VIII. PEACE HAS ANOTHER NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE…

VIII. PEACE HAS ANOTHER NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE

For some considerable time after the death of the Badger, Peace worked regularly at his trade. Orders came in pretty freely, and as Bessie Dalton had prognosticated several gentlemen associated with him at the concert given for the benefit of the weaver’s widow took great pleasure in recommending him to their friends as a skilful and reasonable carver and gilder.

Had he chosen to do so he might have established a very good business in the town of Bradford, but the greed of gain and the spirit of adventure, as he termed it, was for ever urging him on to commit lawless acts. Hence it was that steady industry became after a while distasteful to him.

His course of life presents us with a melancholy picture――cunning, roguery, wholesale plunder, and reckless bravado. The old adage of “once a thief always a thief” was exemplified in him.

His thin, firmly compressed lips gave one an impression of a man who, if put to it, would stick at nothing to gain his ends. There was a wolfish look about his face, his eyes appeared more like the eyes of a wild beast than of a human being; he had a good square head and altogether looked like one who had both the head to plan and the hand to carry out any villainy on which he had set his heart.

As we have before noted Mrs. Bristow and her husband occupied the parlours of the house in which Peace lodged. Bristow was a smith by trade; in addition to this he was a wretch, who drank horribly, treated his wife――who was a pretty little woman of decent parentage and belongings――with the greatest brutality.

Drink, it has been observed, is the curse of the British workman; the fatal propensity has led to the commission of numberless crimes.

Our courts of justice furnish us with a black catalogue of atrocities, assaults, and murders, committed by habitual and confirmed drunkards.

If the veil could be lifted, and the desolate and miserable home of the drunkard shown in all their hideous deformity, a picture would be presented which the most phlegmatic and unimpressionable would shudder to look upon.

It is a sad reflection that nothing can be done to purge the land of this terrible scourge.

Bristow had an amiable, forgiving, and patient wife. Her life, since she had been united to her drunken husband was one of sorrow and suffering.

She had for her companion, and to a certain extent this was a solace to her, Bessie Dalton, who on many occasions had sheltered her from the domestic storm which burst over her defenceless head.

The gentleman who had been the companion of these two women on the evening of the concert saw them to the door of their residence after the performance was over.

He took the liberty of calling the next day. He was introduced to Bristow, who, for a wonder, was perfectly sober, and when in this state he was a decent, well-behaved man enough.

He was very respectful in his manner, and thanked his visitor for the kindness and consideration he had displayed in protecting his wife from the rougher portion of the crowd gathered in the entrance hall.

The interview was but of brief duration; after an exchange of civilities the stranger took his departure.

And he called several times after this, and saw both Bessie Dalton and Mr. Bristow.

Ultimately, however, these visits culminated in a scene which we shall have to describe in a future chapter.

Our more immediate business now is to put the reader in possession of all the incidents connected with the escapade of our hero.

Peace, as we have already noted, could not comport himself in a becoming meaner for any great length of time.

He had been looking about for a convenient “crib to crack.” He had, to use a cant or sporting phrase, “spotted” a large warehouse which stood at the east end of the town, and had come to the conclusion that there would be but little difficulty in his effecting an entrance.

The place was left in charge of a night watchman, whose vigilant eye Peace felt assured he could easily avoid.

It was his custom at this time to wear women’s boots. He had on the same pair which he made use of when he entered the millowner’s house at Dudley Hill.

Once in the premises, there would not be much difficulty in abstracting all valuables which were in any way portable.

He was over-confident on this occasion. He, however, took the precaution to disguise himself by wearing his false arm and colouring his face, which presented the appearance of a mulatto.

He was under the full impression, to use another sporting phrase, “that he would be able to walk over the course.”

The town of Bradford was enveloped in a mist when Peace sallied forth upon his marauding expedition.

He did not start from his lodgings, but had been for an hour or two at a quiet respectable coffee-shop. From this place he started upon his expedition.

There were but a few stragglers in the streets at this time, for the hour was late, and most of the operatives were fast asleep in their beds, save a few of the most irreclaimable, who were in the parlours or skittle-grounds of the public-houses.

In the course of about twenty minutes, or from that time to half an hour, Peace arrived at the warehouse which he had chosen as the scene of his operations.

He glanced furtively around.

Not a solitary passenger was in sight.

The warehouse stood in a part of the town where few chance pedestrians were to be seen even in the busiest part of the day. Now there were none, and the burglar therefore had it all to himself.

He tried the lock of one of the side doors with more than one of his skeleton keys, but was not at first successful in shooting back the bolt.

He was, however, not a man to be easily baffled. On many occasions he has boastfully displayed to his companions his ability in tampering with locks of every description.

After some further efforts he managed to turn back the lock. This done, he gently pushed against the door, which he found was fastened by a top bolt――the bottom one had evidently not been driven home into its socket.

He had now but one thing to contend with, this being the top bolt. He had provided himself with a small piece of flexible steel with a sort of claw at its end, wherewith to operate on this.

A considerable space of time elapsed before he was enabled to successfully surmount this difficulty.

At length, however, by patience and perseverance, combined with skill, he contrived to send back the bolt from the socket by slow degrees.

This done he opened the door, entered, and closed it after him, so that it might not attract the notice of any of the police.

He found himself in an enormously large apartment, which was more than a third filled with goods of various descriptions.

The windows of the warehouse were covered with dust and dirt, and the place was in comparative darkness.

Peace carried no dark lantern with him on this expedition; but he had provided himself with a box of silent lucifers, which were warranted to “ignite only on the box.”

He struck one of these, and was about to take his way up the stairs to make an inspection of the upper portions of the building when, much to his surprise and chagrin, he was confronted by the night watchman, who emerged from a wooden hutch in one of the corners of the warehouse.

“You audacious scoundrel!” exclaimed the watchman, springing like a panther upon Peace, in so sudden a manner that he had no time to elude the man’s grasp.

“Leave go,” cried Peace, in a voice of concentrated passion; “unhand me, or it will be worse for you.”

“I’m not going to part with you so easily――you’re my prisoner,” answered the porter, winding big fingers around the collar. “You’re caught, my gaol-bird, this time, and no mistake.”

The lighted lucifer had fallen from Peace’s hand upon the first assault, and the two men were struggling for the mastery in comparative darkness.

Physically speaking, the watchman was the most powerful of the two, but he had neither the skill, coolness, nor cunning of his more wary opponent. The struggle was a short but desperate one.

The burglar tried every feint and dodge to gain an advantage. By a sudden and adroit movement he tripped up the watchman, who fell on his back, his antagonist falling upon him at the same moment.

Peace lost no time in making the best use of the advantage gained: he placed his knee on the man’s chest, and removed his hands from about his throat.

In another moment the burglar was sent backwards by a well-directed blow from his antagonist’s clenched fist.

The watchman ran to the door which he opened, then in a stentorian voice he shouted out――

“Help! Murder! Police――police!”

The cries for assistance were taken up and repeated by one or more persons in the street.

Peace made for the wide open staircase which he began to ascend rapidly.

The watchman, perceiving this, gave chase.

The burglar seeing that another struggle was imminent, and being in no way desirous of risking the chances of a second encounter, had recourse to a cunning stratagem.

He waited at the top of the first landing for his pursuer who rushed forward, never for a moment dreaming of the reception that was in store for him.

Peace waited till the man came within reasonable distance; he then kicked out with his right leg and struck his pursuer with his foot full in the face. The latter rolled from the top of the first flight of stairs to the bottom.

Peace heard strange voices below, which he concluded, naturally enough, proceeded either from the police or a chance passenger in the street.

Feeling that he was in a critical position, and that there was now no possibility of his escaping through the door, by which he had effected an entrance into the premises, he made at once for the roof.

The warehouse was a five-storied one, and he did not pause until he had reached the topmost story.

As he had anticipated, he discovered a trap-door, by means of which he could, in all probability, be able to reach the roof of the building.

He drew some bales of goods underneath the trap, and upon these he mounted.

The door was fastened on the inside by two bolts. These he endeavoured to draw back, but they were rusty, and not easily removed.

He heard footsteps ascending the stairs; heard also voices.

Every moment was now precious.

If he could not succeed in drawing back the bolts, his capture was certain.

[Sidenote: No. 5.]

He drew a jemmy from his coat-pocket, and getting a leverage from the side of the trap, he drew back one bolt; he was enabled now to raise the trap on one side.

He sprang up from the bales of goods and contrived to pass through the opening. This done he closed it.

He now found himself on the leads of a flat roof.

The building was immensely high, as most structures of this nature usually are.

As far as the eye could reach the chimneys and roofs of the houses of the city lay before him like one vast panorama.

He stood on a dizzy height, from which there did not appear to be any means of escape.

He began to despair, but a shuffling noise at the trap-door moved him to further action.

He ran to the extreme end of the roof, and found, much to his delight, the roofs of houses, some twelve or thirteen feet below.

He looked over the parapet of the warehouse at the roof beneath him.

He cast a furtive glance at the trap, which he discovered was being removed.

The police were on his track.

Urged almost to desperation, he laid hold of one of the coping stones of the parapet; he threw his legs and body over, and then for a moment or so hung in mid air.

To let go and drop on the roof of one of the houses was indeed a desperate alternative.

But, desperate as it was, he felt that the attempt must be made.

He had by this time gone too far to recede.

He let go his hold of the coping stone, and dropped upon the slanting tiles of the house beneath.

He alighted with comparative safety.

Sliding down the roof, he gained the gutter which ran round the house. Then he stooped down and hid himself behind the low wall in front of the gutter.

By this time the policemen and the night watchman were on the leads of the warehouse. He knew this, for he heard their voices distinctly in the night air.

“He’s stepped it,” said the watchman. “He’s given us the slip after all our trouble, the audacious scoundrel.”

Peace heard these observations, and remained as quiet as possible in his place of concealment.

“He’s made off over the roofs of those houses,” said one of the police officers.

“Impossible!” exclaimed the watchman. “No mortal man could reach them from where we are standing. Oh, no――impossible!”

“You don’t know what these fellows can do,” returned the constable. “They’re like cats――they’ve got nine lives.”

The speaker flashed his bull’s-eye in all directions, but no burglar was visible.

Peace was stretched at full length in the gutter, and the low wall in its front effectually concealed him from observation.

But the situation in which he found himself was in no way a pleasant one; but he was as cunning and stealthy in his movements as an old fox.

If he attempted to stir, he knew that discovery was certain.

He, therefore, remained speechless and motionless.

“Have you got such a thing as a ladder?” inquired one of the constables of the watchman.

“Yes, there is one in the yard. Why?”

“He’s hiding somewhere on the top of yonder houses. We shall nail him yet, if we can get a ladder.”

“Come down to the yard at once, if you think that,” said the watchman. “An excellent thought. Come this way.”

The speaker and the two policemen retraced their steps, crept through the trap-door, and hastened towards the yard in search of the ladder.

Peace heard every word they had spoken, and was thereby apprised of their movements.

He waited till he felt assured they had left the roof of the warehouse, then he peeped out from his hiding-place.

Not a soul was to be seen.

Abutting out from the roofs of the row of houses on which he had so successfully dropped were a number of dormer windows, with lozenge-shaped panes. Peace crept along the gutter upon his hands and knees, and tried the first window he came to.

It was fastened. He tried another with the same result.

Presently he discerned, at no very great distance off, the faint glimmer of a light from an adjacent window. He made for this at once.

He opened it with the greatest care, and crept softly in.

A young and pretty servant girl was partly undressed, and was about to retire to rest.

She gave utterance to a faint scream as the burglar entered her sleeping chamber, and modestly covered her neck and shoulders, which were bare, with a shawl.

“For the love of mercy, how came you here, sir?” she inquired in evident alarm.

“My dear young lady,” said Peace, in his most persuasive tones, “do not be alarmed. Take pity on a poor fellow who seeks your protection.”

“Protection, you must be some madman, or else――a――a burglar.”

“I am neither. At the present moment I am in the depths of trouble. You can save me――you will, I am sure. You have a kind heart――I can see that by your face, which wears on it a sweet expression. Oh, do take pity on me!”

He threw himself on his knees before her, and again pleaded in such an eloquent manner that the young woman was touched.

She hesitated, not very well knowing what answer to make to such an appeal.

“What trouble are you in, then?” said she.

“I’ve had a dispute, a quarrel; blows have been exchanged, and, if I cannot escape from the officer who is after me, I’m a ruined man――ruined for life. You will have compassion on me. You cannot find it in your heart to refuse your aid to a distressed and afflicted man.”

“What do you want me to do? If you are discovered here my character will be lost. Go――go at once, or I will call for assistance!”

“Nay, you cannot mean anything so cruel――I’m sure you cannot!” he exclaimed, in a beseeching tone.

“Will you go, sir?”

“Yes, if you will only show me the way. This little affair will blow over in a day or two. Matters can be arranged; but if I fall into the hands of the police I’m lost. Now do you understand a miserable fugitive asking you to protest him? You cannot――you will not refuse.”

“How can I protect you?”

“Simply by this. The police are on my track; let me out at the back door of the house; I can then make my escape. Now do you understand?”

“What have you been doing for the police to be after you?”

“I’ve told you. A quarrel――an assault.”

“You are a very strange man. I do not understand how you came here.”

“I’ll tell you all another time. Show me the way to the back door, and I will go at once and trouble you no more. Quick, no time is to be lost. You will do this, and heaven will reward you. But stay――here is something as a recompense for this little favour.”

He took a sovereign from his pocket, which he handed to the girl.

She drew back indignantly.

“No, sir!” she ejaculated. “I’ll have none of your money.”

“Very well,” he answered; “so be it. Trust me, I shall find the way of rewarding you some other time. Now let me out.”

“I run great risks. Suppose my master or mistress should hear us descending the stairs.”

“I will make no noise. They’ll not hear us.”

The girl took the light, and crept softly downstairs. Peace followed.

The back door was soon unfastened, and the burglar imprinted a kiss on the hand of his benefactress.

“You can jump over the wall at the end of the garden, and reach the court at the back,” she whispered. “Now go.”

She closed the door and refastened it; then she betook herself to the window of the back parlour, and saw her strange visitor jump over the wall into a neighbour’s garden. He then climbed another wall, and gained a side street beyond.

“Oh, gracious goodness! how glad I am he’s got off. What an extraordinary man!” she ejaculated.

“Poor soul, he seemed in the depths of trouble, I shall learn something more about the affair in the morning, I’ll dare be sworn.”

She crept softly up the stairs and reached her own room without disturbing any of the other inmates of the house.

Meanwhile the police officers had obtained the ladder from the adjoining yard; this they reared against the side of one of the houses which was in close proximity to the warehouse from which Peace had so successfully escaped.

The constables ascended the ladder, clambered over the roofs of the houses, but as the reader may readily imagine, they were in no may successful in obtaining sight of the fugitive, who by this time was far away from the scene of action.

The policemen were much disconcerted, but were, however, not at all disposed to give up the search without further efforts.

They observed the glimmer of the light from the window of the servant girl’s room; the latter had by this time returned to her apartment in the roof, and was preparing for bed when she was startled by a loud rap at the window.

“Who’s there, and what do you want?” said she, in breathless accents.

“Open the casement――a burglar is in the house. Open at once!”

“Don’t be afraid, girl; we belong to the police.”

“But I am very much afraid, and that’s the truth,” returned she, unfastening the window and throwing it wide open. “Good kind gentlemen, for the love of mercy tell me what’s the matter?”

The constables made no reply, but sprang into the room. The girl drew back in undisguised alarm.

“It’s most disgraceful to force an entrance into my bedroom――that’s what it is,” she ejaculated petulantly.

“Now, young woman,” said one of the constables. “Answer me truthfully. Have you seen a man making his way over the roof?”

“Certainly not, with the exception of you and your companion; you are the only persons I have seen.”

“No one has been here.”

“Why, goodness me, no. Haven’t I told you so already?”

“You’re quite sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

The policemen glanced round the apartment, looked under the bed, in the cupboard, and, in short, everywhere they could think of.

“Strange!” ejaculated policeman No. 1.

“Most remarkable,” returned No. 2. “Where can he be hiding?”

“Can’t possibly tell.” Then, turning to the girl, he said, “Hark ye, young woman, a burglary has been committed in the adjoining warehouse; the robber has escaped, and we have reasons for believing that he has sought shelter in this house.”

“A burglary!” exclaimed the girl, giving utterance to a loud scream. “What have I done that I should be treated thus?” Having said this she burst into tears.

The door of the bedroom was opened, and a tall gentleman, with a thick grey moustache, appeared with a drawn sword in his hand. He had hastily huddled on his clothes, and was swathed in a long dressing-gown.

For the rest his countenance was indicative of rage and indignation. He was a retired Indian officer.

“What is this noise and altercation about?” cried the half-pay captain, regarding the constables with a malevolent look. “How is this that the sanctity of my private abode is thus violated? Speak! Dost thou hear?”

One of the policemen briefly explained the particulars of the attempted burglary, and the remarkable escape of the robber.

“You have exceeded your duty. How dare you enter the maid’s bedroom in this precipitate――this, ahem! unseemly manner? Do you suppose for one moment that anyone belonging to my establishment would harbour burglars? I say you have gone beyond all reasonable limits; and, ahem! I tell you frankly, that the matter shall not rest here. An Englishman’s house is his castle, and it is not to be invaded by the officers of the law, without――I say without a reasonable excuse.”

“I hope we have a reasonable excuse, sir.”

“I say you have not; don’t contradict me, man, I will not condescend to bandy words with you. This matter shall be inquired into.”

“What is your number?”

“46 T.”

“Good, and yours?” he enquired, turning to the other.

“49 T. But will you allow me to explain――――”

“No, no. I will not. I don’t want any explanation now. At a proper time and in a proper place you will have to account for this scandalous behaviour――forcibly entering a young girl’s bedroom upon such a shallow pretext. I say it does not admit of explanation. I will answer for the honesty and integrity of this girl――let that suffice. Zounds! gunpowder and smoke, I am perfectly astounded at your audacity!”

46 T said he was exceedingly sorry that there should have been any misunderstanding, but they thought it probable the thief might have been seen passing the window.

“Ridiculous, positively absurd,” ejaculated the choleric captain. “You are a pair of blundering idiots. The thief, if there be one, which I do not for a moment admit, would not be fool enough to enter a respectable house and arouse the inmates in his endeavour to escape. The idea is perfectly preposterous.”

“It is most unfortunate that you view the matter in this light,” said 46 T, “and I deeply regret that we should have offended you, sir, but it has been done in the exercise of our duty.”

“Duty be hanged! A pretty story truly, that you are to disturb people in the dead hours of the night, wake them from their peaceful slumbers, frighten the maid almost into hysterics upon the miserable plea that you thought the robber might have sought shelter here. I tell you, sir, that the very thought of such a thing is insulting to me and to all who dwell in this house.”

