Chapter CL…

Chapter CL

A VISIT TO NEWGATE――IDENTIFICATION OF PEACE――MRS. THOMPSON’S PERSONAL HISTORY――RECEIVERS OF STOLEN GOODS.

From what we have been able to gather from persons whose testimony is in every way reliable, Mrs. Peace made a precipitate retreat from Peckham after the arrest of her husband.

The day after Police-constable Robinson bravely fought the burglar down, in spite of his wounded arm, and had Peace taken to gaol, the wife of the convict made preparations for flight. She packed up three boxes, and had them conveyed to Cleaves, the greengrocer, to Nunhead Station.

She and her son followed them to the station, and took the train for Darnall, near Sheffield, the place where Peace lived before coming to London, and at which he was living when Dyson was shot.

A month after the arrest some of the effects were sold, and the remainder were carted to No. 22, Philip’s-road, the residence of Mr. Brion, heretofore mentioned as the joint patentee of the invention for raising sunken ships.

There is no question that the police were afterwards made aware of the departure of Mrs. Peace and of Mrs. Thompson’s change of abode.

Mrs. Thompson, although she lived with Peace at Nottingham after the murder, and lived in company with Mrs. Peace at Peckham, was not called as a witness for obvious reasons.

Peace was convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, and it was unnecessary to try him for the burglary, as the sentence was penal servitude for life.

The representative of the Press Association had an interview with Mr. Brion. His relationship with Peace was, he said, a purely business one.

“But for me,” he said, “Peace’s connection with the murder would never have been discovered. It was I who gave the police the information that put them on the track. Those police would never have discovered anything themselves had not everything been told them and every step they took indicated. How did I become connected with Peace?

“You will know all about that in my testimony at Bow-street, when Mrs. Peace was under examination. I am an inventor, a geographical engineer. I make maps. You know Donald McKenzie, who has gone to Africa to make surveys for letting the ocean flow into the Sahara?

“That is my project. This is the map I exhibited at the Mansion House. (Mr. Brion unrolled a map 20 feet by 12 feet, whereon was delineated very broadly the Continent of Africa and on which was shown, in red dotted lines below the Canary Islands, a kind of gutter through which the ocean is to flow inland and flood the Sahara.)

“Mrs. Thompson went away from here on Monday. I know where she is, but I cannot tell you of her whereabouts. That has all been arranged with the police. She came here with the full knowledge of the police, and all the goods in Peace’s house were brought here by their direction and consent.

“The police are aware of everything I can tell them about Peace. I have spent three months in the interest of the public to bring this man to justice, and I was promised by the police that I should have my expenses paid, but here have I been during all that time running around the country and living at hotels, and spending money for the sake of getting at evidence, and now they refuse to pay me anything.

“I have done with the police, although they know all that I have done, and now I have a memorial to the Treasury on the subject.

“I am disgusted with the whole business, and annoyed that for any length of time I should have been associated in whatever degree with such a scoundrel as Peace.

“He was a very interesting man, full of general information, and had acquired a great amount of ability in mechanics. He had an inventive faculty, and could readily understand anything in mechanism.

“He was working away at this idea of his for lifting ships from the sea bottom, and it is now plain that he could not have obtained a patent himself.

“As with all these men of smirched reputation, he had to look around for some one to assist him, and he fastened upon me.

“I used to see him in the mornings, afternoons, and at nights, and he was always pleasant enough, and I never suspected he was what he is.

“His left hand was always bare when I saw it, but when he went to Whitechapel he was accustomed to cover it and pretend that it was injured.

“Whitechapel was where he went with his booty. I expended a considerable sum in my experiments with Peace on his invention.

“I found that he had the idea of raising ships by air force, but that the appliance was faulty, and that no patent would be given for an idea.

“I have a plan of my own for raising ships, and I have offered it to the Admiralty. They have not accepted it, and I intend to raise the ‘Vanguard,’ and sell it on my own account. The police are aware of everything that Mrs. Thompson has to say.

“They have been cognisant of her movements from first to last, and they knew of her departure from this house, and where she has gone.”

The reader will be at no loss to understand that the police were tolerably well informed as to the movements and whereabouts of Mrs. Peace. This is plainly evidenced by her arrest, the examination at the police-courts that followed, and her trial and acquittal at the Central Criminal Court.

After this they confined their attentions to the convicted man who was at this time incarcerated in Newgate, and their chief aim was to prove him to be the murderer of Mr. Dyson.

The capture and conviction of Peace was the universal topic of town talk. Never surely did a criminal create a greater amount of excitement both in the metropolis and the provinces.

Officers were despatched both to Nottingham and Sheffield. The constabulary received information from the Park-road station of the K Division. It was put forth that the prisoner in Newgate was a man apparently about fifty years of age, dark, clean shaved, hair grey, large mouth, large scar on the side of the left leg, and the back of the thigh, three fingers on the left hand deficient, dress overcoat, with velvet collar, and black under coat.

He wore a brown leather belt, low boots, and a brown felt hat.

A Sheffield paper thus chronicles further proceedings:――

Police-constable David Morris was dispatched to London, by Mr. Jackson, with a view to the identification of the criminal in custody at Newgate.

Morris, who was at one time stationed at Darnall, lived for more than a year in the house directly opposite to that occupied by Charles Peace, and was therefore in the habit of seeing him every day, and frequently several times a day.

Morris had with him a letter from his chief to the director of the Criminal Investigation Department, by means of which he obtained admission to the cell.

At half-past one o’clock a telegram from our reporter was received at this office as follows:――

“ST. MARTIN’S-LE-GRAND, 1.30. p.m. “Peace has been further identified by a Sheffield constable, and there is no doubt he is the murderer.”

The telegram, when posted in the window of our publishing department, excited much interest. Shortly after two o’clock the Chief Constable received a telegram from Police-constable Morris as follows:――

“Man in custody is Peace. I am quite positive about his identity.”

