’ve got to do, and I’ll be on to it like a shot.”

Upon arriving at the village in question Mr. Rawton was more communicative to his companion.

“Now, old sinner, I am going to the church.”

Cooney opened his eyes to the fullest extent.

“To the church, eh! Oh, I tumble; the plate I spose?”

“No such thing. I want to search for a register.”

Cooney nodded.

“And when I give you a signal, all I want is for you to throw a stone at one of the windows of the church, and then take to your heels.”

“Well I’m blessed, if you aint a rum un. What! break a window. What’s the good of that ere?”

“Never you mind, do as I tell you, and all will be as right as the nail. I know every inch of the ground in this neighbourhood, and every stone in Wratton church.”

“Does yer?”

“Certainly.”

“And what’s the good on it if yer do?”

“Nothing in particular as I can see; but that ain’t the question. You play your part, and I’ll play mine. Yours is an easy one enough.”

“It aint wery difficult, if that’s all you want me to do.”

“That’s all; but here we are at the church.”

The two confederates passed through the gate, and reached the churchyard.

“Ah, it’s the same old place――not altered in the least,” cried the gipsy. “Just the same, but how changed to me!”

“Ah, cut that; don’t go for to be sentimental. You aint come down here to moralise,” cried Cooney. “I say, leave that to some other bloke; it’s out of our line.”

“Perhaps you’re right; but, you know, this place I remember when but a bit of a boy, and I haven’t set eyes on it for many and many a year.”

“At it again,” cried Cooney, with a sort of double shuffle. “Well, I’m blest. It’s the green trees and the dicky birds as does it for you. Makes you feel alloverish like, just the same as ye’d be if yer were once more on your mountain heather――like the man who ses his ’art’s in the islands.”

Mr. Cooney, after this speech, indulged in a prolonged whistle.

“There’s no occasion for that,” observed the gipsy, reprovingly. “We’ve come on very serious business, and must look very grave.”

“Mustn’t indulge in unseemly mirth, as our parson used to say. Werry good, I’m all there――not, mind you, but this is quite a new line of business to me.”

“But you are equal to anything.”

“In course I am.”

“So now keep quiet. Listen. Do you see that little window in that part of the church which abuts out?”

“Yes, I does see it, with these ’ere blessed eyes.”

“Good. There’s nobody about just now, which is all the better, as we must not be seen together. I have shown you the window?”

“Yes, yer have.”

“At that end of the church there is a clump of yew trees――you can easily conceal yourself in those.”

“I’ll go at once then.”

“No, not now; all is not ready at present. Wait patiently. I am merely explaining what you are to do, because if we don’t pull this off this time we shan’t have another chance; so we must be careful not to make a muddle of it. I shall have to go round to the clerk’s house I expect, for he doesn’t seem to be here. What I want you to do is this: go out yonder into that lane, watch, and wait there till you see me and the clerk enter the church.”

“Yes.”

“But don’t be seen yourself if you can help it.”

“All right――drive on.”

“When you see us enter the church together, creep down from the lane where you have been stationed, and conceal yourself in the clump of yew trees; then keep your eye fixed on that little window.”

“Yes, and what then?”

“You will see me looking over a big book. When I draw my hand across my forehead, thus, throw a stone at one of the end windows, and make off as fast as your legs will carry you; but mind, Cooney, don’t attempt to throw the stone till I have given the sign.”

“Oh, no, in course not. I aint likely to do that. And what else?”

“You are pretty sure to get clean off. Make for the station, and remain in the waiting-room till I come. Now, you understand?”

“I hopes as how I do.”

“Now make off, and I will go and find the clerk.”

Cooney at once betook himself to the lane, and Rawton returned to the village.

Upon arriving at the clerk’s house, he found that worthy at dinner――so he took a stroll till the meal was over, and then called again.

He explained his business, saying he wished to get a copy of the register of two persons who were married at the church some twenty or two-and-twenty years back.

The clerk was a very old man, with tottering limbs and defective sight; he had held his present office for over fifty years. He carried with him a huge bunch of keys, and walked by the side of the gipsy conversing in a friendly manner till they reached the church.

“You are not quite certain as to the year, you say,” he observed, as he opened the door of the sacred edifice.

“No, not quite certain, but I can’t be very far out.”

“The names you have with you?”

“Yes, they are Jane Jenkins and Robert Bessant.”

“I dare say we shall find them. This way, if you please.”