While this altercation had been going on the girl had seated herself on the edge of the bed and gave utterance to a series of sobs and hysterical cries.

“Don’t you worry yourself, Mary. You’ve done nothing wrong, my poor girl,” said her master, in a kind tone of voice. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, or indeed to be alarmed at. Dry your eyes, girl, and be of good cheer.”

“I’m sure――I――ha――ven’t done anyone an――in――jury――and I don’t know why I should be treated like this.”

“Don’t fret yourself; nobody blames you,” returned her master. “The righteous have naught to fear.”

The captain strode towards the window, which he closed and fastened. He then threw up the shutters. This done, he turned towards the two constables, and said, as he approached the door――

“This way, if you please. It would be idle to prolong this scene. The maid wants to seek repose. She has been kept up later than usual, in consequence of a few visitors we’ve had this evening. You will, therefore, please follow me.”

The two policemen obeyed. The master of the house closed the door of the bedroom, and, with a light in one hand and a sword in the other, he led the way into a room below.

“Now, gentlemen” (he emphasised this last expression), “since you have taken upon yourselves to enter my premises as trespassers――I cannot call you anything else――I do not desire to part with you without first of all seeing that you search every room in the house.”

The constables felt that they had made a great mistake; this fact they were forcibly impressed with, and they were seriously concerned at the issue.

“We don’t desire to search――” stammered out one.

“I insist!” interrupted the captain. “There is now an imperative necessity for your doing so, and, further than that, I insist as a satisfaction to all parties.”

The officers bowed. They were conducted by their guide into one room after the other. It is, perhaps, needless to say that everything was in the same order as when the occupants of the habitation had retired for the night.

Nothing was disturbed. There was not the faintest indication of any stranger or robber having entered the premises.

“You will, I’m sure, pardon us,” observed one of the policemen. “We feel now that we have been too precepitate; but I hope you will consider, sir, that the reason for our being so was a desire to further the ends of justice. Mistakes will occur with the best and most cautious constable. I trust you will accept our apology, and say no more about this error――for error it most assuredly is.”

The captain was choleric, impetuous, but he was not vindictive. His anger passed away, and he was the chivalrous, generous, high-minded officer whom his worst enemies acknowledged to be a gentleman.

“Enough!” he observed. “You have been greatly mistaken, and I confess that I was greatly incensed, but that is over now. I am not the man to do anyone an injury for being over zealous in the discharge of what they deem their duty. You are satisfied that there is no robber lurking about here――I am satisfied that you did not mean to give offence; so let the matter be forgotten. Certainly it shall not be made public by me.”

“We thank you, sir, most sincerely for your kindness and consideration,” exclaimed both constables. “We thank you again and again.”

The gallant officer unbarred the front door of his habitation, bowed courteously to his companions, who returned the salutation, and passed into the house.

“We have made a pretty muddle of this business,” said one of the constables, to his companion; “what I call a regular muddle. It’s lucky the old gentleman cooled down. I thought he meant reporting us.”

“So he did at first, but he thought better of it.”

“Ah! he’s haughty, but he’s a gentleman. But as to that slippery customer, how he has got clear off will, I fear, remain a mystery.”

The policemen went back for the ladder, which they replaced in the yard.

The night watchman remained outside of the captain’s house, near by for the constables, who, of course, informed him of all that had passed therein.

The watchman was in no very good humour; he was suffering from the effects of the kick he had received from Peace while ascending the stairs.

Every bone in his body ached. In addition to this he found that his right ankle was sprained――so, taken altogether, he was in no enviable plight.

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Chapter IX

PEACE RETURNS TO HIS LODGINGS.――A VIOLENT SCENE.――THE ACCUSATION.

The notorious burglar whose deeds it is our purpose to chronicle during the progress of this work, succeeded, as the reader has doubtless already surmised, in getting clear off. After scaling the two walls in the rear of the captain’s house he found himself in a narrow unfrequented street, or, more properly speaking, court or alley.

He proceeded at once to make as much alteration in his appearance as possible. By the aid of his handkerchief and a little water he removed the stain from his face.

It has been asserted that he made use of walnut juice for the purpose of altering the hue of his skin.

This is a mistake. Walnut juice is not so easily removed. The pigment he employed was a finely-ground powder mixed with beer. This, when rubbed on the surface of the skin, gave him the appearance of a mulatto; and he had only to draw on a close-fitting black wig to make the disguise complete.

Peace, when representing a nigger, on the stage had, of course, to make up with burnt cork and beer, and it was this that first gave him the idea of using a brown powder in lieu of the cork to so successfully assume the appearance of a half-caste.

It had, moreover, this advantage; after his nocturnal depredations were over he could wash the colouring off his face in a few seconds, and remove his wig. This done, Charles Peace was himself again.

The disguise was so perfect that detection or identification was almost impossible.

The stain, as we have already observed, was removed, the wig was taken off, the false arm removed, and Peace felt quite secure.

He walked gaily along in an easy self-confident manner, not for a moment caring about a chance encounter with any member of the police force.

The self-possession and assurance of the man surpassed all belief.

He was, however, greatly chagrined at the unsuccessful nature of his raid upon the warehouse, and he could not disguise from himself that he had escaped almost by a miracle.

Nothing daunted, however, by his dangerous adventure, he walked gaily along till he reached one of the main streets of the town.

Here he was met by the two policemen who had made such a vain endeavour to capture him.

One of the constables flashed his bull’s-eye full in the face of the burglar, who bore his scrutiny with the utmost complacence.

“You’ll know me again the next time we meet!” said Peace, with cool assurance.

“May be I shall,” returned the constable. “Where are you coming from, and whither are you going?”

“That’s my business; but, if you want to know, I’ll tell you. I’m going to my own home, and I’ve been on a visit to a sick friend. You may as well know all. My name’s Charles Peace; I’m a carver and gilder――and a musician to boot. Anything else you want to know?”

“Have you seen any one pass as you came along?”

“Well, no one in particular. Oh, yes!――there was a dark-looking man――a mulatto, he appeared to be, with one arm; he was running at the top of his speed.”

“Which way did he go?” asked the policeman, eagerly.

“He ran down that street――the second turning to the left.”

“How long since?”

“Not a minute ago.”

The two constables made off in the direction pointed out by Peace.

“Good!” ejaculated the latter, with a grin. “I hope you will find the gentleman!”

He walked on at a more rapid pace, and did not pause until he had reached his own habitation.

He let himself in as usual with his latch-key, and crept softly upstairs.

For the next few days he worked industriously at his business, and behaved in a proper and discreet manner.

One or two of his friends, or rather patrons, paid him a visit, and gave him fresh commissions, and he deemed it advisable to keep as quiet as possible till the excitement consequent upon the attempt at burglary had somewhat subsided.

Like other affairs of a similar nature it was but a nine days’ wonder; the general impression being that it was the work of some tramp, who was in all probability a stranger in the town. Anyway, the aforesaid tramp was never discovered.

John Bristow, the man who occupied the parlours in the house where Peace lodged, had been for some days “on the drink.” His poor wife, during this period, had had a sad time of it. Her husband neglected his work, drank to excess, and conducted himself in a manner which was almost intolerable.

Bessie Dalton strove in vain to pacify the brute, who came home in a furious state.

It would indeed be a terrible picture of man’s brutality, and woman’s forbearance, were we to record all that passed in the drunkard’s miserable home.

One night Peace was aroused by piercing screams, which proceeded from Bristow’s room.

“For mercy’s sake, Charlie,” said Bessie Dalton, “go down to that wretch; there’ll be murder done. I’m sure there will if they go on like this.”

“It’s a thankless task to interfere between man and wife,” answered Peace. “Best let them settle their own disputes.”

“I tell you Bristow’s mad, and knows not what he’s doing. I cannot and will not remain quiet while this is going on. If you don’t care about interfering I will.”

She rushed downstairs; Peace followed.

Bessie opened the door of the front parlour, and found the room in the utmost disorder. Chairs were overturned, and the lamp upset and broken.

Bristow had his fingers round his wife’s throat, and appeared to be endeavouring to throttle her.

“You inhuman monster!” exclaimed Bessie, catching hold of the back part of the collar of the man’s coat, and dragging him back with all her force.

“Now, look here, Bristow,” said Peace, “don’t be a fool. You’ve got a good wife, and you don’t know how to treat her. A man’s a coward who lays his hand upon a woman.”

“Ish he?” returned the ruffian, turning savagely upon the speaker――“ish he? Then I’ll lay my hands upon a man, that I may teach him to mind his own bushnis.”

Having given utterance to these words he sprang upon Peace like a wild beast.

The latter deftly slipped out of his grasp, and gave him a push, which sent him sprawling backwards.

He rose to his feet, and was about to commence another attack, when Bessie Dalton, who was a lion-hearted little girl, threw herself between the two combatants.

“I’m not afraid of you, big as you are,” said Bessie. “So if you want to hit anyone, hit me.”

With a look of drunken stupidity Bristow poised himself on his legs, which, to say the least, were particularly shaky at this time, and contemplated the girl with something like admiration.

“Thee bee’st a plucky un, thersh no denying that. I don’t want to harm ’ee――――”

“I wish I was a big strong man,” exclaimed Bessie, in a spiteful tone. “That’s what I wish.”

“And why, my pretty little spitfire?” inquired Bristow.

“I’d give you a good thrashing――that’s all.”

“Ah! indeed; then I’m glad you’re not.”

He flung himself into a chair, and looked the very personification of imbecility.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bristow; upon my word, you are a disgrace to the neighbourhood.”

“Am I?” said the man, with a short jerk of his body, and a stupid nod of his head; “a dishgrace, eh?”

“Certainly you are――everybody says so.”

“Look here, I aint a-goin’ to stand any o’ your cheek, blow me if I do――no, nor any of your preaching either. What are you, I should like to know?”

“A thousand times better than you are!” exclaimed Bessie Dalton.

“Ish he?” This was said in a drawling tone and jeering manner.

“Yes, he is.”

“I’m not so sure about it. Why, Lord love yer, gal, don’t ye know what he ish――a burglar! Do ye hear――a burglar!”

Had a bomb-shell exploded in the room it could not possibly have caused greater consternation than did this declaration.

Peace was pale with rage.

“You infamous liar!” he exclaimed, in a voice of concentrated passion, walking up to the speaker, and shaking his fist in his face.

“Were it not that I respect your poor, ill-used wife――were it not that you are in a beastly state of intoxication, I would fell you to the earth.”

Bristow laughed derisively.

“You――you fell me to the earth,” he repeated, in a sneering tone.

Peace by this time was wild with fury.

Seeing that a desperate scene of violence was likely to take place, Mrs. Bristow flung herself in front of her husband, and said, in a deprecating tone――

“John――John, for mercy’s sake do not make so foul a charge;” then turning to Peace, she murmured, “Take no notice of what he says, Mr. Peace. Do not heed his words. He knows not what he’s saying.”

“Don’t I?” returned Bristow, with another jerk and a nod, “don’t I? I aint to be gammoned if you are. I know my way about.”

“Silence! Hold your tongue, John. Do be quiet!”

“You think I’m a fool, I ’spose,――eh?” said Bristow, in continuation. “How about that young swell――that lad of a chap ’as comes here? Be he arter you or Bessie? I’m a fool, am I?”

“Abuse me as much as you like――I am used to it; but don’t take away other persons’ characters,” ejaculated the miserable wife.

“Oh, Mr. Peace, he’ll be sorry for what he’s said to-morrow. Take no notice of him. Pray don’t, for my sake.”

“For your sake I would do much; but he will have to answer for this; not now, perhaps, for he is not sober, but he will have to answer for it, and that he will soon know to his cost.”

“Shall I? Oh, very good. I’ll answer for it whenever you like.”

“John, be quiet,” urged the unhappy wife.

“Well, then, send for something to drink.”

“You’ve had enough.”

“Have I? Then I’ll have more!” exclaimed Bristow, rising from his chair and staggering towards the door. “Who’s got any money? Have you got any, Mr. Burglar?”

Peace, who was standing near the door, lost all command over his temper. He struck the man a terrible blow between the eyes which felled him like an ox.

The women both screamed with fright.

A policeman, who was passing, entered the parlour, and found Peace and Bristow wrestling like two athletes.

“Now then,” said the constable; “let’s have no more of this, or I’ll lock you both up.”

He parted the two combatants, who stood glaring at one another like two wild animals.

“He took me unawares, and gave me a prop atween the eyes,” said Bristow, who was by this time a little sobered.

“He’s been beating his wife, the wretch,” said Bessie Dalton. “Been trying to throttle her.”

“Do you charge him?” inquired the policeman of Mrs. Bristow.

“Oh, dear no. He was not sober at the time. I don’t want anyone to be charged.”

“I told yon chap that he were a burglar, and he didn’t like to hear the truth,” ejaculated Bristow, with a chuckle.

“The man’s mad drunk――he’s been creating a disturbance the whole of the evening, and, because we came into the room to prevent murder being done, he’s been as insulting as possible,” said Peace. “He ought to be locked up, to prevent him from doing further mischief. Will anyone charge him?”

“No, there’s no charge, policeman,” answered Mrs. Bristow, quickly.

“Well, I’ll tell you what it is, if I hear any more noise or row, I’ll lock you up upon my own responsibility;” this last speech was addressed to Bristow.

“All right; now we understand one another,” answered the latter, in the same sneering tone which he had adopted during the whole of the evening. He was maudlin drunk, mischievously disposed, and tantalising.

“I’ll have no more to say to the worthless vagabond,” remarked Peace, preparing to leave. “You must use your own discretion in dealing with him, but before I go I must tell you that he is a dangerous character, and a nuisance to the house, and, indeed, to the whole neighbourhood,” and with these words, our hero strode out of the apartment, being in no way disposed to prolong a scene which might compromise him.

He felt that the time had arrived for him to beat a retreat; he adopted this course from strategic reasons. There was no telling what further might fall from the lips of Bristow, who was evidently mischievously disposed.

Peace, therefore, made for his own apartments upstairs.

Bessie Dalton, however, chose to remain in the parlour to defend her friend, Mrs. Bristow, or Sophy, as she called her.

The policeman, who was a very efficient and worthy member of the force, gave the inebriate a long lecture. He was well acquainted with the character of the latter, as disturbances and scenes of violence were unhappily but too frequent.

After the departure of Peace, Bristow toned down.

He said to the constable that he had been a little hasty――had been, in fact, worried about one or two matters within the last few days; but that he was sorry he had lost his temper. He could see it all now as plainly as a book; still, at the same time, he declared “that he was not going to stand any more of that fellow’s cheek.”

Of course he alluded to Peace, from whose blow he was still smarting. Indeed, one of his eyes was blackened, although probably he was not aware of this at present.

The policeman, after a few more words of warning, left the two women and Bristow to settle their differences as best they could.

Soon after this Bristow went to bed, and in a few minutes was sleeping soundly.

The house was quiet for the remainder of the night.

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Chapter X

PEACE HASTENS UP TO LONDON――CUNNING ISAAC――THE JEW “FENCE”――THE VISIT TO SHEFFIELD.

The words that had fallen from Bristow could not be forgotten by Peace, who began to be seriously concerned.

He was quite unable in any way to account for the expressions made use of by the ruffian in the parlour.

From whence could he have obtained his information?

Had it been noised abroad that Peace was the man who effected an entrance into the warehouse, or had Cooney been in the town and split upon him?

Some mysterious agency had been at work.

Bristow could not have dreamt that he was a burglar. He was too besotted and stupid a man to divine it from anything he had seen.

Somebody must have given him secret information. These thoughts passed rapidly through the brain of our hero.

“This place is becoming too hot for me,” murmured Peace, while working in his shop in the back yard.

“Some enemy is at work, and to remain here much longer would simply be an act of madness. No, I must away, and that, too, as speedily as possible, but I will not let any one know my intentions――no, not even Bessie. That Bristow is a dangerous fellow――when the drink is in him he cares not what he says.”

Peace had concealed in his rooms a number of valuable articles which were the proceeds of his burglaries. He did not care about running any risk by disposing of the same in Bradford; neither did he feel disposed to leave anything behind when he quitted the town. He therefore packed them as closely as possible in a hair trunk which he had procured for the purpose.

All this was done as quickly and secretly as possible while Bessie Dalton was away at the mill where she worked. When she came home in the evening she found Peace busily occupied in the shop with his picture frames.

He appeared to be as cheerful as usual, but he was maturing his plan of operations.

On the following morning he paid the landlord his rent, together with the amount due for the week’s notice, alleging that he had just received a telegram announcing the fact that his mother was in London dangerously ill, and that he was therefore compelled to hasten to her bedside without further delay.

The landlord did not for a moment doubt the truth of this statement.

Peace put his traps in a fly he had hired, and was driven to the station.

He took the first train to London, arriving in the metropolis in the early part of the afternoon.

A four-wheeled cab conveyed him to Whitechapel.

In that classic locality dwelt a Jew with whom Peace was well acquainted.

He had on more than one occasion disposed of his ill-gotten wares to the Israelite in question.

The Jew was called “cunning Isaac” by the professional gentlemen who had dealings with him.

Peace was driven to a coffee-shop, near to the Jew’s residence.

Here he engaged a bed, his trunks were safely deposited in the back room; he had some coffee in the public room, and in the dusk of the evening he proceeded to the Jew’s house, carrying with him, in a large bag, the greater portion of the property he had brought with him.

“Ah, Mishter Peace, your servant. I’m happy and proud to see you. Vat can I do for you? Have you anything in my vay? Bishness is bad――wery bad it ish. Nothing stirring but stagnation, as our friend O’Callaghan used to say.”

“You just stop your clatter, Isaac, and don’t call me by my name in a public shop. What I have to say to you must be said in your own private room.”

“Chertainly, my tear friend, chertainly! This way if you please.”

The burglar was conducted into a large back room, which presented the appearance of an old curiosity shop. It was crammed full of articles of almost every conceivable description.

“There now, take a chair, and make yourself at home. I’m happy and proud to see you,” ejaculated the Jew, rubbing his hands together.

“There’s quite enough of that. You’re about as glad to see me as I am to see you,” observed Peace.

“Vell, then, ve von’t say any more about it. Let’s to bishness. You’ve got something for me, I dare say.”

His visitor opened his bag, and placed a number of articles on the table.

These consisted of gold trinkets of various descriptions, silver plate, spoons, forks, and fruit knives, but more noticeable than all the rest was the massive silver cup which the burglar had purloined from the mill-owner’s residence at Dudley Hill.

On this was engraved the owner’s name, and the inscription signified that it had been presented to the master by the workpeople employed in his establishment.

The Jew examined each article separately, and shook his head in a deprecating manner as some of them came under his inspection. This was a way he had so that he might thereby depreciate them in the eyes of the party who offered them for sale. Some young hands were taken in by his manner, which to say the truth was never very encouraging.