All doubt, if any existed, has now been removed. The man, John Ward, the notorious burglar of Blackheath――the man who did all his villainies “single-handed,” and thus no doubt escaped detection for a longer time than he would otherwise have done――is none other than Charles Peace, the murderer of Mr. Arthur Dyson, at Bannercross-terrace, that dark November night two years ago.

Charles Peace, alias George Parker, alias Alexander Mann, alias Paganini, alias John Ward――the man of many aliases――is trapped at last, and the general hope is that now he is caught there may be evidence enough to make him suffer the penalty of his greatest crime――that which startled this town and district so terribly in the winter of 1876.

A journalist furnishes us with the following descriptive visit to Newgate and the scene at the identification:――

That Charles Peace, the murderer of Mr. Arthur Dyson, of Bannercross, is at last caught there cannot now be the shadow of a doubt. He has been clearly identified by a Sheffield constable, who knew him most intimately.

The result of my researches into the history of this man’s career reveals a depth of depravity, hypocrisy, daring, and low cunning, such as have scarcely ever been penned in the annals of crime.

On entering Scotland-yard, and making known my errand――that I desired to prosecute inquiries into the history of the man then in their custody, who was committed for trial from the Greenwich Police-court, on charges of attempted murder and burglary, a man who had given the name of John Ward, the replies given were certainly very courteous, but in no way satisfactory to a reporter in quest of information.

The result was that after about an hour and a half’s waiting, and after being interviewed successively by some dozen or two very polite gentlemen, who were evidently “authorities,” I was ultimately told, with a smile, by one that they did not give information to members of the Press.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s against regulations, and we are not allowed to answer questions.”

“Well,” I said, “where is this man Ward or Peace confined, because I want to see him?”

He had a short look at me, and after telling an untruth in the words “He’s not in town,” took his departure.

However, I knew there had come up to London by the morning train a Sheffield constable whose errand was to see the man “Ward,” and that officer was one who had been on the most intimate terms with Charles Peace.

He had seen the murderer daily for months before the commission of the crime, had had him in his house, and had further confided to him some of the “family troubles” of Peace.

The officer was Police-constable (222) David Morris, of the Attercliffe division, and it is due to him that Peace has at length been identified beyond dispute.

The police authorities of the metropolis are true to their word and traditions in this, that if they gain their information with difficulty they hold it with tenacity when they have obtained it. They appear to mistake reporters for Ishmaelites.

After further trouble I succeeded in finding out that at about one o’clock a detective from Scotland-yard would be at the Old Bailey, otherwise well known as Newgate Gaol, and that he would there ask Morris if he could pick out the so-called Peace from a number of men.

How to get it was the question, but I also thought it might be possible for me to identify him if I could see him, and so, with a little help from a friend, I got permission from the authorities to go inside and witness.

The approaches to the Old Bailey are of a forbidding character, dark and repulsive. Even the inquiry door has massive iron spikes projecting from the top of it, and as you have to make your applications either through the spikes or over them, you stand a chance of having your chin perforated.

On getting inside there are apparently nothing but bars and big doors, but over one of the doors on the shelf there are conspicuously displayed plaster casts of heads.

These casts are the official representations of all the murderers who have interviewed the hangman within the walls of the prison, and a hideous-looking crew they are.

Seeing that another candidate for the “long drop” has next to be interviewed the effect is not pleasing.

However, there is another delay, and this is accounted for by the fact that the suspected culprit is being “mixed” with some more prisoners, the more to test anyone in the task of identification.

At last the signal is given that all is ready, and after passing through a short corridor a yard is seen, rather capacious and surrounded with cell-doors.

But between the yard and the corridor were double gates of iron, and anyone exercising in the yard had not a shadow of a chance of communication with the outer world.

The iron gates were opened by the governor of the gaol; in front stood the constable and another who had come to see if Peace was in the hands of the police, and in front were twelve prisoners doing “the circular drill.”

This is a performance best known to prison officials, and to those who have been “wanted.” It consists in this:――

If there is a prisoner in the establishment whose identity needs to be established, and there is anyone attending for the purpose of viewing them, the prisoner is placed amongst others, and they follow each other in circle.

The suspected prisoner must then be identified. Those who performed the “circular drill” on this occasion in the Old Bailey, were a curious lot.

First came a young man, of some three or four-and-twenty years, with his neck half hidden in a muffler.

His gait was upright, but there was that cowed look about him which showed him to be “an old prison bird.”

Before the march commenced the prisoners took a look at us; they did not know who was “wanted,” and our visages were strange to all but one.

Then the march began, and all the prisoners appeared to want to march the double, but they had only a short time of duty.

The second man who passed was an old one, some forty years of age, who wore a swallow-tail coat, and looked most like a defaulting half-starved attorney’s clerk.

He gave a searching look, knit up his brows, as if to see “who in creation there could be that he knew,” and then apparently satisfied that he was not “wanted,” passed on with a livelier tread.

The third but a young man, with a bull neck, who held his head down and stared at the ground, as though afraid of seeing anyone strange, for fear they should recognise him.

He had apparently gone through this class of inspection before.

Two other young fellows passed, of lively mien, and then there came

ONE WHO WAS WANTED.

A man of about five feet three or four inches in height, with white hair on his head, cut very short, and bald in the front of his head, but the razor had lately done this.

His eyebrows heavy and overhanging the eyes, which were deeply socketed.

A chin standing very prominently, and, as if to make it more so, the head was thrown back with an air of half self-assertion, yet half caution, as though there was a degree of hesitancy in the action.

The lower part of his cheek bones protruded more than was their wont in years gone by, but he had apparently had some bruises recently, and had had his whiskers shaven off since he was last seen in Sheffield.

[Sidenote: No. 83.]

In addition to that he wore a pair of large brass-rimmed spectacles, as if the more completely to make certain of his non-identification.

Slightly bending himself this man approached those who were inspecting the prisoners, and then there was a sudden stop.

“That’s Peace,” said Morris. “I’d know him anywhere,” and the man “Ward” stepped from the ranks and approaching the officer with a look which betokened the most earnest inquiry, asked, “What do you want me for?”