Rawton was led by the old man into a small apartment, in which were a number of ponderous volumes ranged on shelves.

“We had better search the volume for 1858 first.”

“As you please.”

“Have you the paper with the names?”

“Yes――here it is.”

The old clerk began to look over the book. Page after page was gone over, but no such names could be found.

“Can I be looking over the volume for the preceding year?” said Rawton, carelessly.

“Oh, certainly, sir, if you please. My eyesight is not so good as it was, but my memory is good, and I think I can recollect two persons bearing the names here written down.”

The gipsy meanwhile turned over the pages of the other volume. He soon came to the page on which his own name and that of Hester Teige was inscribed. He slid a piece of paper between the leaf and turned over the others. Then he drew his hand across his forehead.

Immediately after this a loud crash was heard. The sound reverberated through the aisles with terrible force.

“Mercy on us, what’s the matter?――some accident to the church!” cried the gipsy, in a tone of alarm. “Pray see what it is.”

The clerk was seriously alarmed, and, upon the impulse of the moment, rushed out into the body of the church.

This was Bill Rawton’s opportunity. With almost incredible rapidity he drew forth his penknife, which he had kept open in his coat pocket, passed the blade along at that side of the page which was fastened to the book, and drew it forth; then, folding it up, he thrust it into the breast pocket of his coat. When this had been done he went out of the little room and anxiously inquired what was the matter.

The clerk informed him that some evil-disposed person had thrown a stone at the church windows, one of the panes of which was broken. The stone was picked up inside the edifice.

“The mischievous, audacious scoundrel!” exclaimed Rawton. “Shall I try and catch him? He can’t be far off.”

“I wish you could.”

“I’ll try,” said Rawton, who at once rushed out. He brought in a lubberly boy, who was staring, open-mouthed, at the broken glass.

“It aint me as did it, sir――indeed it aint. I never heaved a stone at the window,” cried the lad, bursting into tears.

“Oh, it’s you, Jim Starling――eh?” said the clerk. “And if it wasn’t you, perhaps you can tell who did it.”

“I dunno. I heard a smash, and saw the window shivered, but I did not see him as heaved the stone.”

“Was there anyone else about besides him?” said the clerk, addressing himself to Rawton.

“I did not see anyone else.”

“This must be inquired into. It’s a most scandalous, wicked act, and you must do your best, Starling, to find out who it was.”

“Yes, I will, sir――I will do my best.”

“Am I to let him go?” said Rawton.

“Yes, I suppose so. Ah, yes, he is well known here. I don’t think he would be wicked enough to do such a thing, for we consider him to be a well-conducted lad; but as I said before, it must be inquired into. A reward must be offered, and the police must be made acquainted with the circumstance. Dear me, sir, young people of the present day are not a bit like those I remember when I was young; they are audacious, mischievous, and uncontrollable; but, as I said before, this matter must not be allowed to drop without a searching inquiry.”

“No, certainly not. I’m a stranger to these parts,” observed Rawton, “and certainly never expected to find such a lawless act committed like this in open daylight. It so alarmed me that I have not as yet recovered from the shock.”

“I dare say not, sir; I can well understand that, and indeed I am very sorry,” replied the clerk, apologetically, “extremely sorry. Such a thing never occurred before. I can’t make it out; but your pardon, sir; you have not found what you want.”

“No, the interruption was so sudden and unlooked for that for the moment I had almost forgotten my errand.”

The blubbering boy scampered off the moment he was released, and the clerk and Rawton returned to the room.

“May I take the next volume to this?” said the gipsy.

“Yes, sir, if you please.”

Rawton turned over the leaves of the other volume and in the space of a few minutes found the two names of which he professed to be in search, but which, as the reader can readily imagine, he cared nothing about. It so chanced that he remembered the persons bearing these names being married in the year 1852, and they did very well as a blind to his proceedings.

When he found them he professed to be very anxious to have a copy of the entry in the book, which the clerk at once proceeded to make. The clergyman had to sign it as a matter of form, and when this had been done, it was handed to the gipsy, who paid the usual fee, wished the clerk good day, and walked rapidly on towards the station.

“I’ve done my worthy friend, the doctor, now, and no mistake. Hester can defy him. After all there was not much to fear, but I should have been on the grizzle, and as savage as a meat hatchet if he’d got the better of her. It was about as neat a job as I can remember doing, and Cooney did his part to rights, just in the nick of time. Nobody will be any the wiser, and the chances are the leaf will never be missed; but if it is I can’t help it.”