“Oh, I see――plated,” he would ejaculate, when handling a genuine silver article, which he would push on one side as worthless. These little pleasantries were habitual with him.

It is a well-known fact to those who are acquainted with the subject that the burglar or thief never realises half, nor, indeed, in many instances a third, of the value of the property he purloins.

The sacrifice he has to make in obtaining ready cash for the same is enormous. The Jew “fence,” as he is termed, who purchases the goods obtains by far the largest booty, and this is done with but little risk. The receivers, as a rule, are seldom captured and brought to justice, it being at all times most difficult to prove their guilt.

“Well,” said Peace, after the Jew had finished his scrutiny of the various articles, “will they suit you?”

“Umph, there are some good things among them, but ash to the others, vell I don’t care much about them.”

“Don’t have them then,” returned his companion.

“I’ll have them all at a price.”

“Yes, I understand what that means――at your price, about a quarter of their value.”

The Jew regarded the speaker with a half angry glance.

“I give the utmost I can afford at all times――to my friends especially. Indeed, Mishter Peace, I often lose by my purchases; bishness ish pad――there are no buyers, money is tight. You don’t know how hard it is to get rid of goods, some especially. Now, there’s that presentation cup――vat can I do with it? See the risk I run in――――”

“Get out!” cried Peace, testily. “Put it in the melting pot――risk be hanged. You can’t gammon me, you old sinner.”

“Oh, Lord! to hear him talk, it’s as good as a play,” said the Jew, once more rubbing his hands together. Then, suddenly changing his tone, he said――

“Tell ye vat I’ll do――give you fifty pounds for the lot.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure. Fifty pounds for goods that are worth a hundred and fifty in weight of the silver alone.”

“Ah! but you forget the solder――you never thought of the solder. Besides I must have some little profit. I can’t live on air.”

Peace knew perfectly well, when he paid a visit to the establishment, that there would be a long time lost in haggling before he could get a moderately fair offer from Isaac. He had come prepared for this.

“I won’t take fifty, or anything like it,” said Peace, putting some of the articles back in his bag.

“Yer vont――eh?”

“I know where I can get more, and not far from here either.”

“Vere ish it? Tell us vere it ish. Vill he puy of me?”

“I’m not going to let you know where it is.”

“Vill you take sixty? There’s a good offer. I shall lose by them.”

Peace shook his head. No, he would not take sixty. Ultimately a bargain was struck, and Peace accepted seventy-five pounds for the articles, and he esteemed himself particularly fortunate in realising that sum.

“Ah, that’s a pad job about the ‘Badger’――a very pad job――poor fellow, he vos bowled out at last.”

“He was too headstrong. It was partly his own fault, so I’ve been told,” remarked Peace, as he passed out of the shop.

He slept that night at the coffee-house, and on the following morning took the train to his native town, Sheffield.

He called on his mother and found her in her accustomed health and spirits. It is said that he was her favourite son, but we have no positive proof of this.

Soon after his arrival in Sheffield he wrote a letter to Bessie Dalton, in which he informed her that he had left Bradford for very excellent reasons――the place had become too hot for him, and a change of air was necessary for his health. This, he asserted, was his only reason for leaving――his love for her (Bessie) was as strong as ever. Nevertheless, there was an imperative necessity for them to be separated for a while.

He, however, sent her a small sum of money occasionally, and bade her keep up her spirits until they met again.

He had brought with him a sum which would suffice to keep him for some little time, and before this became exhausted he knew pretty well how to obtain more, but for some weeks after his arrival in his native town he was much more careful than he had been heretofore.

He picked up a very decent living by playing the violin at various houses of public entertainment in the town, and, to all appearance, he was a well-behaved, proper sort of young man enough.

It was shortly after his return to Sheffield that he become enamoured of a young girl. This, the first and indeed only honourable attachment he ever had for one of the opposite sex, was not crowned with success.

The circumstances connected with the life of the object of his new-formed attachment are of a nature singularly romantic, and as our history progresses her career, as shadowed forth in this work, will form a touching episode in the drama of every-day life.

There resided in the town of Sheffield at this time a widow lady, named Maitland. She was possessed of a small income, and led a quiet life. Peace, who had been introduced to her by one of the neighbours, was anxious to improve the acquaintance, his reason for this being a sudden passion for her daughter Aveline.

When once bent on any object he was not a man to be easily thwarted.

Aveline Maitland was possessed of no inconsiderable share of beauty. She was exquisitely formed, graceful, with small delicately-chiselled features, which were singularly sweet in their expression. Taken altogether, there was an air of refinement about her that might well inspire any man with the master passion.

It is somewhat singular that such a radiant, fair young creature should have touched the heart of a man of so coarse a mould as Charles Peace.

But so it was. He saw her by chance at her mother’s residence, and he was struck with her grace and beauty.

Her influence over him was so powerful that for a short time he became quite an altered man.

He dressed with scrupulous care, was soft and gentle, and indeed it might be said winning in his manner.

Aveline Maitland, utterly unconscious of the fact that she had made a conquest of her mother’s visitor, treated him with courtesy, and conversed freely with him upon the various topics of the day.

Mrs. Maitland gave a party one evening. Peace, who heard of this, volunteered to play the violin to the dancers.

The widow availed herself of his services, and he made himself particularly agreeable to all the guests.

After this he procured a box at the theatre, and escorted the widow and her daughter. During the performance he was most polite and attentive to both the females.

It was a source of great trouble to him, however, that the fair Aveline did not offer him any encouragement. On the contrary, he could not conceal from himself that she was cold and distant.

Nevertheless he did not despair. It is an old adage, “That faint heart never won fair lady.” Peace was mindful of this. Most assuredly his was not a faint heart at any period of his career.

He was determined to woo and win Aveline. This time he was desperately in love, but there is another declaration made by a great poet――namely, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” It would be hardly worth while to make an effort to ascertain whether Peace’s passion for the fair Aveline could be included in the category of “true love;” there was so little truth about the man throughout the whole of his sinful life that the reader will find it difficult to believe of him being inspired with a pure and holy love for one of the opposite sex.

One thing, however, is quite certain, he believed himself to be desperately in love, and comforted himself in much the same way as other mortals do under similar circumstances.

“What is love?”

The fevered head, the palpitating heart, the visions beautiful and young, clothing our every day in a transient paradise, when the voice is heard deliciously exulting, or weeping passionately loud into the pillowed night.

Is this love? Slim girlhood answers yes.

Or is it the interchange of soul and soul, of which all life is typical? A staff in the traveller’s hand, music to the soldier’s march. Ah, such is love, sweet love!

Peace, as we have already seen, was a man of action. He was not one to beat about the bush, or let the grass grow under his feet, and in a very short time after his introduction to Mrs. Maitland and her charming daughter, he determined upon making a declaration to the latter of his undying and unfading love.

He had before this presented Mrs. Maitland with a handsome timepiece, the frame of which was most elaborately and beautifully carved by his own hands.

He had in his possession a ring set with diamonds, rubies, and other precious stones. This he purposed presenting to the daughter upon the first opportunity that occurred.

The widow’s cottage stood on the outskirts of the town of Sheffield. In the rear of the habitation was a small but well-cultivated garden. In this, one fair spring morning, Aveline Maitland was to be seen. She was seated in an alcove, or summer-house, as it was termed, reading.

Charles Peace, who had been watching her from the road, thought this a favourable opportunity.

He unfastened the wicket gate by the side of the garden, and entered.

His manner was soft and gentle. Taking off his hat, he paid his respects to the widow’s daughter, who rose from her seat and shook him by the hand.

“Pardon me, Miss Maitland, for this intrusion upon your privacy; but I have that to say which cannot possibly remain any longer unsaid.”

The young lady regarded the speaker with a look of surprise, and requested him to be seated.

Peace proceeded. “In the first place, I have a favour to ask, which I hope――nay, I feel convinced――you will not refuse.”

“What is its nature?” inquired his companion.

“I wish you to accept this little present,” said he, drawing forth the ring; “to accept it as a token in remembrance of me.”

“Sir!” exclaimed Aveline. “Mr. Peace, you greatly surprise me.”

“You are not offended, I hope?”

“No, certainly not. And I hope you will not be offended when I say I could not think of accepting it.”

[Sidenote: No. 6.]

Peace’s brow darkened. To say the least of it, this was a bad beginning. He did not press the question.

“Miss Maitland,” he said, in continuation, “you will, I hope, not object to hear what I have to say?”

She signified, by an inclination of the head, that he might proceed.

“Well,” said Peace, “I don’t know whether you have been able to divine my feelings, or to guess the secret which is locked up in my heart; but I feel that the time has come for me to be outspoken. From the very first moment I saw you but one absorbing thought haunted me. A mighty and overpowering passion took possession of me, and held me in bondage. As time went on, it became more intensified. Take pity on me!”

“Pity, and for what?”

“I am your slave, your devoted slave. It is little to say, perhaps, that I never knew what love was till I saw you.”

His companion gave utterance to a cry of surprise, or it might be alarm.

“Ah, my dear young lady, if you only knew how, sleeping or waking, your image is before me, if you only knew――――”

“Enough of this,” cried Aveline; “we are not on the stage playing two parts in a fashionable melodrama; you must be less demonstrative.”

“I will, as it so pleases you. Listen: I have money at my command sufficient to supply you with every ease or luxury you may desire. Only give me hope――do not drive me to despair. I love you so much that it would be indeed a blessing to devote my whole life to you. Tell me――may I hope?”

“Hope what?”

“That you will look with favour on me.”

“Mr. Peace I have already signified that you surprised me――now I am fairly astonished. What am I to understand by the words you have been uttering?”

“I desire you to accept me as a suitor for your hand, and on a future day I hope to become your husband.”

Miss Maitland rose from her seat.

“There must be an end of this,” she said, with something like anger depicted on her beautiful features.

“You refuse then――you doom me to perpetual misery.”

“I don’t know what you mean by perpetual misery, but I must tell you frankly that I feel it my duty to at once declare that I cannot for a moment receive you as a suitor, and once and for all I bid you never again to allude to this subject.”

Peace was miserably disappointed. He felt humiliated. The reception he had met with was in every way unsatisfactory.

He did, in his way, really love the young woman to whom he had made so sudden and unexpected a declaration.

Her candour and prompt answers cut him to the quick.

He had no right to expect a young lady, who was so immeasurably superior to himself, to treat him in any other way than she had done; but the audacity, assurance, and conceit of the man were beyond all bounds.

He had hoped to carry the fortress by storm, but the attempt turned out an ignominious failure.

“I cannot tell you, Miss Maitland, how supremely wretched you have made me,” said Peace.

“I am sorry to give pain to anyone, but at the same time I have felt it my bounden duty to be explicit. You have my answer. Let me beg of you, as a personal favour, Mr. Peace, not to ever again refer to this subject.”

“May I inquire the cause of this aversion, if I may so term it? Is there a rival in the case?”

“I do not feel myself bound to answer such a question,” returned his companion, in a tone of offended dignity. “Neither do I think our relative positions entitle you to interrogate me thus, I might say, rudely. Our interview is at an end.”

She moved towards the house.

“I hope we part friends. You’re not offended with me?”

“Well, no; but I think you have acted without due consideration. There has never been anything in my manner or bearing towards you to warrant this familiarity. But let that pass. I bear you no ill will. On the contrary, I hope and trust you will see the mistake you have made, and so farewell.”

She offered her hand to Peace, who took it and raised it to his lips.

She withdrew it somewhat hastily, and walked with rapid strides towards the back door of the cottage.

Peace found himself alone.

He had some difficulty in mastering his feelings.

Rage and despair seemed to have seized him, and had he not respected Aveline Maitland as much or, indeed, more than he admired and loved her, the probability is that he would have burst out in one of those violent fits of passion which he generally displayed when thwarted in any object upon which he had set his heart.

But there was something so polished in the manner of the young girl that he was in a measure disarmed and held in bondage while in her presence.

After the departure of Miss Maitland, Peace remained for a few minutes like one stupified.

He presently recovered himself, and walked slowly along the gravel path in the garden until he had reached the gate.

He opened it, passed through, and crept down the lane which skirted the side entrance of the widow’s residence.

He cast one long lingering look at the cottage, heaved a deep sigh, and walked on with accelerated speed.

“I’ve been too precipitate,” he ejaculated, as he proceeded along; “much too precipitate, and by my rashness have lost the only woman I ever loved――the only woman. How could I have been such a fool? Not, perhaps, that she would have been persuaded to listen to my suit, not in any case; but I have thrown away whatever little chance I had. Well, she gave me a plain and positive answer. And it’s likely enough that some one else is after her.”

As this thought passed through his brain he uttered curses loud and deep.

Crestfallen, and in a state bordering on distraction, he reached Sheffield, where he joined a lot of boon companions, in whose company he vainly strove to drown the sorrow which weighed so heavily upon his heart.

For the next few days he was in a state of nervous excitement.

He could not forget the words that had fallen from the lips of Aveline.

Did she suspect aught? Had some mischievous busybody been speaking against him? It was likely enough. There must have been some powerful influence at work. The more he reflected upon the subject the more he felt assured that some one had given her a timely caution. Who could it be?

He ferreted about in all quarters; made inquiries of a number of persons from whom he thought he might obtain the desired information, but was unable to get the faintest clue to anyone. He pushed his inquiries still further, but was in no way successful.

He frequently bent his steps in the direction of the widow’s cottage, where dwelt the woman for whom he was ready to make any sacrifice. He hovered about the house and grounds in a state of hopeless and almost incurable despair.

It was even some solace for him to contemplate the habitation, and to conjure up, by the agency of imagination, the fair young creature moving about from room to room.

One day, while traversing the lane, he heard voices in the garden; they proceeded from the other side of the hedge which skirted the grounds.

Peace came to a halt――listened most attentively. He could hear the low, musical tones of Aveline, and hear also the voice of a man in close converse with her.

His heart beat audibly, his pulse quickened.

“She has some one with her,” he murmured.

Moved by a sudden impulse, he crept by the side of the fence until he had gained the extreme end of the garden. A quickset hedge ran along this, through the interstices of which Peace was able, unobserved, to obtain a view of the summer-house, upon which his eyes were now riveted.

He saw Aveline Maitland seated therein. By her side was a tall, handsome young man, whose looks denoted the state of his heart. He was whispering loving words to her――so Peace imagined, and was by no means mistaken.

It was evident that he was saying something that pleased her, for ever and anon she smiled.

Peace’s brain seemed to be on fire, his knees knocked together, and his whole frame shook with ill-suppressed passion.

“Tom Gatliffe, as I’m a living man!” he exclaimed. “He then is my rival, the sneaking hound! Ah, if I had only known this before!”

He ground his teeth with rage, and watched the lovers with the eyes of a basilisk.

It would have been too plainly perceptible, even to a casual observer, to say nothing of the penetrating and suspicious glance of Peace, that the young lady in the alcove lent an attentive ear to the soft, low sentences breathed by her male companion.

Peace became furious as he gazed upon the loving pair; nevertheless, he found it impossible to leave the spot. The foliage behind which he hid was sufficiently dense to screen him, but even if this had not been the case, he was wound up to such a state of desperation that he would not have much cared had the faithless Aveline and her companion become aware of his position behind his leafy screen.

Indeed, the thought crossed his mind more than once, of emerging from his place of concealment and confronting them.

But, upon second consideration, he came to the conclusion that no possible good could result from such a course of action, and therefore determined to keep where he was till the interview was over.

He would watch and wait.

The conversation was carried on between the two for some time, after which they both rose and walked slowly towards the house.

Peace was not sufficiently near to hear a word they said, but he judged, rightly enough, that their discourse was a pleasant one――being, in fact, made up of those airy nothings which are the golden dreams of life’s morning.

The situation in which he found himself was, to say the least of it, a most trying one――it would have proved to be so to the most apathetic, but to a man of Peace’s temperament it was all but insupportable.

“She can be haughty and distant enough when it suits her purpose, the deceitful minx,” he ejaculated, with bitterness; “but at other times she can be all honey. Bah! a plague on them both! That mealy-mouthed Tom Gatliffe, with his fine set speeches and goody-goody manner, has turned the gal’s head――that is the reason of her flouting me the other day.”

The lovers now entered the cottage, and Peace crept along the side of the hedge till he had reached the lane.

He sat down on a neighbouring stile and began to reflect――if a chaotic mass of fugitive thoughts rushing through an overheated brain can be called reflection.

What should he do? How should he be avenged?

Was it possible to break the golden fetters which bound the two together?

These were questions he found some difficulty in answering.

He had known Tom Gatliffe from boyhood; indeed, at one time they were schoolfellows. He was jealous of him even in those early days, for Tom was a diligent pupil, and in every way so superior to Peace that as a natural consequence they were never at any time what might be called pals.

“He was always a proud, conceited upstart,” exclaimed Peace. “Always thought a deal of himself, and went in for the virtuous, and looked down upon me with something like contempt. That was bad enough, but worse has followed――he’s stolen from me the only girl I ever loved. I hate the fellow, curse him!”

He rose from his seat and walked rapidly down the lane, muttering anathemas against Gatliffe and all his belongings. This did not appear to satisfy him, so he turned round and retraced his steps.

He had no settled or defined purpose in so doing, and, indeed, he hardly knew why he turned back, unless it was occasioned by a reluctance to lose sight of the cottage in the occupation of the widow.

He was so restless, so little himself, that he acted altogether in an erratic way.

In the course of ten minutes or so he caught sight of a solitary figure at the extreme end of the lane.

Peace came to a sudden halt; to all appearance from what he could make out the solitary messenger was none other than the detested Tom Gatliffe.

In a minute or so after this he was assured of this fact; with rapid strides the young man hastened along.

Peace waited; this was just what he desired. His face was distorted with passion, and wore on it a demoniacal expression.

Heedless of the coming storm young Gatliffe walked merrily along until he caught sight of the malevolent countenance of his quarrelsome schoolfellow.

“Ugh, it’s you, is it?” said Peace, with inexpressible disgust, both in his tone and manner; “you, eh?”

“What’s the matter, my friend?” inquired Tom.

“Friend be hanged,” answered Peace, “you’re no friend of mine. What do you do crawling about here? Tell me that. Oh, you may put on one of your sanctimonious looks, but it won’t deceive me. I say again, what do you do here?”

“Upon my word, Peace, you conduct yourself in a strange manner. Has anyone offended you?”

“Never you mind whether they have or not; you are lurking about here for no good purpose. Where have you come from?”

“Well, from the house of a friend of mine.”

“You are full of friends――everybody’s your friend, I s’pose. Is your friend’s name Maitland?”

“You are quite correct in your surmise――it is.”

“I thought so, and I suppose, if I may make so bold as to inquire, it is not so much the widow who has attracted you to the house as the daughter?” This was said in a tone of bitter irony.

“What if I refuse to answer impertinent questions?”