The governor here very severely said, “Go on, sir, with your walk,” and Peace returned to his place in the ranks, which were no longer marching.

The other prisoners were now staring at the identified man, and evidently wanted to ask, “What has he done?” but they dared not.

Even Peace had had no intimation given to him that he was recognised as the Sheffield murderer, and until he saw the officer who had come to identify him he had no notion of why he was required to go on this special parade.

The marks which were described as on the missing Peace are all distinctly on him. Before he can appear in the police court at Sheffield on the charge of murder, the Chief-constable for Sheffield will have to apply to a superior court for a writ of habeas corpus.

Upon this he will be taken to answer the capital charge now made against him.

After committing the murder on the night of the 26th November, 1876, Peace was completely lost sight of; his career in this life, it was said, was closed, for he had made away with himself.

But Peace was not such a fool as that, for he had no sooner finished the murder than he took to his old game of burglary――an avocation which appears to have had a curious attraction for him.

Subsequent events have proved that Peace went to Hull, and there replaced his waning funds by breaking into a gentleman’s house, from which, he extracted a large quantity of plate and valuable jewellery.

From thence, after realising on his spoil, he repaired to Nottingham, where a near relative resided, and with her he took up his quarters.

Although it was well known that there was a heavy reward offered for his apprehension, it does not seem that any of his relatives considered it advisable to state who was in the midst of them.

After effecting a very clever warehouse robbery, in which silk goods were the principal booty, Peace appears to have then considered that his proximity to Sheffield was dangerous, and he again changed his abode.

Thus it will be seen that the Sheffield authorities were correct when they stated that they had traced the man to Hull, but there had lost sight of him.

It was believed that he had escaped to the Continent. But not so; the fox had “doubled,” and in the Midland Counties, with Nottingham for his centre, was continuing his depreciations.

On reaching London some four or five months after the murder, he was not very well off for money, and he took up his residence in Lambeth.

The police in charge of this district then became aware that night after night the most audacious depredations were committed in the district.

There was scarcely a night passed but a burglary was announced, and in as even a succession the statement followed that the thieves had not been caught.

The value of the booty thus secured was exceedingly great, and the thieves――for they were then believed to be a gang――were said to be well rewarded for their audacity.

But the place appears to have become too hot for him, and he then removed to Greenwich, where he occupied a beautiful house, and commenced to furnish it in a most expensive manner.

Whatever Peace failed in, it was not in the want of self-assurance and the belief that he could pass through society as a gentleman.

Though he had repulsive features he appears to have had winning ways in the eyes of some, for he now appears to have decided on engaging a lady to share his improving fortunes.

This “lady” may perhaps figure elsewhere shortly, and her name will then be found in the police record. But the establishment could not be kept up without “means,” and again came the last resort.

Peace had described himself to the new sphere of respectable neighbours――among whom he now moved――as a “gentleman of independent means,” and he was looked up to as one who had done well in the world.

We have endeavoured, throughout this strange eventful history, to place before the reader the leading and most noticeable circumstances connected with the career of this sinful man. After his arrest for the burglary and attempted murder of Police-constable Robinson, there was but little chance of his escaping conviction for the Bannercross murder, but there are many who have attributed his identification and subsequent conviction upon the grave charge to the jealousy of a woman, as will be seen by the following extract from a journal of the time.

It has been remarked by ancient as well as by modern writers that wherever there is a piece of outrageous mischief there is sure to be a woman at the bottom of it.

The experience of the present civilised age does not present any instances to the contrary, but rather strengthens the opinions previously held. Charles Peace was clever in one thing, that he knew his “profession” and succeeded in it so long as he did it “single-handed;” but when he obtained a partner, like many others who have preceded him, his fortunes, though apparently improving, were really on the decrease.

Whilst in Nottingham――and this only happened within a month after the murder of Mr. Dyson――he succeeded in securing to himself the affections of a young female relative.

This young “lady” followed him through his many hazardous adventures until at length the two were in Lambeth, where they occupied a decent house, and to all intents and purposes were a well-conducted pair――the lady being slightly younger than her husband, but as “Mr. Johnson” was well-to-do it was supposed that there had been a marriage of love.

Business in Lambeth proved of a paying character, although those who did the paying were not always aware of the fact until before banking hours in the morning――when the news was brought to their bedroom doors by the earliest risers in the house.

On removing to Greenwich, Peace was accompanied by the young lady who had followed his fortunes, although she might not know the whole of his crimes and there were again commenced the robberies which, have made his name so notorious in the criminal annals of the country.

Peace resumed his business; as he had not to press sales on the market he did not care what came to his hand, and being well versed in the legerdemain of the light-fingered fraternity he obtained access to the mansions of the rich around him, and their loss was his gain.

As the aristocrats in his neighbourhood became more indignant, he became more pious, and his immediate neighbours, whilst looking out for the midnight thieves, relied somewhat on his perception and assurances that nothing would be wrong.

But all this time there was in Peace’s well-furnished household a young woman who had been misled and wronged.

She had been led to believe that Peace, with whom she had associated in Nottingham, was a steady, hardworking man. Peace had given to her a number of costly goods, he was to her a man of sterling honesty, and then it transpired that he was a burglar.

Then came her time of trial.

The man with whom she was associated was a thief, a burglar, and more than that――and she knew it.

He was a murderer.

But what could she do? It was this man upon whom she was dependent for a subsistence――it was this man who had committed murder once, and whom she knew would not hesitate to commit it again.

So she helped to get rid of the goods which were brought by his nightly marauds, and like other sensible people who are in a mess, she held her peace.

But when Peace and this housekeeper had got to the new home at Peckham, “a cloud came o’er the scene,” and the cloud was a woman.

This “cloud” took up her residence in the house of Mr. Peace――otherwise “Johnson,” by which latter cognomen he was well known――and then commenced the beginning of the end.

The first victim of Peace’s duplicity dared not speak, and the second admirer of him dared not――so between the rivals the burglar had a fair chance of bidding for favouritism.