Upon arriving at the station, he found Cooney seated in front of the refreshment bar, devouring the remains of half a pork-pie, which he washed down with a pint of bitter.

“Thought you’d never come,” he cried, upon catching sight of the gipsy; “been waiting here till I was so hungry that I couldn’t hold out any longer, so thought it best to stick up a score to you.”

“Gammon and all,” said Rawton. “They don’t give credit at these places.”

“I aint paid for nuffin as yet.”

“Then I will,” said Rawton, who forthwith put a shilling on the counter and called for a pint of the best Burton, paying for that and what his friend had had at the same time.

When the two entered one of the carriages of the next London train their tongues were unloosed, for there were no other persons besides themselves in the compartment, and they had purposely forborne talking about the business that had brought them down before the barmaids and loiterers in the refreshment bar. All restraint was, however, now thrown off.

“Well,” said Cooney, “how did you work it――all right?”

“Right as the mail. Never did anything so neatly in my life. Went out and collared a boy for throwing the stone.”

“Oh scissors! What a spree!”

“Yes, and did the indignant to rights, I can tell you. The old clerk took it all in like a gudgeon, and was mighty civil and obliging.”

“Oh! he’s a very decent old boy.”

“Well,” said Cooney, “this one is about the rummest start I ever knew. Coming all these miles for the purpose of throwing a stone at the window of a church. Why, when you come to look at it in a serious light it seems ridiculous, don’t it?”

“Oh! as for that, in a manner of speaking, it is ridiculous; but what of that? It has answered our purpose. You don’t want more. I suppose we’ve done what we came to do. It’s a matter of duty――leastways as far as I’m concerned, and as to you a trip in the country, and a sniff of the fresh air won’t do you any harm.”

“It’s the dicky birds and the trees and the green grass as does it. Makes you preach like a parson, and talk like a book――blowed if they don’t; but I’m glad you’ve brought it in all right. Why, Lord bless us, I wonder what has become of Charles Peace――haven’t set eyes on him for years.”

“He got into a little bit of a mess at Sheffield,” observed the gipsy, “and had to do seven years’ ‘stretch.’ Since his conviction I haven’t seen anything of him.”

“Nor don’t know what he’s up to, I s’pose?”

“No, haven’t the slightest notion. Poor Charlie! He was always straight and square with me. Many people run him down, but I speak of a man as I find him.”

“Same here. He was always right enough; but Lord bless you, things aren’t a bit like what they used to be――you can’t trust anybody nowadays.”

“That’s true enough, Cooney――you’re right there, old man.”

“But, I say,” observed the gipsy’s companion after a pause; “what might be yer little game at this blessed old church? You haven’t come all the way for nuffin, that’s quite certain.”

“For nothing-why of course not, ’taint likely.”

“Well then, what’s yer lay?”

“Merely to serve a friend, that’s all.”

“Hang your artful old eyes, it’s something more than that. I ’xpect you’ll make a jolly lot of couters out on it.”

“Nothing of the sort――I shan’t make a single quid out of it. I pledge my word that it is a mere matter of friendship.”

“S’help my taters, I’m jolly glad to find there’s so much friendship left in the world, but it’s hard to believe for all that.”

“You can please yourself about believing it. I have only to say again what I’ve said is the solemn truth.”

“All right――I don’t want to pry into any man’s secrets. You’ve done the trick cleverly, and that’s what you may call a jolly artful dodge and no mistake, but I’m as dry as a piece of old chunk. Stand a drop of something to drink at the next station.”

“Right you are――you shall have as much as you like.”

When the train arrived at the station the two companions repaired to the refreshment bar, and regaled themselves with some “heavy wet.”

Upon their arrival in London, they betook themselves to their lodging-house, and Bill Rawton presented Cooney with two sovereigns for his services, which the latter considered a handsome recompense. The gipsy, with all his faults, had never been a mean or selfish man, and, certainly, in this case, he did not take the lion’s share, but he was well pleased with the result of his visit to the village church, and was, consequently, in the best of spirits.

He considered he had put into practice a master stroke of diplomacy, and began to ruminate upon the best course to adopt in seeking an interview with Mrs. Bourne.

He had no desire to see the doctor――he wished to have a tête-à-tête with his wife.

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