“You will refuse. You dare not answer them――you’re a mischief-making, lying, canting humbug. It is you, and none but you, who have poisoned the mind of Miss Maitland against me――Charles Peace――do you hear?”

Tom Gatliffe was perfectly astounded. As Peace gave utterance to these last words his countenance seemed to darken with the darkness of a curse.

“Look here,” said Gatliffe, in a more serious tone. “For the life of me I do not understand what you mean; but I tell you frankly that I am not disposed to be insulted and abused――the more so since I have not by word or deed done you the slightest harm.”

“It’s a lie――a miserable lie!” yelled Peace, poking his face forward towards the speaker, and making a hideous grimace.

“Are you mad? What on earth possesses you?” inquired the other.

“Haven’t you just left Miss Maitland?” cried Peace.

“Suppose I have――what’s that to you?”

“Oh――oh――what is it to me! Why, only this――she looked with eyes of favour on me until you set her against me.”

“Looked with favour on you!” said Gatliffe, with ineffable disgust. “Me set her against you? Why, Peace, you are beside yourself. Listen. I have known the Maitlands for years; and, long before you set eyes upon either, was the accepted suitor of the daughter. And neither you nor any other man shall come between me and Aveline Maitland――not even a peer of the realm.”

“Don’t you fancy you’re going to carry it off with a high hand, you despicable, crawling reptile!” exclaimed Peace, in a paroxysm of rage. “There’s not a word of truth in what you’ve been saying. I know full well who I have to thank for turning her against me――you, none but you.”

With these words he rushed at Gatliffe like a wild beast. He wound his fingers around his throat and endeavoured to throttle him.

In his fury he foamed at the mouth; and, had he been possessed of a weapon, doubtless something serious would have happened.

Gatliffe was a tall, athletic young man, who, in fair fight, would be able to overcome Peace with the greatest ease.

He had stood his taunts and insults with commendable good temper, but there is a limit to the forbearance of the most patient man.

He caught Peace round the waist, lifted him up, and threw him from him with the greatest ease.

Peace picked himself up and rushed forward again at his antagonist, who by this time had become a little angry.

He delivered a well-directed blow on his opponent’s chest, which knocked him backwards.

Finding that he was overmatched, Peace picked up a large flint stone, which he hurled at Gatliffe, who was seriously bruised in the thigh from the blow.

He rushed rapidly forward, and, clutching Peace by both arms, he pinioned him, and rendered him powerless to do further harm for the present.

“Let go, coward――let go!” exclaimed Peace.

“It’s you who are the coward, you spiteful, vindictive little brute. You ought to be ashamed of yourself――that is if you have any shame in you. Think yourself lucky you’ve escaped a good thrashing, for it’s what you deserve,” said Gatliffe.

Peace made frantic efforts to release himself, but he was unsuccessful.

Gatliffe, in addition to having great personal strength, had on more than one occasion carried off the prize as a wrestler.

He was a quiet, well-disposed young man enough, and was at all times the very last to quarrel, but when once aroused he was well able to take his own part.

“Are you going to leave go?” cried Peace, after a series of ineffectual struggles.

“Not unless you promise to behave better.”

“I wont promise――I’ll die first.”

“Very well, then; I shall keep you prisoner till a constable comes――that’s all.”

“A constable?”

“Yes, a policeman. Will you promise?”

“What?”

“To conduct yourself like a sane person.”

“I wont promise anything. I hate and despise you for a sneak as you are.”

“You were always an abusive, audacious fellow, even as a boy,” returned Gatliffe. “And a man who knows you as well as I do must be a fool to take any notice of your blustering.”

Two farm labourers who had witnessed the conflict from a neighbouring meadow, now came forward and proffered their services to Gatliffe.

“You’ve got a bit of a madman, aint ye, master?” said one of the men. “May be he’s escaped from his keeper.”

“You impudent wretch!” ejaculated Peace.

“What be going to do wi’ him?” said the other rustic. “He deserves ducking in the horse pond――that be the best way to serve him.”

“He’s flung a big stone at ’ee,” said the other; “better take him to the police station.”

“Oh, there’s no occasion for that,” answered Gatliffe. “I think he may go about his business now. If he’s got any sense he will do so at once.”

And with these words he left go of Peace, who deemed it advisable not to attempt any renewal of hostilities.

“Now go your way,” said Gatliffe. “You are smarting under some real or imaginary wrong; hence it is, I suppose, that you have fallen foul of me.”

“I haven’t done with you――depend upon that,” cried Peace. “You’ve got the better of me now, I admit, but that does not settle the difference between us.”

“Get away, you stupid fellow,” returned Gatliffe; “you don’t suppose I’m afraid of a man like you. Be off, and give me no more of your impudence, for if you do, I tell you candidly you wont escape again with a whole skin.”

Peace made another hideous face, after which he jumped over the stile and threaded his way through a narrow pathway which ran by the side of a corn-field.

Gatliffe watched him for some little time――he then turned towards the two farm labourers and laughed.

“He’s a spiteful, vindictive rascal,” said he; “there’s no doubt of that.”

“He be vicious, an’ I should say from the look on ’un a bad lot,” observed the ploughman. “There aint much on ’im, but what there is is all fire and brimstone, an’ it dont take much to set it alight.”

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XI. THE PROPOSAL――MRS. MAITLAND BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE

Humiliated and crestfallen, Peace returned to his old haunts at Sheffield. He solaced himself by writing a long and affectionate letter to Bessie Dalton, of whom he had taken but little notice for some time past; now he endeavoured to make amends for his neglect.

The excuses he made for this were, as a matter of course, mainly drawn from his own imagination, which, as far as false statements were concerned, was at all times fertile enough.

He mixed freely with his boon companions and played the violin nightly at one or more of the sing-songs held at the public-houses in the town. He had “the gift of the gab,” as it is termed, could converse glibely enough upon most topics, in addition to which he had quaint sayings and amusing ways, which went far towards ensuring him a cordial reception from the frequenters of the houses he chose to honour with a visit.

In many ways Peace was a remarkable man. He was a consummate scoundrel from the outset to the close of his career, but he could be, when he chose, a very plausible one.

Had he not been this he could never have imposed upon so many persons as he did.

But, despite his well-affected hilarity, grief lay heavy at his heart when he thought of the beauteous Aveline Maitland.

Her image was for ever presenting itself to his vision.

“But she’s far beyond my reach,” he would murmur. “She never would have listened to me under any circumstances. No, she’s too far removed from such as me.”

The more he thought over the matter the more he became impressed with the fact. The only wonder is that he had not arrived at this conclusion from the very first.

His successful rival, Tom Gatliffe, had been on terms of the closest intimacy with Mrs. Maitland and Aveline. His love for the latter had grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength. He positively worshipped the fair young creature who had so enslaved him, but for a long time he had remained silent upon the subject which engrossed his whole thoughts.

Young Gatliffe belonged to what is called the industrial class, but he had received an education superior to the generality of men in his station of life. He was by trade an engineer.

Patient, self-reliant, and industrious, he had won for himself a good position in one of the leading firms in Sheffield. His employers had great confidence in him, and he was a young man who gave early promise of pushing his way in the world. He was steady, frugal, and had already saved a considerable sum of money. He had of late become more persistent in his attentions to Aveline.

The end of this may be readily divined.

He avowed his love, and proposed.

Aveline did not refuse. On the contrary, she accepted him upon the condition that he was to broach the subject to Mrs. Maitland.

The young engineer was in an ecstacy of delight at his success so far.

Soon after his encounter with Peace he bent his steps towards the widow’s cottage, and sought an interview with its mistress.

Mrs. Maitland shrewdly guessed the object of his visit.

She conducted him into the front parlour, closed the door, and sat herself down in one of the arm-chairs, motioning her visitor to be seated in another.

“My dear Mrs. Maitland,” said Gatliffe. “It is indeed a subject of most serious import, as regards my own happiness, which has occasioned me to seek you. For a long time past I have been attached to your daughter――possibly you might have guessed this.”

The widow nodded.

“Ah, as I supposed.”

“And Aveline?”

“I have told her all――told her that a great golden blaze of light seemed to fall upon me when I first beheld her. I love her and have avowed my love. She bade me seek you――bade me ask your consent. That is why I am here.”

“I see and comprehend most fully. You love one another. Well, Mr. Gatliffe, you are not the first man who has been struck with Aveline――but let that pass. I esteem and respect you, and, as far as I am concerned, there will be no impediment in the way.”

“I think you too worthy a fellow to offer any objection to――you have my consent. As far as that is concerned, consider the matter settled. But there are other considerations,” she added, in a more serious tone.

“Considerations!” he exclaimed. “Possibly you allude to my position in life.”

“Oh, dear me, no――not for a moment.”

“Pray explain. Let me know the worst,” he ejaculated, in evident trepidation.

“In the first place,” answered the widow, “I must inform you that Aveline is not my daughter.”

“Not your daughter, Mrs. Maitland! Impossible!”

“No, but I am quite as fond of her as if she were my own child, but she is not, and I think it but right and proper that you should be put in possession of all the facts. She is not my daughter.”

“Whose daughter is she then?”

“That I cannot tell you. I have adopted her, and brought her up from infancy.”

“I am indeed surprised.”

“That is no more than I expected. Listen! You are perhaps not aware that I was at one time matron to the Derby Infirmary. It was while acting in this capacity that I first met with Aveline, who was then between two and three years old.

“There had been a collision on the line. Many persons were seriously injured, while some were picked out of the carriages dead.

“One poor lady was brought into the infirmary in a dying condition. When discovered, strange to say, a little girl, supposed to be her daughter, whom she clasped in her arms, was found to be uninjured; they were both conveyed to the infirmary.

“The mother was in a state of insensibility. After she had been attended to by the surgeon she rallied a little, and murmured once or twice, in a half dreamy state, the word ‘Aveline.’ The child answered to the name, and went to the bedside of the sufferer.

“We endeavoured to get the poor lady to tell us who she was, but she was too ill to speak, and the doctor forbade us making any more inquiries for the present.

“It was a pitiful sight, for you must understand that there were many other poor creatures besides her who required immediate attention, and of course it was the duty of myself and the nurses under my direction to see to them without a moment’s delay.

While thus engaged one of the nurses came to me, and whispered in my ear that the lady in bed No. 14 had breathed her last.

“I hastened to the spot, and found that her words were but too true. The child was crying, and I directed one of the women to take it into the house I occupied, and tell Rebecca, my servant, to take charge of it till I came.”

“And its mother?”

“Had passed away, as I have told you. Many others succumbed to the injuries they had received. Most――nay, indeed, I believe all――were identified by their relatives――all, save the lady and her child.

“For these no claimant could be found. Not the faintest scrap of intelligence reached us from any quarter to give a clue to their identification.

“The lady to all appearance belonged to the upper class. She had a sweet face and features of delicate mould; but who she was it is not possible to say. Neither do I think it likely now that we shall ever ascertain.”

“Goodness me――how singular! And had she nothing about her to denote who and what she was?”

“She wore round her neck a double gold locket, containing the portrait of a gentleman on one side, on the other was a likeness of the deceased lady, and, in addition to her wedding ring, she wore one with a motto and crest inside it. A description of her and the child, together with the jewellery she had on, appeared in the list of the dead and missing in the public papers at the time, but no one came forward to claim either the living or the dead.”

“Can such things be possible?” exclaimed Gatliffe.

“My dear sir, they are of frequent occurrence. If we could know the number of missing and unclaimed persons which every year furnishes us with, it would surprise most people. But what I am telling you now are simply facts which have come under my own observation.”

“And the mother, what became of her remains?”

“After every effort had been made to discover her relations, and we had given it up as hopeless, my husband paid for her funeral, and he said, at the same time, that he would never part with the child. Poor dear soul! he kept his word. She was by his bedside when his gentle spirit passed away. He almost worshipped Aveline, and she was equally attached to him. She has been indeed more than a daughter to us.”

“And have you the locket and the two rings?”

“They were kept in the hospital for some years, but upon my retiring, I begged them of the governors, and they at once gave orders for them to be handed over to me. I have them now.”

“And do not intend to part with them, I hope?”

“Certainly not. I consider they belong to Aveline.”

“Why, Mrs. Maitland, this is indeed an extraordinary story.”

“I have thought it a duty incumbent on me to furnish you with all the particulars. If, after hearing them, you are still disposed to have Aveline――”

“If!” ejaculated the young engineer. “You do not for a moment suppose I have any desire to cancel our engagement. No, my dear madam, it is an additional reason for my cherishing and protecting her.”

“Well, Tom, I hope――nay, I am sure――you will make her a good husband; and I frankly admit, if it had been left to me to select one for her, I should have chosen you.”

Gatliffe sprang to his feet, put his arms round the speaker’s neck, and kissed her fondly.

“Tush, tush, you silly boy,” said the widow, “what do you want to be kissing an old woman like me for?”

She was, however, not in any way angry with her companion.

“Is Aveline a Christian or surname, do you think?” queried Gatliffe.

“I took it to be a Christian name from the fact that the mother called her child to her bedside by it, and the little thing answered to it with the greatest alacrity. It is her Christian name now. She’ll not change it when she marries, I suppose,” added the widow, with a smile.

“I shall never call her by any other. You know, Mrs. Maitland, I am but in humble circumstances, but I have enough to give my dear Aveline all she can desire, and I hope in a short time to be more prosperous.”

“Ah, as to that, riches are not everything, though many persons think they are――I do not, however. By the way, Tom, do you know that Mr. Peace made Aveline an offer?”

“Yes, I’ve heard so; but she wouldn’t listen to him.”

“No, I candidly confess that I had rather a good opinion of him at one time――not as a suitor for Aveline, but I thought him good-natured and kindly disposed.”

“Probably he may be so.”

“But I have very much altered my opinion with regard to him――very much indeed,” returned the widow, with forcible emphasis.

Gatliffe refrained from offering any remark. It was evident, from his manner, that he did not want to dwell further on the subject.

Aveline now entered the room, whereupon her lover rose and embraced her.

“It is all settled, dearest,” he exclaimed, in a tone of delight. “You will learn the full particulars from Mrs. Maitland.”

“So you have been having a tete-à-tete, it seems.”

“Yes, we have, my child,” said Mrs. Maitland, “and a very satisfactory one it has proved to be.”

“I’m glad of that,” murmured Aveline. “You both seem well pleased.”

Young Gatliffe thought it was time to take his departure. He was elated with the successful nature of his interview with the widow, and thought it best to leave her alone with Aveline.

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XII. THE BURGLARY AT WOOD-HILL――AN UNEXPECTED MEETING

It would not be edifying to the reader to chronicle all the marauding expeditions in which our hero was engaged at this period.

The money obtained by the exercise of his musical ability did not content him for long. He visited several houses after nightfall, and if the booty obtained was not large he escaped without detection.

He had “spotted,” to use his own phrase, a house standing in its own grounds at Wood-hill, within a few miles of Sheffield.

The place seemed so isolated and looked so tempting, it being in the occupation of some rich person, that Peace determined upon paying it an early visit.

At the back of the house was a conservatory. This could be reached from one of the back rooms. Indeed, it might be said to form part of the room itself.

Peace, who had noted all these things when passing the place in midday, had determined upon his plan of operations.

He scaled the iron railings which ran round the front garden, and made at once for the greenhouse. To obtain an entrance into this was a matter of no great difficulty.

The two folding doors of the parlour led into the conservatory. These were, as a matter of course, fastened, but not very securely.

The burglar, who, as we have already seen, was an expert in dealing with locks and bolts, began by ascertaining, as nearly as possible, the nature of the fastenings.

With a bit of bent wire he picked the lock, and one of the doors yielded to his pressure.

He found the top bolt had not been drawn home into its socket, and an aperture was disclosed sufficiently large for him to withdraw the bottom bolt with one of the instruments he had brought with him. The bolt was pulled back, and the door was flung wide open.

All this had been done in so quick a manner that none of the inmates were disturbed.

Peace entered the back parlour, and found therein a considerable amount of portable and valuable property. By the aid of one of his silent lucifers, he possessed himself of a number of articles, which he placed together on the table, with the intention of removing them upon his return from the other rooms, which it was his purpose to ransack in a similar manner.

He went into the front parlour, and took from it a still richer booty, which he placed by the side of the first heap.

This done, he crept cautiously upstairs, and entered the front drawing-room on the first floor.

This was furnished with most costly articles. The burglar was quite charmed with the appearance of the apartment, still more so with its contents.

He now for the first time made use of one of the long screws which he used so frequently in the after part of his lawless career.

Closing the door, he bored a small hole in it with a bradawl; into this he inserted a long, pointed screw, which he turned with a screw-driver, and by this means fastened himself securely in the room.

No one would be able to gain an entrance.

With one of his lucifers he lighted a small wax taper, which he placed on one of the hobs of the grate. Then he proceeded to open all the drawers and cupboards, from which he abstracted a number of valuables. These he placed in his bag.

He felicitated himself upon the successful nature of the expedition; the proceeds of his night’s work would undoubtedly realise a considerable sum of money, even at the Jew’s price.

As may be supposed, he did not leave much behind that there was any possibility of carrying away.

The examination of the room, the turning over the various articles, and abstraction of the same, took a longer time than he had expected; nevertheless, he deemed himself quite safe, as the door was securely fastened.

When he had selected all that he intended to take away with him, he blew out his taper, and began to withdraw his long, thin screw. This done, he cautiously opened the door, and peeped out.

No one was visible.

Turning round to reach his bag, his coat-tail caught the branch of a candelabrum, which fell to the floor with a loud crash.

In another moment he was alarmed by the barking of a dog, and in the next a fierce animal rushed into the room, and sprang at his throat.

Peace was greatly alarmed. The whole household would, in all probability, be aroused.

“Curse the hound!” he muttered; at the same time grasping the dog’s throat with both hands, so as to silence him, and at the same time, if possible, to throttle him.

A struggle ensued between the burglar and the dog, which, short and desperate as it was, seemed an age to Peace.

He flung his canine opponent with all his force to the other end of the room; but the dog was not easily cowed; he came on once more.

Peace had expected this. As the animal approached, he struck it a terrific blow on the head with his jemmy. For a moment the poor creature was stunned.

Peace shouldered his bag, and was about to make off, when he received a cut on the forehead from some weapon, which caused a thousand sparks to flicker before his eyes.

He struck out right and left with his jemmy at a dark figure in the doorway.

In another moment he was in the grasp of a powerful man, whose features were not distinguishable, the room being at this time in almost utter darkness.

“Scoundrel――villain!” exclaimed his opponent; “you shall not escape me.”

Peace made no answer to these expletives.

He had but one thought――this being to get away. He struggled desperately, and fought like a tiger.

The two combatants fell to the floor, rolling over together. Peace kicked and struck out with his fists, but for all he could do he could not shake off his resolute antagonist.

The dog, who had now in a measure recovered from the blow, set up a loud barking.