But when the last “throw” came from the dice-box of criminal ingenuity and the thrower lost, there were left in the house in Peckham a couple of rivals.

One, the latest comer, “realised,” and the older and much-injured one gave information which resulted in the disclosures which had now been made public.

By the aid of “the first love” valuable goods were traced to Nottingham and others to Sheffield.

She told the detectives where to work and where to find, and she disclosed the name of her rival, Mrs. Thompson, who was asked to give her address.

Charles Peace, as we have had occasion to observe before, was by no means a man of retiring character, but in respect to audacity and assurance he was certainly able to hold his own with any of those great criminals in whose footsteps he so long and persistently followed. It must, however, be admitted that there was one bright spot in his character.

It was this: after his arrest and conviction he strove by every means in his power to prove the innocence of his wife.

It is certain that he only sought to become acquainted with those who were, in his estimation, likely to be useful to him in an emergency, and this statement has been fully borne out by the latest phase of the case.

A gentleman in Sheffield some years ago bestowed some favours on a member of the miscreant’s family, and his name and address had been treasured up, with a view to still further calls upon the benevolence that was once exercised in his behalf.

The gentleman in question was infinitely surprised one morning to receive a letter, which was directed in an unknown hand.

Tearing open the cover he saw a mass of cramped and crooked lines, which ran higgledy-piggledy over the paper, and showed that the hand which had written them might have been more familiar with the “jemmy” and the skeleton key than with the pen.

A further consideration of the document revealed that the author was either a most illiterate man, or that, to suit his own purpose, he would fain appear to be such.

The simple rules of grammar were set at defiance, and the attempts to decipher the letter were so painful that it would have been tossed impatiently aside had not the eye been caught by the signature, “Charles Peace or Ward.”

The gentleman at once made all efforts to decipher the letter, which was from no other person than the notorious Bannercross murderer, who was at that time in Newgate.

The purport of the letter was to supplicate the receiver to become bail for Mrs. Peace, who for some time had been in custody in consequence of the vast quantity of stolen property found in her possession by Inspectors Phillips and Twibell.

He coolly went on to ask that counsel should be obtained for her defence, and declared that his wife had no guilty knowledge when she received the goods, but that he forwarded them to her in order that she might convert them into money to supply her needs.

He again and again with some vehemence asserted that Mrs. Peace was an innocent woman, and that the misfortunes into which she had fallen were not attributable to any fault of her own.

It was much to Peace’s credit that he thus endeavoured to exculpate his wife, and it is pleasant to record this one good trait in his otherwise debased and odious character; but he made a fatal mistake in forming a connection with the other lady of his establishment.

Mrs. Thompson (who may be known by some by the name of Susan Gray), the woman with whom Peace was living at the time of his arrest for the Blackheath burglaries, made a long statement as to her own career, and her connection with our hero.

As this forms part of the history of the notorious criminal the reader would be in no way pleased by our suppressing it.

The following is a tolerably accurate description of her personal appearance.

In person she is tall, and considerably above the middle height. Her figure is not robust. Her complexion is fair, and was no doubt at one time good. Her hair is dark and plentiful, and her eyes of a deep blue, what is known as a violet hue.

Mrs. Thompson, at the time I saw her, was dressed in a brown robe, trimmed with velvet to match; and wore a cloth jacket and round hat, becoming and neat. Both of these articles she removed in the course of conversation.

Her manner was at first frank and agreeable, but as our interview lasted it changed to a fitful moroseness, which was difficult to deal with. Both in person and in manner Mrs. Thompson may be said to be decidedly prepossessing――what may be called a taking woman.

She is manifestly a fairly well-educated woman, and writes a pretty, ladylike Italian hand. The statement she made to me in answer to questions and in course of conversation was as follows:――

MRS. THOMPSON’S PERSONAL HISTORY.

My maiden name is Susan Gray, and I was born in the year 1842, at Nottingham. My parents are very respectable people, and carry on a small business in that town. I am heartily sorry to have brought this disgrace upon them.

In my childhood I went to various schools in Nottingham――to the Trinity School when I was a youngster, when I was also picked out as a singer in the choir.

I continued to attend the Trinity Schools until I was eight or nine years of age, when my parents removed me to the College School.

There I remained until I was fourteen, when I went out to work.

I should not like to state where I was employed, as it might give pain to persons living, but there are those alive who know that this statement is true.

After I left my first situation I stayed at home and assisted my father in his business as his bookkeeper.

When I was about twenty-eight or twenty-nine years old, a Mr. Bailey one day came for purposes of business to my father’s house.

He had occasion to see my handwriting, and asked me if I would make out some bills for him. I obliged him, and from that day I kept his books, and did all the writing he required.

One day he asked me if I would marry him, and, in a spirit of vexation, I having had some little disturbance with a brother of mine, I said “Yes.”

We were married on the 10th of October, 1872, but three months after that I left him, on finding out what was his true character, and that it would be impossible for me to live happily with him.

I went next to live with my married sister at Nottingham.

I then worked for my living, employing my time in the manufacture of caps such as ladies and servants wear.

One Sunday evening, perhaps six months afterwards, as I was going to chapel, I met Bailey again. He stopped and spoke to me, and finally induced me to return to live with him.

I stayed with him for nearly a year, when I again left him, and since that time I have not spoken to him, except to obtain from him a weekly allowance, which I continued to enjoy until I met the man Peace, but on my becoming connected with him that allowance was forfeited.

HER FIRST MEETING PEACE.

I met Peace in January, 1877, I think it was. He came to the house where I was living at Nottingham about that time.

One evening, just as I was returning from work, when I entered the house, I saw him there. I shall never forget the impression he made upon me.

I thought him of very singular appearance, and, from what I saw at first sight, I had reason to believe that he was a one-armed man; but that appearance was only the result of one of his tricks and deceptions.

When I went in he said to the landlady, “Is this your daughter?”

I was not living with my sister then. I had left home, and had not spoken to any of my family for a long time.