He, with a noble instinct, rushed to his master’s assistance and caught Peace by one of his legs, who kicked the animal savagely with the other.

“Down Bruno――down, boy,” ejaculated Peace’s opponent.

At these words the dog ceased further hostilities. Peace by a supreme effort rose to his feet, but he was still in the grasp of his enemy, who also rose.

The noise and barking of the dog aroused another inmate of the house; this was the servant girl, who hurried on her things and hastened to the scene of action with a lighted candle in her hand.

“For mercy’s sake, Mr. Gatliffe, whatever is the matter?” she inquired.

Peace’s heart beat audibly. He was in the hands of Tom Gatliffe.

By the light of the candle which the girl carried he beheld the well-known features of his rival.

“Heaven be merciful!” exclaimed the latter, who despite his disguise at once recognised Peace. “Can it be possible?”

He regarded the burglar with a look of bewilderment. Peace was abashed; panting and puffing like a grampus, he drew back and supported himself against the edge of the cheffonier.

The two――the honest man and the rogue――regarded each other in silence for a brief space of time.

“I had never counted on this――I am appalled,” exclaimed Gatliffe. “A robber, a thief, a burglar! It surpasses all belief!”

A stream of blood trickled down the face of our hero from the blow he had received at the commencement of the conflict, but he was heedless of this. The exposure, the terrible discovery made by young Gatliffe, afflicted him more than aught else.

“What have you to say for yourself――can it be possible that you have sunk so low as this? I can hardly realise the fact, which, however, is but too evident. I would that some other person had made this discovery.”

“It’s no use making fine set speeches,” returned Peace; “here we both are. It is not a pleasant meeting for either of us, but we must make the best of it.”

“What has been the matter?” inquired the girl. “Shall I go for James, or a policeman, or what?”

“You had better go for a policeman; but stay, where is James?”

“In the room over the coach-house, I suppose.”

“Well, we don’t want his assistance――go for a policeman. The station is not far hence――go, there’s a good girl.”

The maid placed the candle on the table, put on her shawl, and sallied forth.

When she had gone Gatliffe closed the door, locked it, and put the key into his pocket.

“Now,” he said, turning to Peace, “you an my prisoner.”

“So it seems,” returned the latter, who had by that time recovered his assurance; “but may I inquire what you do here? You are not master of this house――are you?”

“I am not, but one of my employers is. He’s away in the country, and during his absence I have taken charge of the premises. Insolence will avail you but little. You might have got me into trouble, imperilled my position――nay, almost ruined me――had you got clean away with the things you have purloined.”

“But I’ve not got away, and it’s no use supposing I have,” interrupted Peace. “It is a bad business, but can’t be helped. Do you mean to tell me that you are going to hand me over to the police?”

“It is my duty to do so.”

“Duty, be blowed! Look here, we’ve had a word or two. You’ve robbed me of the only woman I ever cared for. It’s driven me to distraction――that’s what it’s done――else I shouldn’t be here. It is all your fault――but, there, I bear you no animosity. Let bygones be bygones. I tell you I’ve been driven to distraction. Do you hear?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, then, if you are the same generous Tom Gatliffe as I knew years ago, you wont be hard upon your old chum.”

“What would I give to be out of this difficulty?” exclaimed Gatliffe, in a tone of sadness. “Do, for mercy’s sake, mend your ways. Never make another attempt of this sort. It is, I hope, your first false step――let it be your last.”

“It shall be――I promise you that. It shall be the last,” he answered, with well-simulated hypocrisy.

“For the sake of those who are near and dear to you, do not, I charge you, stray from the path of honesty. A burglar――a midnight robber! It appears almost too terrible to believe. What am I to say to my employer?”

“You need not say that we were in any way acquainted. The attempt was made, and you frustrated it. That is all. I’m in your power, and throw myself upon your mercy. Let me go.”

“If I do, justice will surely overtake you, sooner or later, unless you mend your ways.”

“I will,” cried Peace. “Be assured of that. Now, Tom, the minutes are flying rapidly. Even now the police may be on their way here. Let me get clear off while there’s yet time.”

“But how can I without compromising myself? It is most repugnant to my feelings, most painful for me to give you in charge. But what am I to do? How can I help it?”

Open the door, and say I slipped out of your grasp, and got away. Nothing is easier. Or open the window, I can drop on the grass plat. Whichever you please, only――time――time presses.”

Gatliffe hesitated for a moment, then he took the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, flung it wide open, and said, in a hoarse whisper――

“Go. Get you gone! I imperil my own position, but we are known to each other from boyhood. Away at once!”

“You’re a good fellow, Tom; I always said so,” murmured Peace. “Now I am more than ever assured of it. I shall not forget your kindness. But a few days ago I hated you, and could have killed you. Now I esteem and love you.”

“Go to ―――― no more of this,” returned his companion. “All I ask of you is that you never again suffer yourself to forfeit my good opinion by any discreditable or dishonest act.”

“Trust me, Tom, I will not,” said Peace, as he flew with rapid steps down the stairs, and passed through the back parlour, and from thence into the conservatory.

In a few minutes after this he was clear away from the scene of his operations.

After his departure Tom Gatliffe remained in the front drawing-room a prey to a thousand conflicting thoughts.

The unexpected and singular encounter that had taken place was altogether of such an extraordinary nature that he seemed bewildered and perplexed.

He had never for a moment imagined that Peace had been pursuing a lawless career, and the sudden discovery he made that night fell like a thunderbolt upon him.

Gatliffe was a young man of the strictest integrity, of the highest moral rectitude, and he felt supremely miserable when he reflected upon the incriminating facts, which had been made but too painfully manifest, in connection with his schoolfellow Peace.

He would have given half he was possessed of not to have been in the house at the time of the burglary.

Generous, kind-hearted, and forgiving as he was by nature, he found it impossible to blast the prospects of one whom he had known, almost on what might be termed the threshold of existence.

He glanced at the burglar’s bag, which contained so many valuable articles, and, as he did so, a shudder passed through his frame.

“I fear this is not his first offence,” he murmured, shaking his head sadly. “Young as he is he may possibly be old in crime; but perhaps I do him wrong, yet he was certainly disguised in so cunning and complete a manner that few besides myself would have known him. Certainly his disguise was perhaps the most surprising part of the whole business. Oh! this is all very terrible. I feel wretchedly depressed.”

Footsteps were now heard ascending the stairs, and in another moment the servant girl entered the room. She was accompanied by an inspector of the police and a constable.

“Where is the prisoner?” said the inspector.

“He has escaped,” answered Gatliffe.

“Escaped!” iterated the inspector. “Surely you have not been foolish enough to let him get away. How did it happen?”

“You shall hear. I had him in this room and kept guard over the entrance. He pleaded for mercy, but I told him I had a duty to perform. All at once, after remaining quiet and submissive for some time, he sprang towards the door. I caught hold of him to arrest his passage; in doing so my foot slipped, and he lost no time in taking advantage of this accident, and succeeded in releasing himself from my grasp. It was all done in less time than it takes me to tell it. He flew downstairs.”

“Well, you followed, of course?”

“Yes.”

“And could not overtake him?”

“I had very nearly done so, when he rushed into the back parlour, closed the door, and locked it. I ran round the conservatory, searched everywhere I could think of, but was unable to find him. Oh! he has escaped, but it is no fault of mine.”

This, as the reader may guess, was not a truthful statement, but it was the only course Gatliffe had left to get himself out of the difficulty.

The inspector looked at the constable――then they both gave a glance at Gatliffe, who, as a natural consequence, felt greatly disconcerted.

[Sidenote: No. 7.]

“Well, it is very unfortunate――exceedingly so,” observed the inspector. “Should you know the man again?”

“Oh, dear, yes; I’ve no doubt I should.”

“So should I,” exclaimed the girl. “I should know him out of a thousand. He had a dark skin, and appears to be a mulatto.”

“Is that so?”

This last query was addressed to Gatliffe.

“Yes, she’s quite right――that was what he appeared to be――a half caste, a creole, or mulatto.”

“Ah! several burglaries have been committed by a man of that description. I am much mortified at his having made his escape.”

“It is indeed very much to be regretted, but it is no fault of mine. I hope you don’t think it is,” said Gatliffe.

“I don’t say it is any fault of yours,” returned the inspector, testily. “I only say it’s unfortunate, that’s all――confoundedly unfortunate, when you’ve bagged your bird, to let him fly away. I say again, it’s unfortunate; but talking wont mend the matter. Let’s search the house, Jawkins.”

This was addressed to the constable.

“You see this?” remarked Gatliffe, pointing significantly to the bag.

The constable opened it, and drew forth one article after the other in the usual systematic and professional manner invariably adopted by gentlemen of his profession.

“He meant walking away with a tolerably rich booty,” observed the inspector. “Ah! he knew his business――not the least doubt of that.”

Gatliffe was ready to sink through the floor; he was so abashed and humiliated at the contemptible part he had been playing, which was, to say the truth, altogether foreign to his nature.

After the bag had been emptied of its contents the police-officers proceeded downstairs. They were followed by the young engineer and the servant girl.

The other pile of valuables was discovered on the table in the back parlour. These of course underwent inspection. During the examination of each separate article Gatliffe was perfectly appalled at the magnitude of the projected robbery; but he said nothing, being, in fact, too depressed to venture too many observations.

“Here is where the rascal gained an entrance into the premises,” pointing to the folding-doors which led into the conservatory, which gave unmistakeable indications of the marks made by the burglar’s instruments.

A rapid and rigid search was now made in the grounds, both in the rear and in the front of the house.

But no burglar was discovered.

The services of Bruno, the faithful dog, were enlisted in this search, which, however, turned out to be fruitless.

The constables returned to the house. They were evidently deeply mortified at the escape of the robber, and could but ill conceal their vexation.

“He’s given us the slip,” said the inspector. “Got far away by this time, I’ve no doubt. It’s very annoying, but it can’t be helped.”

“I’m sure I am very sorry to have given you so much unnecessary trouble,” murmured Gatliffe. “The more so since I found it impossible to detain him. I wish you had come a little earlier.”

“We did not lose a moment after the young woman informed us of the affair. You take my advice,” remarked the inspector, addressing himself to Gatliffe, “the next time you collar a ‘cracksman,’ stick to him. Don’t let him slip through your fingers.”

“Mr. Gatliffe held him fast enough,” said the servant, in a tone of indignation. “He’s not the man to give in easily. He had a most desperate struggle with the burglar before I left; and had it not been for him and Bruno the house would have been well-nigh stripped.”

The inspector nodded his head in acquiescence of this last proposition.

“We will take the bag with us,” he observed, as he made his way to the drawing-room. “It may afford some clue to the robber.”

Upon entering the upstairs room, he discovered on the floor the “jemmy” with which Peace struck the dog. It had fallen out of his hand during his struggle with Gatliffe.

This was also carried away by the police. Upon their return to the station orders were issued to the men on duty to keep on the look-out for the next few days for a man answering to the description of the burglar.

But the bird had flown――he had also changed his plumage――and he was, moreover, too cunning a bird to be seen in the neighbourhood for some time――certainly not till the attempted burglary was a thing of the past.

Gatliffe was in a state of trepidation for some days. The false statement he had made to the police officers caused him the deepest anxiety.

It was altogether so repugnant to his feelings to deviate from the truth that he felt humiliated at having been compelled, by the force of circumstances, to trump up so specious a tale to cover the flight of Peace.

He accused himself of having aided and abetted a burglar in his lawless attempt at robbery.

This was, however, viewing the matter in its worst light. If Gatliffe had erred it was from the best motive; it was to save one whom he had known for many years. He had not the faintest notion, when he connived at his escape, that he was dealing thus mercifully with a callous and hardened criminal.

But Peace, it must be acknowledged, was a remarkable man in many ways, not the least of these being his wondrous power of imposing upon persons with whom he came in contact.

It is at all times difficult to gauge accurately the character of culprits of this class.

In a popular history of British criminals the biographer, introducing a certain infamous rascal, remarks very justly that as a rule the recorders of rogues and vagabonds endow them with qualities they did not possess, and credit them with exploits they never performed.

Hence follows, in the opinion of this judicious commentator, “the difficulty of finding out and appreciating, as they merit, genuine anecdotes of these heroes.” Burglars suffer, like bards, from theft of their reputation, and the notorious shoplifter is as liable as the eminent statesman to be saddled with misdeeds he never committed and defrauded of distinction actually earned.

The Newgate chronicle we have quoted tells us in a word how this comes to be.

If any man makes himself distinguished by crime a hundred stories are set in circulation, putting down things to him which he knew nothing about. Peace is no exception to this rule.

A leading London paper reported that he had paid a visit to Chislehurst as a private gentleman, who desired to build a habitation of a similar character――the real object of his visit, however, being to gain a knowledge of its interior for the purpose of carrying out a burglary on a large scale.

There is not a shadow of truth in this report. Peace was never at Chislehurst; neither did he ever contemplate breaking into the place.

It is a long time happily since this sort of scandal engaged the tongues and thoughts of the British public.

The days are gone by for ever when each county in England had its outlaw, whose achievements filled the “lying trump of fame,” and agitated society with a pleasing fear unfelt among our modern sensations.

When, however, at rare intervals, some superior villain appears above the lawless crowd, we find the old tendency to make the most or worst of him lingers not dead but sleeping.

Our hero is an instance in point.

We doubt, indeed, if any individual named in the long black bead-roll of the criminal calendar has inspired more invention, or figured in so much fancy, as Charles Peace.

His midnight adventures have not that strong flavour of exciting romance we find in the histories of bygone marauders.

He was practical to austerity, and never made a move that was not calculated and carried out to answer a severe business purpose.

No doubt, as we have before observed, his artfulness, his daring, and other qualities made him a remarkable man.

Unhappily for himself and his endowments, which would have enabled him to win a respectable position in an honest career, appear to have been singularly fitted for the life he chose to follow.

Although he has been charged with many offences he never committed, it may be safely believed that during the thirty years or so he was preying upon the public he has done an enormous amount of mischief.

A poet is said to be one in ten thousand. A man of the special capacity of Peace is far more rare.

He seems like the conquerors, and produces on his fellow-men the same sort of hope that he may be the last of his class.

Probably there is not another man in England who could have run the race of this criminal――by night a thief and a murderer; by day a citizen of credit, who went abroad without fear in the busy haunts of men.

The miserable failure he had made in attempting to rob the house of which Gatliffe was the custodian did not abash him.

He was to be seen in places of public resort at Sheffield on the following day.

Indeed, he mixed more freely with the townspeople than he had done heretofore.

It is our purpose in this work to throw a light on the actions and deeds of its lawless hero; not for the purpose of holding him up as an example, but rather as a warning.

His career furnishes us with a proof that a life of crime is always a life of care.

Disgrace, obloquy, and punishment are the sure attendants on the footsteps of a criminal.

Some few days after his last unsuccessful escapade, Peace was standing outside the principal post-office in Sheffield.

He had been to inquire if there were any letters for him.

He expected to receive one from Bessie Dalton, who, in accordance with his instructions, directed her epistles to the post-office to be kept till called for.

Peace had received several, but for some little time past none had arrived.

He was debating with himself as to the cause, when, much to his surprise, he descried Tom Gatliffe hastening on in the direction of the spot where he was stationed.

It was not possible for him to avoid being recognised, and, to say the truth, he had no desire to do so.

He waited till Gatliffe came up to him.

His countenance denoted that he was a little concerned at the rencontre.

Gatliffe posted some letters, and then turned towards Peace with a look of deep sorrow.

“You remember the promise given to me on that terrible night?” said Gatliffe, in a whisper.

Peace nodded.

“I do,” he returned; “shall always hear it in remembrance. Be in no way concerned about me. I’ve seen my error, and am now a different man.”

“I hope and trust you are. Now, Peace,” said the young engineer, in a more serious and persuasive tone, “let me conjure you, let me beg of you, never to fall into a similar error. It must have been the archfiend who tempted you to commit such a monstrous act.”

“Say no more about it. Let it be forgotten. You have been in no way compromised, I hope.”

“I must tell you frankly that I found myself in such a terrible scrape, when the police arrived, that I was constrained to do more for you than I have ever done for myself. I had to tell a most deliberate falsehood, but let that pass. You will, I am sure, be mindful of your promise. You are young, possess ability, and may yet win a good position in life. But do not be tempted. If you are in want of money at any time drop me a line, and what I can spare in the way of a loan for a short time you are welcome to. Only do not, I charge you, attempt to rob or plunder. I am sure I wish to be everything that’s kind to you; but lately I have heard things which seem to strike me with horror.”

“What have you heard?”

“I will not pain you by repeating.”

“Oh! don’t mind that. The plain truth is at all times the best. What have you heard?”

“Well, then, if you must know, the police informed me that there had been several burglaries committed by a person answering to your description.”

“And surely you are not fool enough to believe such a statement. They always say that. They think it so clever. My description, indeed! They wont tell me so.”

“I don’t mean a description as you now appear, but as you were on that dreadful night.”

Peace laughed.

“Ah, I see,” he muttered. “Why, I wonder even you knew me, disguised as I was.”

“I wonder myself.”

“Would they know me now, do you think?”

“Not at all likely, I should say.”

“And Aveline Maitland――what of her?” inquired Peace, in an altered tone, for as he inquired a sudden pang seemed to shoot through his frame.

“What of her?” repeated Gatliffe; “why do you inquire?”

“Don’t be jealous――she is nothing to me.”

“I’m not likely to be jealous.”

“You are engaged to her?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I thought so. Well, I wish you every happiness――that’s all I have to say; but a short time since she drove me to desperation――I did not much care whether I lived or died; now that is past――I’m getting over it.”

Gatliffe looked surprised. There was an earnestness in his companion’s manner which went far towards giving assurance of the speaker’s sincerity.”

“You’ll not forget all I have said, neither will you forget your promise――and so farewell,” said Gatliffe, with a nod, as he took a somewhat abrupt departure.

“Farewell,” repeated Peace. “My ways are not your ways,” he added, when the engineer was out of earshot.

“Hang it all! what can be the reason of Bessie’s silence? Two letters unanswered――something must be up. Has she turned against me?”

This thought seemed to a little depress him; not that he had any right to expect anything else, seeing that he had neglected her in a most heartless manner. He reflected for some little time, and then said――

“I shall have to go over to Bradford, I expect――that’s what I shall have to do. Bessie’s a sharp clever girl, and I mustn’t lose sight of her. A plague upon that drunken brute, Bristow! Had it not been for him I should not have had occasion to leave Bradford.”

His soliloquy was brought to a close by a female addressing him by his Christian name.

It was his mother, who, with all his faults, regarded him with a glance of fond affection.

“Well, Charlie, you rover, now I have found you I don’t intend to let you go,” said the old lady, playfully. “You must come along with me.”

“Where to?”

“Where do you suppose? You must come home. Surely you can spare your poor mother a little of your company?”

“All right, then; homewards we will go,” cried Peace, leading the way in the direction of his parent’s house.

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XIII. THE DRUNKARD’S HOME――THE ASTOUNDING DISCOVERY

Peace’s misgivings with regard to Bessie Dalton were not without foundation. To say the truth, she had become duly impressed with the fact that he was intensely selfish.

A number of circumstances conspired to convince her of this, and what liking she had for him at one time was now very considerably diminished.

Bessie was quick-witted, clever in many ways, and was withal kindly disposed. Certainly at this time, at all events, she could not be considered cold or heartless.

But there were other and more cogent reasons for her failing to communicate with Peace. These will be made manifest in the course of this chapter.

Bristow went from bad to worse. His desire for drink became insatiable――indeed, it might with truth be designated a disease. Unhappily for himself and those belonging to him, it appeared to be a disease that was incurable.

For days together this miserably-besotted wretch would be in a state of intoxication.

He had several associates who were nearly as bad as himself. The consequences attendant upon the fatal propensity may easily be guessed. His work was neglected. By degrees his apartments were stripped of everything he could turn into money, and his unhappy wife led a life in comparison to which that of a galley slave was an enviable state of existence.

It is not, it cannot be possible for a writer to depict with anything like adequate force all the misery to be witnessed in the home of a drunkard. Mr. J. B. Gough, the temperance orator, has said that there was no power on earth that tended so much to the degradation and ruin of young men, morally, physically, spiritually, religiously, and he might say financially, as drink. “I have held the hands of dying men in mine,” says the orator; “I have laid my hand upon the burning foreheads, and moistened the dry lips of many drunkards, while I have heard such stories as have made my heart ache and my eyes stream with tears. They were wrecks of men of genius――men of education――men of power――men that might have made their mark in the world, going out――oh, so fearfully――into the blackness, and darkness and hopelessness, of the awful future.”

The great poetical genius of America――Edgar Allan Poe――gasped out a life the world could ill spare in the agonies of a drunken debauch. Robert Greene, worn out with debauchery and completely shattered with diseases which were a consequence of his ill-guided indulgences, was carried off, it is said, by a surfeit of red herrings. There is no sadder book in literature than his dying homily, “A groat’s worth of wit bought with a million of repentance.” Poor Lee, the author of the “Rival Queens,” died like a dog. He had, it has been said, carousing with a party of friends, none of whom had the grace to see him home.

In the morning he was found dead in the streets, which were covered with snow.

A dray had passed over his body, whether before death or after is not certain.

Hundreds, nay thousands, of other instances could be cited of the fatal effects of intemperance.

But the evil is not confined to a class. It is widespread, and saps and undermines the moral principle of the working classes of this country to an extent which is almost incalculable.

Bristow furnishes us with a sad example of this pernicious and fatal propensity.

He had become an incorrigible and irreclaimable inebriate.

He returned after a debauch of some hours’ duration to his miserable lodgings at Bradford.

He had spent what little money he had about him. This it was that caused him to leave the pot-house and bend his steps homewards.

As a rule he seldom came back till past midnight.

His industrious little wife, who worked for the trade, was plying her needle and thread when her husband entered.

“What, John!” she ejaculated, in a tone of surprise; “you’re early.”

“Am I?” he ejaculated, flinging himself into a chair. “S’pose I am――what of that? I’m not wanted――is that it?”

It was very evident from his tone of voice, as well as his manner, that he was in a quarrelsome mood.

His wife made no reply, but kept on with her work.

“You’re a deal too good for me――you are,” he muttered. “Pity you threw yourself away upon me.”

Still no reply.

“D’yer hear what I am sayin’?” shouted out the ruffian, in a louder tone.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“I have answered.”

“No, yer haven’t, leastways not in a proper manner. D’yer think I’m a stock or a stone? Curse it, you’re always at work――always.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in that.”

“I say there is,” he returned, with a nod.

He was bent upon fastening a quarrel upon the woman, but did not know very well how to begin.

“I’ll put my work on one side, then,” said his wife.

“Oh, go on. Don’t mind me. I’m nobody. Haven’t been anybody for a long time past.”

Here he burst out into an idiotic laugh.

Seeing the mood he was in, his wife abstained from making any observation.

This had the effect of aggravating him.

“Has that fellow been here to-day?” he inquired.

“Who do you mean?”

“That mealy-mouthed sneaking chap. You know who I mean well enough.”

“No, he has not, or at any rate if he has I have not seen him.”

“Ugh! not seen him, indeed. I don’t believe it. It’s a lie.”

“You can say what you like, and believe what you like, for the matter of that.”

“Don’t you give me any of your cheek, my lady. I aint a going to stand it. Do you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, mind what you are about. I’m not a fool. I know all about your little capers. I say he has been here.”

“If he has it was without my knowledge.”

“Silence. Don’t contradict me; I won’t stand it!” exclaimed the ruffian, bringing his fist down upon the table with violence. “You’re not going to gammon me, mind you that.”

He rose to his feet and moved towards the fireplace. After looking on the mantel-piece he went to a chest of drawers which stood at the further end of the room. He opened one drawer after the other, and in one of the small top ones he discovered a paper packet which contained a few shillings in silver.

He drew it forth, and was about to thrust it in his pocket when his wife sprang forward and grasped his hand.

“John――John!” she ejaculated, in a tone of terror; “what would you do? Give it to me.”

“I shan’t do anything of the sort.”

“It is not yours. It is my hard earnings, and it’s all I’ve got to pay the rent. If you meddle with it we shall be turned into the street――you know that as well as I do.”

“Let go, I say!” he ejaculated. “I’ll soon show you who is master here. Let go, will yer?”

“No I will not. You cannot be so cruel as to rob me of this?”

“Cruel――rob!” he cried, in a fury. “Leave the matter to me. I’ll pay the rent when it suits me.”

Here he burst out into another mocking laugh.

“John,” said his wife, in a beseeching tone, “you are not going to serve me like this. You shall not spend this money in drink, not if I die for it.”

“Oh――oh! indeed. You are likely to die, let me tell you that, if you don’t mind what you are about.”

Mrs. Bristow was in an agony of despair. She knew perfectly well that if she suffered her husband to depart with her little hoard there would not be the most remote chance of her seeing it again.

There is an old saying, “Tread upon a worm and it will turn,” and the unhappy wife was an example of this.

She clung to her husband with a firmness which fairly astonished him.

“You shall not take away the money, John. I tell you you shall not have it. Give it me back at once.”

“Get out; don’t talk to me, woman!” exclaimed Bristow. “Leave go, or it will be worse for you.”

“I will not leave go; I will call for assistance.”

He endeavoured to shake her off, but she was wound up to a pitch of desperation, and would not part with him.

He dragged her across the room, and strove to reach the door.

Seeing his intent, she put out all her strength to detain him.

“Let go, I say!” he shouted out, in a stentorian voice.

Once more he strove to shake her off.

Not succeeding in this, he struck her in the face, and tore her garments from her back.

He struck her several blows after this, and finally succeeded in flinging her from him.

Then with the howl of a wild beast he rushed towards the door: in doing so the side of his body came in contact with a small dressing-table, upon which was a looking-glass.

The table was upset, one of its legs was broken, and the plate of the glass was shivered into fragments.

Then Bristow rushed out of the house.

His wife sat on the side of the bed, sobbing convulsively.

Thus ended a scene――the accumulated horrors of which we have purposely avoided giving in all their full detail.

Bruised and bleeding from the effects of the blows inflicted by her husband, the wretched woman cried as if her heart was about to break.

Very soon after Bristow’s departure Bessie Dalton, upon her return from the factory, let herself in with the latch-key. As she entered the passage she heard sobs and sighs proceeding from the back parlour.

She was at no loss to divine that something was amiss.

Opening the door of the room she was appalled at beholding Mrs. Bristow seated on the side of the bed in a terrible plight. The clothes were torn off her back, so that the upper portion of her person was nearly in a state of nudity.

Her lip was swollen, her nose was bleeding, and one eye was in an incipient state of blackness.

To add to the horrors of the scene the furniture was upset, and the miserable apartment gave unmistakable evidence of the violent scene which had just taken place.

“For mercy’s sake do tell me what’s the matter?” exclaimed Bessie Dalton.

“Oh, don’t ask me――don’t speak to me!” answered the wretched wife. “I wish I was dead――I wish I had never seen that inhuman wretch.”

“It is as I guessed. Then Bristow has been here. It is he who has done all this. But do bear up, dear――bear up,” said Bessie, going at once for a bason of water, with which she washed the bruised and bleeding face of her companion.

“Ugh, the drunken, good-for-nothing beast,” she ejaculated; “and has it come to this?”

“It has. I only wish he had killed me outright――then there would have been an end to my misery. As it is there does not appear to be any end to it.”

“But you must leave him. It would be worse than madness to remain longer with such a ruffian. How did it occur?”

“He came back, much to my surprise, much earlier than usual. He had been drinking heavily, that I saw at a glance, and did all he could to aggravate me; but I was determined not to lose my temper if I could help it. He then got up and searched about the room and opened all the drawers, in one of which he found the silver I had put by to pay Parker two weeks’ rent. He threatened to turn us into the street unless we paid.”

“And what then?”

“He snatched hold of the paper which contained the money, and was about to thrust it in his pocket, and because I tried to get it from him he became furious. He has beaten me most unmercifully, as you see.”

“If you live any longer with this infamous man you will have yourself only to blame. Go away this very night. Do not remain another hour under the same roof with such a diabolical wretch.”

“Where can I go?”

“Anywhere. Do you suppose that I would remain if I was in your position? Ah, dear, you are too meek and mild. He should have me to deal with.”

“You could do nothing with him. Nobody could. He’s past cure, Bessie. At one time I had some hopes of reclaiming him――now I have none.”

“He’ll never be any better,” said Bessie Dalton. “That I have seen and known for a long time past. He’s a lost man.”

“Ah,” ejaculated Mrs. Bristow; “it was an ill-fated day when I first set eyes upon him. I was warned and cautioned by those who knew him better than I did; but like a fool I was heedless of their warning. I’ve paid the penalty of my obstinacy. Many a time I have prayed to be released from this odious thraldom, while at other times I have contemplated flight. Now I am resolved. I will no longer live with him, not under any circumstances.”

“Well spoken. I am glad to hear these words fall from your lips, dear,” said Bessie, putting her arms round the neck of her companion and kissing her fondly. “Your words give me hope and comfort. Do not change your determination. Go this very night. Go at once.”

“But look at me. See how I am disfigured! What will people think of me?”

“Let them think what they like. Tell the truth; you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I hope not.”

“I am sure not. If you remain here you will be murdered. Of that I am as well assured as that he will never reform. I say one day or another you will be murdered. Ah! no, dearest. You most not change your mind upon this. Come, dry your eyes. There, that’s better. You are beginning to look a little more like yourself. Oh! how I should like to have the wretch flogged! I haven’t patience with the monster.”

“What have I done that I should be punished thus?” murmured Mrs. Bristow.

“You’ve been too easy with him.”

“Ah, Bessie! don’t say that. It’s all very well for a woman to talk about controlling a drunken man. It is quite impossible. Do what you will, treat him with harshness or kindness, the end is the same. But too well I know that.”

“Well, I’ll not vex you by offering any further observations upon that subject. Doubtless you know best. One thing, however, you can do.”

“What is that?”

“Why, leave him. Take a situation, far away from this town. I would rather beg my bread in the public streets than subject myself to the brutality of such a ruffian.”

“You are quite right, Bessie. Such a course is the more bearable one of the two.”

“Suppose he should come back, how then?” said Bessie, in a tone of alarm.

“Ah, he will not come back till he’s spent the whole, or the greater portion, of the money. There’s no fear of that.”

“To say the truth, I don’t think there is. But how he’s knocked about the things,” said Bessie, glancing at the overturned table and the broken glass.

“He upset them as he went out. The looking-glass is broken. That is a fatal sign. No luck in this house after that.”

“Don’t be superstitious,” cried the girl, lifting up the table, and endeavouring to replace it in its position.

“It won’t stand, dear. One of the legs is broken,” said Mrs. Bristow.

“Never mind.”

Her companion propped it up as best she could. Then she stooped down and began to pick up the pieces of the glass which had fallen from the frame.

These she placed on the table.

She then lifted up the glass. As she did so, something met her eye. It appeared to be a thin piece of paper, which had been concealed between the plate of the glass and the wooden back.

“Mercy on us! what is this?” exclaimed Bessie.

She drew out the paper, and held it forth. Then, with a sudden scream, exclaimed, in a hissing whisper――

“A HUNDRED POUND NOTE!”

“Heavens above! what do you mean?” cried the miserable wife.

“Well, seeing’s believing,” answered her companion. “I’m not much of a judge of these matters; but if I am not mistaken, this is a genuine Bank of England note for one hundred pounds.”

“How came it there? This looks like sorcery. Ah, Bessie, dear, you are playing me some trick. It cannot be.”

“But, my dear, it is. Look here.” She drew towards the side of the bed, and placed the note in the hands of Mrs. Bristow.

“Well, this is most wonderful――most incomprehensible. Can you account for it?” said the latter.

“Indeed, I cannot. Where did you get this glass from?”

“Bought it at a broker’s shop in the town.”

“Give the note to me, I’ll take charge of it,” cried Bessie, clapping her hands.

“Yes, you had better do so; but I say, dear, suppose it should be a forged one?”

“Oh, lor! I never thought of that; but I’ve no doubt we shall find it all right enough.”

“Let us hope so.”

“You have given me your word that you will leave this very night,” said the girl. “You are not going to break it?”

“No! Oh dear no.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Certainly. What makes you think otherwise?”

“Never mind my thoughts. Swear that you will leave this place. If you refuse――――”

“Well, what if I refuse?”

“I will burn this note before your very eyes,” exclaimed Bessie Dalton, holding it over the fire.

“What would you do? Are you mad, Bessie?”

“Swear!” ejaculated the girl.

“If it’s any satisfaction, I do swear. In the name of the most High and Mighty I pledge myself to leave this house to-night.”

“And never to return to it from your own free will.”

“And never to return to it from my own free will.”

“That is enough. Now I feel assured that you are in earnest. So am I; for I tell you plainly that I shall not rest till I see you out of the house.”

“Upon my word you appear in a monstrous hurry to get rid of me.”

“No matter about that. You’ll have to go, and it’s no use making long faces about it. Come, dear, put your things together, and we’ll away at once.”

“We! are you going, then, as well?”

“I purpose bearing you company for to-night, at all events.”

“And whither are we to go?”

“Leave that to me. I have an old friend who lives but a few miles hence. We can stop with her for to-night, and in the morning we shall have a little leisure to arrange our plans for the future.”

“You’re a brave girl, Bessie; I wish I had your nerve,” said Mrs. Bristow, who proceeded at once to look up several garments which were necessary for her immediate use.

Bessie Dalton went upstairs to her own apartment, and brought therefrom a capacious carpet bag, which she handed to her companion.

Poor Mrs. Bristow was suffering terribly from the blows inflicted upon her by her brutal husband. She was sadly bruised and disfigured, but bore up as best she could.

She had one sincere friend in the hour of her affliction, this being Bessie Dalton.

“Put all you want in the bag,” said the latter, “and bid adieu for ever to this miserable place, in which you have suffered so much.”

“I intend to do so――rest assured of that.”

While the unhappy wife was thus engaged her companion once more proceeded to examine the shattered looking glass.

As yet she had but taken a curious glance at the article in question. Now she made a more searching and minute inspection of it.

She removed the remains of the plate from its front and then uttered an expression of surprise and wonder. The back was literally lined with Bank of England notes.

Bessie’s head seemed to swim as she made this unlooked-for discovery.

“Heaven be merciful to us!” she exclaimed. “See here, there are more of them――a whole heap.”

“What!” ejaculated Mrs. Bristow, whose heart was by this time beating audibly. “I feel as if about to swoon.”

“Bear up, dear,” said her friend. “You have nothing to fear, but everything to hope. Here are several notes for a thousand pounds. You are an independent woman, and the possessor of fabulous wealth. Be of good cheer. A bright future is before you. Now we know what to do.”

“I feel quite overcome――completely prostrated. Can it be? Is it possible? Or is it all deception?”

“Never you mind, we shall soon be able to ascertain all about this wondrous gift presented to us――or rather to you――by Dame Fortune. I tell you there are notes for thousands, and you are rich――immensely rich.”

“I find it hard to believe.”

“No matter, you will soon believe it.”

“But where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, can all these riches have come from?” said Mrs. Bristow, passing her hand across her aching forehead.

“Will you leave the matter in my hands?”

“Of course I will.”

“Very well then, so be it. There is a mystery about this affair which neither of us for the present can fathom――that we may take for granted; but the property belongs to you, and for the present I will take charge of it.”

“Ah! do so. You are much more quick-witted and clever than I am, and I need hardly say I would trust you with my life.”

Bessie Dalton folded up the notes, flew upstairs again to her own room, and returned with a pocket-book.

In this she carefully placed the notes, and then thrust the pocket-book in her bosom.

“So,” she ejaculated, “they are safe for the present――safe until we can learn something more about them and their real value. Now, are you ready to leave?”

“Yes; but――ahem――I――”

“Well, what?”

“Hadn’t I better write a letter to John, bidding him farewell for ever?”

Bessie shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

“It’s more than he deserves,” she said, “but as you wish it, do so.”

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XIV. THE FLIGHT――A CONFIDENTIAL FRIEND――THE ROLL OF NOTES

Mrs. Bristow had screwed her courage up as best she could, but now that the time had arrived for her to leave her home she felt a pang shoot through her heart.

She pictured to herself her husband’s return home after his debauch, his awakening in the morning, and his bitter remorse. Dissolute, debased, and worthless fellow as he was, his ill-used and miserable wife had some compassion left for him, some latent love of which she found it difficult to dispossess herself.

This is almost invariably the case with ruffians of this class. We are furnished with numberless instances of this in the reports of assaults upon women heard in our public police-courts.

The injured woman almost always finds some excuse for her brutal husband, and it is likely enough that Mrs. Bristow would never have left her home, however badly she had been treated, had it not been through the instigation and by the advice of her friend Bessie Dalton.

Mrs. Bristow had seated herself in front of a little table――pens, ink and paper were before her, the last-named being already blotted by her tears.

“What shall I say to him, Bessie?” enquired the wife of her friend.

“How should I know? If it were my case I would not trouble myself to write. Wish him good-bye and say you are going abroad, that’s the best thing to do.”

“Abroad?”

“Certainly. Don’t let him imagine you are going to remain in this country; say you are going abroad to seek your fortune in a strange land, that’s the way to put it.”

“He wont believe it.”

“It doesn’t matter what he believes――only don’t give him an idea that it is any use his endeavouring to find you out.”

“I wish you would dictate the letter.”

“Very well. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then go on.”