In answer to Peace’s question, my landlady, after some hesitation, gave an affirmative reply.

Some conversation in subdued tones then took place between Peace and my landlady. I ought to have said that this occurred in a house in a district known as “The Marsh,” at Nottingham――a very low neighbourhood indeed. Peace had brought my landlady some boxes of cigars for sale.

She said to him, in reference to myself, “You can speak before her; she won’t say anything.”

Peace then asked her if she would go and see if she could sell the cigars.

This woman, who is since dead, was an accomplice of his, and used to assist him in the disposal of stolen property. Her name was Adamson.

She thereupon went out and sold them, and when she returned gave him 18s., of which sum he returned her 6s. by way of commission.

After that he became a constant visitor, and we always spoke of him as the one-armed old man. He not unfrequently had there his breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper, and at last it became known to me what his real character was.

At first he gave out that he was a hawker, and dealt in various little articles such as pedlars invariably travel with――spectacles, cheap finery, and jewellery, and miscellaneous goods of that description.

At last he openly showed himself in his true character――I mean as a most daring burglar. He brought things into the house which it must be evident to anybody were stolen property.

There were articles of silver plate, timepieces, watches, and even quantities of tea, sugar, and other perishable articles.

I do not know at all where he got these from; but I am perfectly satisfied that they were the proceeds of robberies or burglaries.

This knowledge was kept from me at first. I was led to suppose he was what he seemed to be――viz., a hawker, and a quiet, respectable man.

On one occasion he went out of town, saying he had to go and see his mother at Hull. By his mother he meant Hannah Peace.

Peace on that occasion took £5 to Mrs. Ward at Hull, and stayed there three weeks.

During that time he committed several robberies either at Hull or in the neighbourhood.

I know that to be the case, because when I have been in Hull he has shown me the houses at which the burglaries were committed, and he also told me that on one occasion he had to run for it, when he “fired wide” at a policeman by whom he was in imminent danger of being captured.

The property was disposed of in Hull. He returned after a while to Nottingham. I was out at the time of his return, having business in the evening, for I was still at work and getting my own living in an honest way. I was not earning very much, for work was short, but still it was honest.

On this particular night, on my return home, Mrs. Adamson said to me, “Oh, Mrs. Bailey, who do you think has come back?”

I replied I did not know, to which she made answer, “Why, the one-armed old man, and he has asked for you. He swears he will shoot you unless you go to him.”

He was in the house of our next-door neighbour, and previously to that the lady of the house came in, and said, “Oh, Mrs. Bailey, do come in, the old man’s gone mad; he wants to see you so bad. He won’t be satisfied with anyone until you go.”

When I went in I found him “drunk on Irish whiskey.”

He said, “Is that you, pet (for by that name he used to call me), I am so glad you have come, where have you been?”

I told him I had just come in from business.

He said, “Oh, I am so glad you have come. I thought you were never coming back. Are you not pleased to see me?”

I said, “Oh, particularly, very; I like you so much.”

People must not think by that that I loved him, or because he said in his last letter to me that I did. I got him home, and made him a cup of tea, after which he seemed better.

He went back to the place where he was then residing, for he did not, as I have already said, live in the house with me.

The following day he came to me very early. That day I was rather short of work.

He said he was sorry he had been in such a bad way and had behaved so rudely. He next asked me to stay at home for the day.

I said “No, that would not do. I should lose my work.”

“Never mind that,” said he. He reckoned up how much I was earning, and said, “Look here, darling! If you will promise me not to go to work again, I will pay for your board and lodging. And if Mrs. Adamson likes, I will give her 14s. a week for my board, and come and stay, but not sleep here.”

There was no accommodation for him in the house. Eventually my better feelings were overruled, and I submitted myself to him. He was invariably very kind to me, and I did not live with him unhappily.

I knew that he made a living on the proceeds of burglaries which he committed, but I never had any of the goods so stolen; and my dresses were bought for me by him.

He said one day he would have given me a splendid ostrich feather, but he had not got them, because the woman of the house at which he used to lodge would not give them up.

I said “It is very strange if you have things where you used to lodge and cannot get them if you don’t owe them anything.”

He replied “Never mind; I will buy you one.”

One Monday night he brought home a black silk dress, polonaise, and a long jacket, which he said he thought would fit me.

I told him I did not wear such things. He offered to buy me some like them, but this offer I also declined.

If I remember rightly, these things were the proceeds of a burglary at Hull, and I believe they have been given up to the police. I have since worn dresses that were stolen, but they have all been given up now to the police.

Mrs. Adamson went with him one day to look at a pawnbroker’s shop, into which she wanted him one night to force an entry, but the project never came to a head.

I believe he thought the premises whereon was so much valuable property were pretty sure to be watched.

Mrs. Adamson would have found means of getting rid of the spoil, but he never did enter the place.

I would rather not mention the name of the street in which the shop was situated.

After that he committed a great cloth robbery at one of the factories, and in the course of a week he went again and stole a great number of coats.

He brought several rolls of cloth and the coats to Mrs. Adamson, who disposed of a great portion of the property to persons whom one would have thought to be of unblemished respectability.

In June, 1877, Mrs. Adamson wanted some blankets, and Peace said he could get her any amount.

He went to get some, or, at any rate, to try, but was detected in the act of entering the house.

He made his escape through a stable and through a woodyard.

Resistance was offered by a man on the premises, but Peace pulled out his revolver and threatened to shoot him; and the man, intimidated, let him get clear away.

PEACE’S FLIGHT FROM NOTTINGHAM.

After that he was constantly concerned in robberies until the occasion of the great silk robbery, for the perpetrator of which £50 reward was offered. That was just before we came to London.

The silk was disposed of by Mrs. Adamson, and the detectives came to her house two or three days after. Ward, as I then called him, and I were sitting together. We were living together you know, sir, then――――the fact is we were in bed together. I was asleep, but the noise the officers made on entering awoke me.

I said, “Oh, Mr. G.,” that is the name of the officer who first entered the room. He stood astonished when he saw me. “Oh, Mr. G.,” I said, “let me get out of this.”