“DEAR JOHN,――I write these few lines to tell you that I find it impossible to remain under the same roof with one who has treated me with such unkindness and cruelty. My cup of sorrow is full to the brim. If I remain here I feel convinced that I shall meet with my death at your hands. For both our sakes it is therefore better that we should part. Never expect to see me again in this world. I leave England to-morrow; you will do much better without me. I do hope and trust that you will see the error of your ways and lead a better life.――Your miserable wife, “MARIA BRISTOW.”

“That will do; won’t it?” said the girl.

“Oh, dear, yes. My head is in such a whirl that I find it impossible to collect my thoughts. That will do very well, I think,” returned Mrs. Bristow.

She folded up the letter, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on the shelf where her husband could not fail to see it.

This done she felt greatly relieved.

“Now let us away at once,” cried the girl. “Give me the bag.”

“But where are we going to?”

“To Stanningley. An aunt of mine lives there, a dear old soul. We can remain with her as long as we like, but there’s no occasion for us to stop unless we choose.”

“How far is it?”

“Oh, it must be over five miles, but we must have a fly.”

“And the money?”

“I’ve got enough for our immediate wants.”

The girl had not spent the last sum Peace had sent her, in addition to which she had some of her own little savings.

A fly was procured. As they were about to step into this, the gentleman they had met at the concert, at which Charles Peace appeared, now accosted them.

“Well, ladies, whither away in this hurry?” said he, in a tone of surprise.

Bessie put her companion into the fly, then she hurried towards her male friend.

“Ah! Mr. Chipp,” she ejaculated, “how glad I am we have met with you! Something has occurred――something terrible,” as she nodded towards the passenger in the vehicle.

She proceeded to give a rapid account of the assault upon Mrs. Bristow, and wound up by informing her friend that his wife had left him for good and for all.

“It’s not to be wondered at,” said Mr. Chipp. “The only surprise to me is, and has always been, that she consented to live with the brute for so long a time.”

“I want to see you, sir, about a little matter of business. Want your advice, but have not time to explain matters now.”

“Very well, I shall be much pleased to see you to-morrow, if that will suit you; if not, on the following day. You know the hotel I’m stopping at?”

“Yes. If I can manage to see you to-morrow, I will most certainly do so, or the day after.”

“Very good――I am at your service.”

He now drew close to the vehicle, and shook its inmate warmly by the hand.

Mrs. Bristow had taken the precaution to wear a thick veil, which she wore down, so that the injuries done to her face were not discernible.

“I am pleased to have met you,” observed Mr. Chipp; “and, believe me, I hope and trust a more happy future is in store for you.”

He raised his hat to both females, and went on his course.

Bessie Dalton jumped into the fly, and the driver pushed forward in the direction of Stanningley.

Bessie chatted merrily during the greater part of the journey, but her companion remained sad and thoughtful.

Upon the travellers arriving at their destination, Bessie conducted her companion to a small, mean-looking cottage, in the rear of which was a large and well-cultivated garden.

The place was primitive enough in appearance.

Bessie Dalton unfastened the front door, which was opened with a small latch, and entered the parlour.

An exclamation of surprise, which was not unmixed with pleasure, proceeded from its solitary occupant.

“Why, Bessie, lass, who ever thought of seeing you?” cried a well-known voice.

“My dear aunt,” said Bessie in reply. “I have brought with me a very near and dear friend of mine, Mrs. Bristow, of whom you have often heard me speak.”

“You are welcome,” observed the old lady, addressing herself to her visitor. “I am much pleased to make your acquaintance. My niece has made me familiar with your name. Sit down.” The speaker handed a chair as she made this last observation.

The three women were very soon on the best of terms, and an animated conversation was kept up for the best part of the evening. A frugal supper was served by the hostess, and Bessie Dalton and Mrs. Bristow shared the only spare bed in the establishment.

They had, however, but a short period of rest that night, both being in too great a state of excitement to make sure of unbroken slumber.

They rose early, and having dressed, bethought them of what to do.

“I’ve thought over and over again the best course for you to adopt,” said Bessie, who had already been tacitly acknowledged to be commander-in-chief; “and the more I consider, the more I feel convinced that my first idea is the best.”

“And what might that be?” inquired her companion.

“You will become a fine lady――that’s what you are destined to be.”

Mrs. Bristow laughed at the naive manner of the speaker.

“Ah, you may laugh; but I tell you that’s what will happen. I’ve laid it all down as nicely as possible. Listen. There is no place in England, so I’ve been told, equal to London for concealment. You must take up your abode there, change your name, and no one will suspect that you are the wife of a poor mechanic.”

“Change my name!”

“Most certainly you must do that. Pass yourself off as a widow.”

“I should never have the courage to do that.”

“You must; don’t tell me you haven’t courage. What matters――who’s to know? You have money, and to the possessor of money everybody pays homage. We all know that.”

“You certainly are a most extraordinary girl,” observed Mrs. Bristow, in a reflective manner. “What in the name of goodness could have put such thoughts into your head?”

“Common sense; that’s all, my dear. I am only using common sense in a matter which, to say the truth, requires a considerable amount of that useful commodity. To remain here, or anywhere else in this county, would be the worst of folly. Change your name, take quiet, respectable apartments at the west end of London, and make your life as happy as possible. You have suffered enough, and deserve to taste a little of the sweets of life. Do you see that?”

“Ah, I acknowledge the truth of your observations.”

“Very good. And now, first of all, let us make an examination of the little store. Lock the door, dear. We don’t want anybody prying into our secret――not even my aunt. In a case like this, it’s best to keep one’s own counsel.”

Mrs. Bristow rose suddenly from her seat, and crept softly towards the door, which she locked.

“Now for it,” said Bessie. “Now for the notes.”

She drew them forth, and placed them on the dressing-table.

The first upon which her eye lighted was a note for the sum of one thousand pounds. This was followed by many more for a like sum. In addition to these there were many for one hundred, two hundred, as also others for smaller and larger sums.

Reckoning the whole of them up they represented an amount exceeding fourteen thousand pounds.

[Sidenote: No. 8.]

The two women were astounded at the prodigious sum.

“What say you to that?” inquired Bessie.

“I feel like one who is walking on a precipice, and expects every minute to topple over. That’s how I feel.”

“You’ll get used to it in time. Oh, you’ll get used to it, believe me.”

“But are the notes genuine?”

“I do not doubt it for a moment. You had now better take charge of your own property; sew them up in your stays. That will be the best plan till we see what can be done with them.”

“But where can we get notes for so large an amount changed without exciting suspicion?”

“That will require a little thought. It won’t do to be too hasty in a matter of this sort. If one note is good they are all right, depend upon that. I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“You’ve got one for fifty pounds?”

“Yes.”

“I will ask Mr. Chipps to change it. He’ll have no objection to oblige either of us.”

“But he’ll want to know where we got it from.”

“I will tell him, my dear――a legacy, a legacy. Don’t you see it was bequeathed to you by a relative? I have promised to see him either to-day or to-morrow. I will take this note with me.”

“As you please. I leave it to you. Indeed, without you I know not how I should get on at all.”

Having agreed upon this course of action Bessie Dalton in the earlier portion of the day started off for the town of Bradford, leaving her friend in charge of her aunt.

The looking-glass in which the notes were found was originally in the possession of an old miser, named Nathan Schreiber.

He was a refiner, and dealt in metals of every description. In addition to this he was a usurer.

Living in an old dilapidated house in one of the back streets of his native town he contrived to drive a prosperous trade; but throughout his whole life declared he was miserably poor.

He was plagued by a number of poor relations, some of whom, it is believed, robbed him.

Anyway, in the last closing years of his life, he was under the impression that his rapacious relatives would send him out of the world before his time.

This thought haunted him by day and by night.

He was eccentric to the last degree. He grew old and feeble, and prior to his last illness he unfastened the back of his looking glass and laid the notes carefully on the silvering at the back of the plate.

This done, he replaced the backboard in its original position, and felt a grim satisfaction at glancing at the glass on the table by the side of his bed, upon which he shortly breathed his last.

As a matter of course after his decease the house was pretty well filled with his relatives.

A search was made for a will; none could be found. The effects he left behind, however, realised a considerable sum.

The distribution of this was the occasion of a wrangle, and the acrimonious feeling evinced by some of his heirs was in no way creditable to them. The property left by old Schreiber was sold by public auction.

A tradesman in the town bought several articles of household furniture. Among them was the looking-glass containing the notes. The tradesman afterwards became bankrupt, his furniture was sold off, and a broker bought two lots, in one of which the glass was included.

Mrs. Bristow afterwards purchased it of the broker for the sum of fifteen shillings. The end of this we have already seen.[2]

When Bessie Dalton reached the hotel at Bradford she inquired for Mr. Chipp, and was at once shown into a room where she found her friend seated.

She entered into a full description of the assault on Mrs. Bristow, and wound up by informing him that the latter had left him for good, but did not as yet know where she was to take up her quarters.

It would appear that Mr. Chipp had, for some reason which was best known to himself, been desirous of continuing the acquaintance of the two females he had met for the first time at the concert given for the benefit of the weaver’s widow and children.

He had paid frequent visits to the house in which Bessie and her friend resided, and had at all times taken great interest in them; and therefore, Bessie, who was the most self-possessed of the two, had no compunction in seeking his advice on the present occasion.

“She’s had a legacy――a little money left her,” said Bessie, “and my advice is that she sees no more of that wretch of a husband of hers, but go up to London at once, and see if she can get something to do.”

“The best advice you can give her.”

“And I’ve brought with me a fifty pound note, which we don’t know where to get changed. Perhaps you can oblige us?”

She handed him the note――not, however, without some misgivings.

He looked carefully at it, and appeared perfectly satisfied.

“I have not so much money about me, but I can give you a cheque if that will do. You can get it changed before you return.”

“Oh, thank you, Sir! That would be indeed a favour.”

“Not at all,” said her companion, carelessly. “Happy to have it in my power to oblige you.”

He drew the cheque for the required sum, and handed it to the girl.

Then, with a smile, he said――

“Then, I suppose I am going to lose sight of you ladies.”

“Oh dear, I hope not, Sir!”

“Umph! Do you go with your friend?”

“I have not decided as yet. Poor thing! She is sadly borne down just now, and needs some one to be with her. I suppose I had better see her on her journey.”

Mr. Chipp nodded assent to this proposition, and murmured――

“Yes, it would be better for you to do so.”

“You see, we are not at all busy at the factory,” said Bessie; “and I can be well spared, for a short time at all events.”

“It does not appear to me that they are busy anywhere,” observed her companion. “I shall not remain much longer in this town, but return to London before next week is over. Have you heard or seen anything of the fiddler?”

He alluded to Peace, whom he had, since the night of the concert, invariably designated as the fiddler.

“I have not heard from him lately,” answered Bessie, carelessly.

The gentleman smiled, but made no further inquiries.

Bessie now took her departure, and bent her steps in the direction of the bank. Upon presenting the cheque, she elected to take the amount in gold.

She then returned to her aunt’s residence, and made Mrs. Bristow acquainted with the successful nature of her expedition.

In a few days after this the two women started off for the metropolis.

[2] The concealment of notes to a large amount betweeen the plate and back board of a looking-glass is true in substance and in fact. A case similar to the one described came under the writer’s own knowledge. Many years ago, in Cheshire, a woman in a humble position of life accidentally broke a looking-glass which she had had in her possession for very many years. To her infinite surprise she discovered a number of bank-notes, concealed at its back. The case attracted considerable attention at the time, and she handed the property so found over to the stipendiary magistrates, who ultimately decided that the property so found was hers, and the notes were consequently returned to her. There are many persons now living who can attest to the truth of this statement, which proves the oft-repeated adage that “truth is strange――stranger than fiction.”

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XV. PEACE MEETS WITH A TARTAR――THE CAPTURE, AND ITS RESULT

Peace paid frequent visits to the post-office to inquire for letters; none, however, arrived. He could not in any way account for Bessie Dalton’s silence.

Had she turned against him?

Or had her picked-up friend persuaded her to leave Bradford?

These were questions he was unable to answer.

Something had occurred――of that he felt certain.

Perhaps Bristow had set the girl against him.

“But no,” he ejaculated. “She’s not such a fool as to listen to the counsels of that drunken brute.”

He dispatched another epistle to her lodgings at Bradford.

In a day or two after this it was returned to the post-office at Sheffield.

On the envelope was marked, “Gone away. Not known where.”

His worst fears were confirmed. He uttered anathemas loud and deep not only against Bessie Dalton, but the whole sex generally. He was wild with fury, and, like M. Mallet, tore up the letter in a thousand pieces.

“The perfidious, worthless, little hussy,” he ejaculated. “The ungrateful, deceitful minx to serve me like this. Gone away, and not known where. Oh, she’s made a bolt of it, that’s quite certain. There’s no dependence to be placed on women――they are all alike. Once out of your sight you stand but a poor chance. Still, hang it all, I never expected she would have served me like this.”

He had a burning desire to know the reason for her leaving Bradford, and as the days passed over this feeling became intensified.

He could not rest without making an effort to clear up the “mystery,” as he termed it.

He took the train to Bradford, and hastened at once to his old quarters in that town.

Bristow was not at home. This he was glad of. He inquired for the landlord, who at once made his appearance.

“So Bessie Dalton’s left, I hear?” said Peace, after the usual civilities had been exchanged.

“Yes, Mr. Peace, she’s gone. So also has Mrs. Bristow, and I don’t expect her husband will remain long. He’ll have to ‘bunk’ if he goes on as he has been of late.”

“Mrs. Bristow left!” ejaculated our hero. “Did she go with Bessie, then?”

“Yes, they were sworn friends, you know, and when one left, why I suppose the other did not care to be left behind.”

“And pray can you tell me the reason of their leaving?”

The landlord entered into the particulars of the quarrel between husband and wife and the desperate assault made on the latter, and wound up by saying, “Everybody saw how it would end. She couldn’t stand his cruelty any longer, and, therefore, left him. It’s the wisest thing she ever did.”

“And Bessie?”

“Oh! she went with her.”

“Do you know where they’ve gone to?”

The man shook his head.

“Not I,” said he. “It is not likely they would let anybody know that; but I’ve been told――――”

“What?”

“That they are both gone abroad――to America or Australia――so I’ve been given to understand.”

Peace was perfectly astounded.

“Gone abroad?” he iterated.

“Well――yes; and the best thing they could do. They are both young and good-looking, and will do a great deal better in either of those places than they did in this over-taxed country. Working people have not much of a chance here.”

The speaker was a Radical of the most pronounced type, and attributed the greater part of the ills which afflict the working class to over-taxation and an oppressive aristocracy.

Peace was in no mood to discuss the question――he was too much overwhelmed by the account given by the landlord of the women’s sudden flight.

“I shouldn’t bother myself much about them, if I were you, Peace,” said the landlord. “It’s all for the best, depend upon that. They behaved fair and square to me, and I wish them both well.”

“Yes――right you are――I won’t bother myself. They are gone, and joy go with them. Thank you for the information.”

And wishing the man a hearty farewell, he took his departure.

He visited some of his old haunts in the town, and lodged for the night at a coffee-house.

In the morning he returned to Sheffield.

He was ill at ease――restless and fidgetty――everything appeared to be going wrong with him.

Though apparently pursuing at this time the vocation of a picture-frame maker and picture-dealer, he had, as we have already seen, made “overtime” at intervals with varying success. The illustrations which have been given of his career have in many instances shown that he obtained most valuable booty. But the number of occasions on which he failed in his depredations are not so well known; the reader, however, may rest assured that it was not all smooth sailing with him. He had, as it will be our purpose to show, a number of reverses and many narrow escapes.

The course which he generally pursued was to “prospect a district well” and make himself thoroughly acquainted with the general movements of the police in it.

Next to pick out the places which offered at once the chance of a good haul, with the least possible risk, and having done this, gather in the harvest with as little delay as possible and then disappear from the district.

No wonder the police were baffled.

On the night prior to his leaving Sheffield, Peace had an adventure, which at the time taxed his inventive genius.

He had obtained an entrance to the back premises of a fish shop which was situated at the back of the Cemetery-road. This would be between eleven and twelve o’clock at night.

He was “operating” upon the back window of the place, intending as usual to “borrow” something, when very unexpectedly the proprietor of the establishment returned from the theatre in a cab.

Peace heard the vehicle stop and before he had time to get out of the yard the proprietor came into it.

Seeing Peace, he said――

“What do you want here?”

The visitor, after the manner of many other people, said “oh nothing!”

The fishmonger was far from satisfied, and made a demonstration as though he was about to seize the little fellow.

But Peace had used every bit of the time available during the brief conversation, for the consideration of the best means of escape, and he had formed a loophole.

Jumping upon the boundary wall he dropped over, and fell a considerable depth into the river Porter, which flows past there, but is shallow at that point. In point of fact it is like a large weir. He did not move in the darkness, but kept close to the wall, so that the astonished fishmonger should not know whether he had gone down the stream or up it.

Afterwards he quickly walked up it, past the back of Napier-street, and came out above Andrew-lane, but not without a good soaking.

Had he succeeded in his attempt to break into the shop he would not have got much, as the proprietor had placed his cash in a place of safety.

This is one of the many faithful accounts of his various escapades; but the reader must be apprised that it occurred subsequently to the events we are now chronicling in this and the preceding chapters. It is cited as an instance of our of his many failures. We have, however, to record one which was more ignominious and disastrous.

Peace remained in Sheffield for some little time after his return from Bradford. He paid several visits to localities which lay at more or less distances from that town, and succeeded in possessing himself of a number of valuables, but he felt unhinged and grew tired of his native town.

Once more he paid a visit to Hull. The Oakfield House burglary, described in the opening chapters of our work was no longer fresh in the recollection of the inhabitants of that town, and Peace felt quite sure that he would not be recognised by any of the constabulary.

The love of change and adventure had most likely prompted him to shift his quarters for awhile, and transfer the scene of his operations to another locality.

Soon after his arrival in Hull he began to look out for the places most available for his purpose, and contrived to commit some daring robberies without detection.

He had noticed a small villa which stood on the outskirts of a village, a few miles from Hull. The house was far removed from other habitations.

It was very tempting, not to say inviting, to the burglar.

Peace had played his violin at a beershop in the neighbourhood――that is how he came to notice the Gothic cottage, as it was termed.

To obtain an entrance would be matter of no great difficulty. Most of the inhabitants in the neighbourhood went to bed early, and rose with the lark.

It was between ten and eleven o’clock at night when Peace arrived at the villa in question.

A flight of steps led up to the front door. A bay window, with stone balustrading in front and a portico above, jutted out from the first storey of the habitation.

When Peace had reached the lawn in front of the house, he hesitated for a short time, before he made up his mind as to which was the easiest mode of access.