He said, “I am surprised to see you, Mrs. Bailey.”

The men turned to the convict Peace and said to him, “What is your name?”

“John Ward,” was the rather sullen reply.

“What do you do for a living?” the officer next asked.

“I hawk spectacles.”

“Where is your licence?”

“I will show it to you when I come down.”

“Get up and dress,” said one of the officers.

“I shan’t before you,” was the reply, in the same sullen tone and manner, “but I will be down directly.” They went downstairs, leaving Ward in the room.

I said to Peace, “Let me go out,” whereupon he permitted me to leave the room, and went to my next-door neighbour’s, where I was very much hurt indeed at the thought of what had happened.

They asked me what was the matter, and I said, “I do not know.”

No sooner had I left the room, than Peace slipped on his clothes, and made his escape through the window, squeezing himself between two iron bars which I am sure were not more than six or eight inches apart.

He ran across the road into the house of a neighbour, whom he got to fetch his boots for him, the detectives being at the time in the house waiting for him to come downstairs.

At last one of them shouted out, “Come, young man, you are a long time coming.”

No answer being returned, a move was made upstairs; the door was thrust open, and the discovery made that the bird had flown.

Away from the neighbour’s house he went to the Trent side, where he walked for a considerable distance.

When he considered himself safe from recognition, he entered a public-house, where he gave a man 1s. and a note for me.

The note was one asking me to go to him at the place where he was staying, but I declined, and the daughter of the house where I was living went to see him in my stead.

I sent him some money by her, and the answer he made me was that he did not care for all the detectives in England; that he would not lose sight of me; that he would not go away from the place without me.

I belonged, he said, to him, and he would not leave the neighbourhood without me.

He sent yet again, and then I met him by appointment in the evening time, and from that time we have always been together.

We came to London together, and took apartments in the Lambeth district, where he began again that career of crime which has made him so notorious.

But here again his character to the outside world was the same as it had ever been.

Though he was always regarded as a passionate man, he was at the same time looked upon as quiet, peaceable, and inoffensive, and in the highest degree respectable.

As a performer upon the violin he was anything but a mean proficient. He mixed very little with his neighbours, to my knowledge, in this locality, and but little was known of that wonderful fund of ingenuity which he undoubtedly possessed.

Often and often have I said to him what a pity it was that he had not turned his abilities to a better account than for the purpose of committing depredations upon the property of his fellow-creatures; but though his manner to me was kind, he would always jeer and scoff at my rebukes.

It would be utterly impossible for me to enumerate all the robberies he has committed. He has told me at times of his having been into as many as four and even six houses in a single night, sometimes with success, and sometimes, of course, without.

During the day it was his custom to remain in bed, preparing himself for his work in the following evening, when he would regularly go out upon his housebreaking exploits.

Sometimes he came in with a great deal of valuable plunder, consisting chiefly of silver and gold watches, rings, and various other articles. After a while I became tired of living at apartments. Some of his friends from Darnall used to stay there.

We only had one room, though it was comfortable and nicely furnished; and as I did not think it decent for them to come and live with us, I insisted upon Peace providing me with a home that I could call my own; and as he was uniformly good to me at that time, and gave me nearly everything that I asked, he promised that I should have one.

He had just previously committed a great robbery, and he asked me if I would take some money for him to some friends of his at a distance, as he dared not write letters. I consented to this, and several times I took money for him to Hull.

Hannah was living in that town at the time, and kept a shop there. I particularly wish that fact to be stated. Several times I took money to Hull, and never less than £5 at a time. Often I took a great deal more.

MRS. PEACE GOES TO LONDON.

One Sunday evening a knock came at the door at the house where we lived at Lambeth. I answered the door; and saw before me a little elderly woman.

“Does Mrs. Thompson live here?” she asked.

I replied, “Yes.”

She then said that she was Hannah.

I called to Peace and said, “Jack, you’re wanted.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Come and see,” I replied.

He did, and he found to his surprise, I believe, that it was Hannah.

“What brought you here?” he asked.

I interrupted jocosely with the remark, “I suppose the train.”

Hannah, however, said, “Didn’t you get my letter? I have been waiting two hours on the look out for you.”

I said, “We received no letter. There is no delivery here on a Sunday morning.”

Jack said, “Come in,” and she came in. Having looked round our apartment, she said, “You have a nice place here.”

Jack asked her if she would have some supper.

She replied in the affirmative, and this I had to get ready. She then began to talk about his friends and of the people whom they both knew, and I learned in the course of conversation that the shop at Hull had been given up, and that she had realised the proceeds.

Peace asked my permission to have Mrs. Ward and the boy Willie in London.

I could not do otherwise than consent, and eventually they came.

Shortly after their arrival we moved to a house at Greenwich, but as we did not live comfortable in the same house, we moved into separate habitations adjoining each other, Mrs. Ward and her son living in one, and I and Peace in the other.

Whilst we were living in this manner Peace made a journey into the provinces――a thing which he now very seldom did. Whilst upon this excursion he committed a great burglary at Southampton.

The police say that the affair took place at Portsea, but I know better; it was at Southampton. By this robbery Peace cleared something like £200――£60 of the money being in gold and silver, and the remainder in Bank of England notes.

These he found no difficulty in getting rid of. There is a place, I am told, where all Bank of England notes can be disposed of without inquiries being made, but I do not feel justified in stating where it is. That is reserved for the Bank of England authorities.

It was upon the proceeds of that excursion that he started his pony and trap, the expenses of maintaining which he found to be great.

In the first place we had no stable accommodation connected with the house we occupied. This had to be paid for, and the cost of the food for the pony was again a very considerable item.

One day I said to him:

“I don’t like this neighbourhood; let us remove from here and get where there is a stable connected with the house.”

He told me he had seen a place in the Evalina-road, Peckham, and if I would put my things on we would go and see it, which we did.

We inquired next door as to who was the agent or the landlord of the house, and the lady whom we saw kindly referred us to Mr. Smith. We looked over the house, which we both liked very much. Smith and Peace came to an agreement as to the building of a stable.

When Smith asked for references, Peace said to him:

“Oh, come down and see my house.”

Smith did so, dined with us, and went away perfectly satisfied, for a few days afterwards we received a note to say that the house was at our disposal.

Shortly afterwards we removed to the house No. 5, East Terrace, Evalina-road, Peckham, where my troubles commenced.

Mrs. Ward and the boy Willie came to live in the same house with myself and Peace, and her presence occasioned much trouble between us. When we were settled, Peace began his system of robberies again.

Oh! many a time have I, by my tears and by my entreaties, kept that man at home.

I was not allowed to move from the house without either one or the other being with me; but though they were so afraid of me, I should never have breathed a syllable against them.

I have been threatened, and he latterly at times ill-used me.

I have had a pistol pointed at my head and more than once he has threatened to kill me. Peace used occasionally to ill-use Hannah cruelly, and in a way I shudder to think about.

On one occasion he threatened me because I had pawned a silk dress, and he was afraid that it might be traced.

Racked by jealousy, a prey to remorse, and the object of constant suspicion, is it to be wondered that I at last took to drinking?

In this respect Peace was again indulgent, for though he jealously guarded me when I went out, at home I could have what I liked, and with drink I deadened my senses, and fled from my shame and despair.

Peace, as a rule, went out nightly, unless he got a good haul, when he would stop at home for a night or two.

What I call a “good haul” was when he was able to show me plenty of jewellery and silver-plate. I have know him bring home sixty-six ounces at a time. His method of procedure being this: he used to be driven of an evening to within a certain distance of the house where he intended to “work.”

If the nights were light, Peace used to be concealed all night and return home, say, between six and seven o’clock in the morning, when some one would go out and meet him.

He was very good to his horse, for I should like people to give him his due; and it was only occasionally that he worked it hard.

He often went to his destination by train or by tram, and some one would go with the trap to meet him at the hour and place appointed. When he has come home haggard and black, as I have often seen him, he has said to me, “Well, pet, have you not got a smile for me?”

According as he had been successful, or the reverse, he would say, “Well, I have not done much, my girl or, “I have done pretty well;” and then he would proceed to sort out the property, preparatory to its disposal.

I have seen him shake his head sometimes over the proceeds of the night’s takings, and say, “I don’t think they will fetch much.” Then he would tell me of his struggles and his escapes, and the number of houses he had been into.

Once he told me that, in order to get a gold watch and chain from under a lady’s pillow, he had to shift her position slightly.

The lady, he told me, muttered something fond, and turned over to her husband, whom she believed to have been the cause of the very slight disturbance occasioned.

Peace abstracted the watch and chain, and came away. I verily believe that, when such adventures occurred to him, he used to come back sick at heart, for, notwithstanding the profession which he followed, and the fact that he had always firearms which he would not have hesitated to use had he been disturbed, he was generally very kind to me, and I am sure he felt such things.

Now, as to the disposal of the property. If it was valuable, he used to send for those persons who bought of him, and obtain for them such a sum of money as he required.

I am not at liberty to say who those persons were, but Peace used to swear that if ever he was taken he would do for them, and confess as to his accomplices, but I hope I shall not be mixed up in that affair.

I always told him he would go to Blackheath once too often. I cannot say more than the persons to whom he disposed of the property were Jews.

Two I know of, certainly, and they will “Jew” me, I expect, if they get hold of me. One day I went with him while he disposed of some property.

He used to take the property wrapped up like drapers’ parcels――innocent and unsuspicious-looking enough. He used to treat me with great kindness when Mrs. Ward was nowhere about.

He seemed to be never so happy as when he could get me alone. We occupied the drawing-room floor, using the front room as a sitting-room and the back as a bedroom, the breakfast-room below being my private sitting-room or boudoir, and the rest of the house being devoted to our lodgers.

The care of Peace’s animals, of which, by the way, he was extremely fond, devolved upon myself.

It would be as well, I think, to say what they were, as the collection was heterogenous.

There were ten guinea pigs, every one of which I gave away when he was taken; a goat, two cats, two Maltese terriers, and a cockatoo; and in addition to these, Mrs. Ward kept a Maltese dog, a parrot, a dog, and four pigeons.

When Peace went out at night to work he always took with him a revolver, a “jemmy,” a sharp knife, and various-sized screws wherewith to fasten the doors of rooms in which he was “working,” so as to ensure his being able to thoroughly ransack them without being disturbed; but he never took skeleton keys, for he was so skilful that he would take out the panel of a door almost noiselessly and with great rapidity.

When the police caught him they caught the cleverest thief and the cleverest beast that I should think there ever was in human form.

Here, Mrs. Thompson, as I shall continue to call her (that being the name by which she is best known), produced to me an old pair of Peace’s trousers.

In addition to the usual side pockets, they were fitted with pockets behind on a level with the hip, and in these receptacles he used, she told me, to stow away his revolver, and whatever instruments he had to take with him.

The inside of the trousers on the left-hand side was filled with a piece of oilskin or glazed cloth, to prevent the iron from chafing the burglar’s skin.

Mrs. Thompson also showed me how, by turning in his left foot and by bending up his make-believe arm towards his shoulder, the little man used to assume deformity.

I also obtained from her a description of a burglar’s stick, as she called it, which Peace found useful in climbing, and an instrument still more remarkable which, she said he possessed, as a kind of portable step ladder of seventeen steps, which he was able to fold into so small a compass that he could go out with it underneath his coat without attracting attention.

It was provided with hooks, for the purpose of fastening to walls and window ledges, but she said he never used it, owing, I suppose, to the fact that it was a clumsy apparatus to affix noiselessly.

After that she continued her narrative as follows:――

Peace never went out without leaving me with a revolver which, I dare say, I should have the courage to use had occasion presented. He had four revolvers altogether, and the three he left at home I destroyed, when I found he had been taken. Yes, as you suggest, I sank them. When he came to London he ceased to appear as a one-armed man, except in the presence of a man whose name I will not mention.