He came to the conclusion that it would be best to perform on the door. He had but little difficulty in picking the look of this. The door yielded to his pressure, but he found that it was fastened by an inner chain, the end of which ran into a hollow tube.

It was impossible to effect an entrance without releasing the chain.

Peace drew from his pocket two pieces of wire, both of which were bent at the ends.

With these he believed he could push back the chain, release it, and enter.

While occupied with one arm through the aperture disclosed by the partially open door, the two French windows above were thrown open, and a woman’s head and shoulders were visible.

Peace, whose back was towards the window, was quite unaware of the fact that his movements were watched.

Indeed, so intent was he on his work that he did not hear the noise occasioned by the opening of the window.

He was not so successful as he had anticipated in pushing back the chain; and while manipulating with his accustomed skill and perseverance he was suddenly awakened to the position of affairs by receiving a terrible blow between the shoulders, which seemed to take his breath away.

He faced round suddenly, when much to his discomforture he received another blow on the side of the head, which caused a thousand lights to flash before his eyes.

“Oh, you nasty burglarious wretch,” exclaimed the old woman above, who was his assailant. “You murderous villain!”

The speaker was flourishing a long house broom, with the thick end of which she delivered another blow on the burglar’s head.

Peace was quite unprepared for this unlooked-for assault; he caught hold of the broom and swore a terrible oath.

A struggle now ensued between the two, Peace held firmly on the end of the broom, and the old woman above clung tenaciously to the handle.

“Murder! thieves! police! help!” screamed the woman, in a shrill penetrating voice, which rang like a clarion note in the night air.

“You nasty, ugly, good-for-nothing, thieving scamp!” she continued. “You hideous, murderous wretch!”

Peace was terribly bruised; a noise as of rushing waters was in his ears, and his temples throbbed and ached most terribly.

By a violent effort he wrested the broom from the hands of his assailant.

He was wound up to a state of fury, and lost his usual prudence.

To be so unmercifully beaten by a woman was positively intolerable.

In all his adventures he had never been so cruelly used.

But he would not be baffled――he would have reprisals.

He jumped on to the top of the stone facing of the balustrade which ran in front of the house, and, broom in hand, struck a defiant attitude.

“Don’t you think to master me, you vile, dirty slut,” he ejaculated; and, with these words, he aimed a blow at his enemy, who very prudently retired into the interior of the room.

The only effect the blow had was to smash one of the front windows.

“If I can only get in,” muttered Peace, “I shall be all right. I’ll soon silence that old Jezebel. Without doubt she has been left in charge of the house. I’ll give it her, worth her money, when I do get in. Curse it, how my head aches!”

He balanced himself on the top of the stonework, as deftly as ah acrobat; then he caught the edge of the balcony with the big end of his broom, and was preparing himself for a final spring when another actor came upon the scene.

A buxom servant girl appeared at the open window. She was armed with a mop.

Seeing that Peace was about to scale the balcony, she threw out the mop much the same as a Zulu does his spear, and delivered such a terrific blow on Peace’s face that he was hurled back, and fell upon the gravel path in front in a state of insensibility.

The old woman and her maid were masters of the field. Their foe remained prostrate and helpless in front of the citadel.

Again the cries “Help! Police!” rose in the air. They resounded far and near.

The servant girl now brought to the window a pail of dirty water, which she threw over the vanquished burglar.

This bad the effect of restoring him to consciousness. He made an effort to rise, but he was so dizzy, so utterly prostrated, that he was almost helpless for a time.

The mistress and her maid had the prudence not to sally forth till assistance had arrived, for they were by no means certain as to the real state of the enemy. He might, after all, only be shamming, and it would not be advisable to risk an engagement in the open field.

They had recourse, therefore, to “sound the alarm,” by repeated screams and cries for assistance.

Much to their delight, a constable opened the garden gate, and flashed his bull’s-eye in all directions.

By the light of his lantern he discovered Peace stretched on the garden walk.

“Now, then, get up, man,” said the constable to Peace.

“I can’t,” exclaimed the burglar. “I’m all but killed by those she dragons.”

“You can’t lie here all night. Get up, I say. What have you been doing?”

“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Peace, in a whining hypocritical voice. “Those infamous women!”

“Don’t listen to what he says, policeman,” interrupted the old lady. “He was breaking into the house, but we caught him just in time――only just in time.”

“Do you charge him?”

“Certainly. Take him in custody. Of course I charge him――the dirty blackguard!”

Another constable now presented himself, and the two carried Peace into the back parlour of the little cottage.

He presented a most pitiable appearance. Two great bumps as big as an egg were visible on his head; in addition to this his nose was bleeding, and a scar was observable on his face; this last being from the effects of the mop which had been handled so dexterously by the servant girl.

He was, moreover, wet to the skin, from the contents of the pail.

He had never been so cruelly dealt with before.

With his head between his hands, he groaned and moaned in a most piteous and abject manner.

“You’ve got the worst of it this time, old man,” said one of the policemen. “Are you sufficiently strong to walk to the station?”

“Me strong! I feel as if about to breathe my last,” cried Peace.

The two constables conversed apart for a little time――then one left the house. He returned with a pony-cart.

“Now, then,” said the other, addressing himself to Peace, “as you are not able to walk, my man, we’ve got a conveyance for you.”

“I’m very bad,” said our hero, with a groan.

“Can’t help that. Get up, man.”

The two policemen, without more ado, lifted up the wounded burglar, and bore him nolens volens towards the cart, which stood just outside the garden gate.

Peace was lifted into this by his captors, and the vehicle was driven towards the station. During the journey Peace whined and moaned in a most piteous manner, declaring all the way that he was an ill-used man.

After being examined and attended to by the divisional surgeon, he was locked up for the remainder of the night.

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XVI. THE EXAMINATION AT THE POLICE COURT

Peace had been placed in a tolerably comfortable bed; his clothes were dried and brought into his room by early dawn. He was requested to get up; and, when dressed, was conducted to one of the cells adjoining the court, there to await his turn for examination.

He found, upon entering the cell in question, that it contained another occupant besides himself.

His companion in misfortune was a tall, slim young man, apparently twenty or thereabouts. In appearance he was what some persons would call genteel; certainly there did not appear to be anything of the ruffian about him.

Peace regarded him with a searching glance, but did not offer any observation.

To say the truth, he was miserably depressed. Every bone in his body ached, his temples still throbbed, and the bumps on his head were as sore and troublesome as they well could be.

Presently the young man――whose name was Green――addressed Peace.

“What are you up for?” said Mr. Green. This being a slang expression for “What are you charged with?”

“I don’t know at present,” answered Peace, sulkily. “What are you up for?”

“Slinging my book”――a professional term for picking pockets――“but I’m as innocent as the babe unborn,” added Mr. Green.

“Oh, of course,” returned Peace; “so am I.”

Mr. Green whistled and looked up at the roof of the cell.

“You just mind your own business,” said our hero, “and speak only when you’re spoken to.”

“All right, mate,” returned Mr. Green, “there’s no occasion to be humpy with a fellow――but there, I’ve done.”

Leaving the culprits in their narrow prison house we will enter the court. The bench of magistrates have taken their places, the night charges are as yet not over. There were the usual amount of drunken cases, assaults upon women, and others of an unimportant nature. The last assault case is being heard; two men were in the dock with bruised faces and torn garments, with unkempt hair and unshaven beards; taken altogether their appearance could not be considered prepossessing.

A tall, well-dressed gentleman was in the box giving his evidence. He had a long, aquiline nose, the skin of which had evidently been damaged some few hours before.

He told his story in a quiet, undemonstrative manner. It appeared, according to his statement, that, as he was turning the corner of a street in the neighbourhood, two men suddenly sprang upon him and tripped him up.

He fell upon his face, and his nose was seriously injured. Being under the impression that the men were bent upon committing a robbery he shouted out lustily for the police. A constable came and he gave his two assailants in charge.

“And do you believe that they intended to rob you?” inquired the stipendiary.

“I certainly was under the impression at the time that they were about to do so, but I should be sorry to say so now after what I’ve heard. They committed an assault; the effects of their violence I feel now.”

“Did they strike you?”

“No, I don’t think either of them did, but they sprang upon me.”

“Did you see them before the assault?”

“No, sir. They appeared to spring suddenly out of a narrow passage. The attack was so sudden that I am unable to say with anything like exactness where they came from.”

“What have you to say to this charge?” inquired the magistrate of the prisoners.

“Please, yer honour, it’s all a mistake,” said one of the culprits. “Quite a mistake, I assure you. Nobody ever thought of hurting the gentleman in any way. I’m very sorry for what has occurred, and humbly beg his pardon, yer worship.”

“That’s no answer to the charge. After violently assaulting a passenger in the street in the manner you have done, it is but a poor satisfaction to the injured party to beg his pardon.”

“Well, gentlemen, I’ll tell yer how it happened if so be as ye’ll listen to me.”

“I’m all attention. Proceed.”

“It happened in this ’ere way. I was a walking down King-street last night when I seed this ’ere man――his fellow prisoner――he says to me, says he, ‘Do yer want any o’ this?’ and with that he up with his fists, and put himself in a boxing attitude. Well, yer honour, saving yer honour’s presence, I warn’t a goin’ to be put upon like that, and so I says to him, ‘You aint the man to give it me.’ ‘Aint I?’ says he. ‘No, ye’re not,’ says I. Well, gentlemen, them words were ’ardly out o’ my mouth, when he gave me a dab in the eye.”

“And you retaliated, I suppose.”

“I landed him one on the nose. With that he strikes out, and lets me have it on the jaw. Seeing as how he was a little too long in the reach for me, I closed with him, and we were a strugglin’ and a strugglin’ like anything. He forced me down a narrow passage, and tried to bump my head agen the wall of the court, not this court, yer honour, but the court or passage as runs out of King-street. Well, arter that I gets one of my feet agen the railing, and I shoves him out of the court with all my might. Just at that time, yer honour, the gentleman was a passin’, and we both on us run full butt agen him, but it warn’t no fault o’ mine, indeed it warn’t.”

The man had told his story in such a naive manner that roars of laughter proceeded from the body of the court, in which the bench joined.

“Do you know this man? Your fellow-prisoner, I mean,” inquired the stipendiary.

“No, yer worship. I never set eyes upon him afore he sed ‘do you want anything of this?’”

“What have you to say to the charge?” said the examining magistrate, addressing the other prisoner.

“I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” returned the man. “What he’s sed is all true enough. We were having a mill, and the gentleman ’appened to be coming by, and that’s how it was. I’ve never been in trouble afore, gentlemen.”

“What are you? What’s your occupation?”

“I’m a groom, yer worship.”

“You are a pair of silly troublesome fellows, and ought to be heartily ashamed of your conduct. It seems hardly possible that two men, who are perfect strangers to one another, and who, moreover, had no quarrel or dispute to settle, should break the peace in the foolish and ridiculous manner you have done. You really deserve to be imprisoned. However, as the gentleman whom you have assaulted does not wish to press the charge, we shall discharge you upon the payment of a fine of ten shillings each.”

Upon this the men were removed.

It appeared afterwards that they were unable to pay the fines, only being able to master up twelve shillings between them.

The gentleman, however, generously made up the difference.

This case concluded the night charges.

Mr. Green was now brought into court.

His countenance was the very personification of simplicity and injured innocence. He made a most respectful obeisance to the magistrates, and looked benignly at the spectators.

Mr. Green had the misfortune to be charged with picking pockets.

It was said that he was “a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles,” but his appearance belied the accusation.

The charge was read over, and the usual formalities gone through. The prosecutor was then put in the witness-box and sworn.

He stated that a crowd was collected in consequence of an accident in the street. A horse had run away; the wheel of the chaise he was dragging came into collision with a lamp-post, the chaise was overturned, its occupants precipitated into the roadway, and picked up in a senseless condition; the shafts were broken short off, and with these the horse galloped off.

The prosecutor was looking at the broken vehicle in the road when he felt a tug at his watch, and saw it fall against his waistcoat.

Turning round he seized Mr. Green by the collar, and promptly charged him with the theft, upon which the young gentleman burst into a flood of tears, and pityfully exclaimed two or three times――

“Oh, my poor dear mamma!”

So ingenuous indeed was Mr. Green’s manner that his fervent protestations of innocence would in all probability have had their effect upon the prosecutor had not the watch itself――such was the cruel irony of fate――been seen at the very moment to drop from his hand.

The case was, therefore, very black against Mr. Green.

The prosecutor, however, seemed to give his evidence with reluctance, being under the impression that it was the youth’s first offence.

“What have you to say to this charge?” inquired the magistrate.

“I hope you will be merciful to me,” said Mr. Green. “I’ll tell you the truth, sir. I’ve been led away by bad company day after day, and that’s what’s brought me to this――it has indeed, sir. I trust you will have mercy on me as this is my first offence, and I’ll take good care it shall be my last, for I would not let my father and mother know, for this would break their hearts, and get me a bad name. I hope you will have the case settled here to-day, as I have been waiting a week, for I did not have nothing to do with the watch; but I leave it to you, sir, to determine. Only I am anxious that my dear father and mother should know nothing of the dreadful charge.”

“It is quite impossible for any rational person to believe in your innocence after the evidence that has been offered,” said the magistrate. “Still you are young, and may have been led into crime through bad associates, but that is no excuse.”

“Oh, do have pity on me!” exclaimed Mr. Green. “I’ll tell you the honest truth.”

The story which Mr. Green, to use a forensic phrase, invited the bench to believe, did great credit to his ingenuity, but there were other ugly facts brought forward which went far towards prejudicing him in the eyes of all present.

Mr. Green said in continuation:

“I came to Hull a short time since upon a little matter of business. In the train I met a young man who invited me to his house. When the train got to the station all the people got out, so did me and the young man. Soon after our arrival in the town we seed a crowd of persons in the street. The young man sed to me, ‘Here, I’ll get this gentleman’s clock,’ and he went up to this gentleman (pointing to the prosecutor) and pulled it out. He wanted to give it to me, but I would not take it, and the gentleman caught hold of me. This is how I got into this. But he (alluding to the prosecutor) did not get the right one, though I was with him. Gentlemen, have mercy on me do, for I am guilty of being with that young man who got away, but who ought to be here instead of me.”

The policeman who took the prisoner into custody, and was on the spot at the time of the robbery, was put in the box, and swore distinctly that he saw the watch drop out of Mr. Green’s hand.

“Oh, Mr. Policeman!” exclaimed the young gentleman, “how can you say such a thing?” Then, turning to the magistrates, he said, “It was a young man by me, gentlemen, and he ses to me, he ses, ‘Hold this ere,’ and he shoves the watch into my hand, an’ with that the constable he catches ’old of me and ses, ses he――――”

“You must ask the witness what he said.”

“Thank you, sir, I will,” returned Mr. Green. “Now then,” said he, turning to the witness, “now then, wasn’t there a young man a standin’ by me when you came up?”

“No――certainly not; there was no young man by you.”

“Ah! Mr. Policeman,” ejaculated the prisoner, in a deprecating tone, “how can you say so? Think again.”

“There was not,” repeated the witness.

“I don’t know what my father and mother will say to this, gentlemen,” exclaimed Mr. Green, blubbering. “I would not get my father and mother in any disgrace not, for anythink. I will take good care I never get into bad company again. When I get over this I will go home and be happy with my father and mother. Gentlemen, have mercy on me, gentlemen. If I come here again you may do as you like with me.”

Mr. Green, with all his cunning and affected innocence, showed a more than usual confidence in human nature, if he imagined that he could impose upon the bench of magistrates with so hackneyed a plea.

His line of defence was as well known between St. Paul’s Church-yard and Farringdon-street, as is the Propria que Maribus at Eton.

The magistrates, after consulting together, elected to send the case to the sessions.

The prosecutor was bound over in his own recognisances, and Mr. Green, “like Niobe――all tears,” was taken back to his cell.

Peace, who had given the name of Parker when arrested, was now placed in the dock.

He glanced round the court to see if his female assailant was there to press the charge.

To his dismay he beheld the elderly female sitting on a bench by the side of the witness-box.

She was a tall, sharp-featured, angular, bony woman; her cast of features and general contour denoted inflexible determination.

Peace presented a most rueful appearance; two plasters covered the large and painful bumps on his head.

His face gave unmistakable evidence of the blow received from the housemaid’s mop.

Mrs. Pocklington, the prosecutrix, had engaged a solicitor to conduct the case.

After the usual formalities had been gone through, the gentleman in question rose and briefly narrated the circumstances which had led to the capture of the prisoner on the preceding night.

Mrs. Pocklington was then put into the box, and gave a succinct account of all that had transpired.

“Upon my word, Mrs. Pocklington,” said the chairman, when the lady had concluded, “it would appear that you are well able to protect yourself.”

“I hope I am,” returned Mrs. Pocklington, sharply. “It is not the first time an attempt has been made to break into my house.”

“I never attempted to break into her house, gentlemen,” cried Peace. “Don’t believe what she says; she’s almost killed me.”

“What were you doing at the front of her residence, then? And what right had you to be there at all? It is clearly a case of attempted burglary, but you had better reserve your defence; we have other witnesses to examine.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Peace; “I will not make any further observations at present.”

The servant girl was now placed in the box. She corroborated the evidence given by her mistress.

The two constables were next examined. They proved that the large lock of the door had been forced open――proved also that housebreaking instruments were found upon the prisoner, together with a bunch of skeleton keys――“and all these facts pointed to one conclusion,” said Mrs. Pocklington’s lawyer――“namely, that the prisoner is a professional burglar.”

Unfortunately for Peace, this was proved beyond all question. A detective was placed in the box, who said he knew the prisoner well, that he had undergone one month’s imprisonment in December, 1851.

Peace denied this in a most positive manner; nevertheless his assertions had but little effect upon the bench, who decided upon sending the case for trial.

“I’ve been punished quite enough, I should think,” ejaculated Peace, “considering I never intended to rob the house――but――”

“If you take my advice,” said one of the stipendiary magistrates, “you will reserve your defence. Anything you say now will be given in evidence against you, and it will in no way effect our decision. If you have a legal defence, reserve it till your trial comes on at the sessions. Do not prejudice your case by offering any observations.”

“I am obliged to you, sir, for your advice,” returned Peace “I have a defence, but if you have decided upon sending it to the sessions it is no use of my speaking now. Before I go, however, I hereby solemnly declare that that wicked old woman has not spoken the truth; she has committed perjury.”

“Don’t you dare to insult me, you nasty ugly little villain,” exclaimed Mrs. Pocklington, rising from her seat and shaking her umbrella menacingly at the speaker.

“Hush! Silence! Order in court!” cried the usher.

“Sit down, madam, if you please,” said one of the magistrates.

The old lady did as she was bid, but she kept rocking herself to and fro, muttering the while to herself inarticulate sentences.

Peace was removed, and found himself once more in his cell, in company with the ill-used Mr. Green.

Another prisoner was brought in――he was charged with horse stealing.

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