PEACE’S CAPTURE――DISPOSAL OF PROPERTY.

When we saw in the papers that he had been taken Mrs. Ward cried out, “Oh, my poor Charlie――my poor Charlie! I must go――I dare not stay here; Willie, you must go too.”

I then asked her, “And what is to become of me then?”

“Oh,” she said, “You are young; you can fight your own battle.”

She was for selling everything, but I objected to my furniture being sold, as I thought I might be able to get a living by letting apartments.

My rooms were well furnished, though I had no carpets, and Jack bought every stick that was in them. We divided all the money that was in the house, about £5, and sold the trap, harness, cushions, and rug for £8, though he had given £14 for the trap alone.

It does not matter to whom they were sold, because the man who bought them did not know at that time that we were other than very respectable people, and I should not like to expose him as having had dealings with us.

Hannah took all the moveables. We divided the ready money, and parted.

I was very firm about the furniture, which Jack said he had bought to be my own. If I liked, he said, he would buy me more.

I was to have had a piano on the 14th December last, as a birthday present.

Heigho! I cannot help feeling that I have made a great mistake. It has blotted my life; but there, I am not going to be sentimental any more. I am not a sentimental sort.

Mrs. Thompson then went on to state that when she found herself quite alone she had applied to a gentleman who had befriended her, and through whom she received the following letter from the wretched man in prison:――

“From John Ward, “A prisoner in H.M. Prison, Newgate, November 5, 1878.

“My dearly beloved Wife,

“Oh! do forgive me for what I have brought on myself, and the disgrace upon you. Oh! have mercy on me all of you, and do forgive me for my drunken madness and do all you can for me on my trial, which I think will be about the 18th November, so, my dear wife, do have pity upon me and do your very best for me, for I think that you may do me a great deal of good, that is by doing just as I tell you to do. You must go and tell Mr. ―――― that I do very much want to see him at once about him coming to speak as to my character. I want to see Mr. ―――― to see if he will come to speak for me, and I want you to go with Mr. ―――― to Mr. ―――― to see if he will come forward to speak to my dealing with him in musical instruments, and tell him that I only want him to come forward and speak the truth of me. My dear wife, you must also find everyone of my letters about my income, and also every invoice about my dealing in musical instruments, and give them to Mr. ―――― for him to take along with his letters to my solicitor, now, at once, and also let them have some of my cards. My darling dear wife, this must really be attended to at once.

“My dear wife, I feel that there is one great favour, that this has been my first offence, and never having been in prison before, so that by your doing your best for me, and with the help of God, hope it may be better for me than may be expected, and as soon as ever this comes to your hands you must come direct to see me, and never mind the disgrace of your having come to see me in a prison, for I must really see you, so do come to see me, and I want to see my solicitor for something very particular, so that you must tell him to come and see me, and give my dear love to Mr. and Mrs. ―――― and also to my dear friends.

“I am, your ever loving husband, “(Signed) JOHN WARD.”

This gentleman, as Mrs. Thompson further went on to state, had been engaged with Peace in the getting out of a patent for raising sunken vessels. To him she applied when Peace was taken, she stating that he had left her and gone off with another woman.

He took her into his house, and under his persuasion she disclosed what she knew of him――not, she said, for her own protection, for she would willingly have been taken herself, but because it was represented to her that she must forward the ends of justice.

I then tried to obtain from her some particulars of the past life of Peace, but as to these she was extremely reticent.

“How did he really escape on the night of the murder?” I asked.

Mrs. Thompson replied――

“I have never breathed this to any one. I have had people try and try, and try over again.

“According to what he has told me, he climbed over a wall opposite Mr. Dyson’s house, and walked deliberately over a field.

“He has told me the name, but I do not remember. I got a lot out of him through his dreams, but he never told me he had committed murder. He said it was something else he had to run away for.

“He went direct to his aunt’s house. Having first cut off his beard, he dressed himself in a fustian suit, and went across country, committing little depredations to help him on his journey, for he had no money until he arrived at Bradford.

“He did not personate a one-armed man then; that device he did not carry into effect until he was at Hull. He took a room at Bradford and kept two women there, who used to assist him in burglaries.

He has often boasted to me of his achievements in that town and others, and he seemed to find a particular sort of pride in the fact that in one case it took him and one of his accomplices three days to remove some things from a furnished house which the tenants had temporarily left, and which, so far as articles of value were concerned, he literally cleared out.

“He has told me a good deal about his earlier career, but I can’t recall it to mind just now. First of all, he told me he was a sort of worker in the iron trade; that ever since he was fourteen he was a thief. Sometime between 1852 and 1854 he resided with Mrs. Peace at Manchester. He was brooght up for trial on a charge of burglary about that time, and Mrs. Peace had to sell the things in the house they lived in――most of them being stolen――to procure him professional advice upon his trial. He was committed for seven years, and while he was in prison he communicated with her, and always know of her whereabouts.

“He managed to write more than the police officials knew of, for he had a way of pasting up his letters which he has shown me. When he had regained his liberty, which he told me was in 1858, he rejoined Hannah and resumed his old courses. When he went out on his exploits he wore stockings over his boots to conceal his footmarks.”

Mrs. Thompson made various other statements respecting the notorious man who was the subject of our conversation, but they were not calculated to add much to the existing stock of information concerning him.

Either she did not know much of Peace before she went to live with him, or she did not care to make any disclosures; but, as our interview lasted for something over five hours, she must have been tired and her memory confused.

[Sidenote: No. 84.]

I was not such a barbarian as not to have offered her some refreshment during that period. She took it in the form of steak and onions, rinsed down with brandy and water.

“When we parted we were the best friends in the world; she shook me warmly by the hand, and her last remark was, “I have my own character to redeem, and if I have my health and strength I hope to do it.”

The foregoing is a faithful chronicle of the account given by the woman Thompson.

We have on more than one occasion given the reader an insight of the mode in which Peace disposed of his stolen property. He did not, however, confine his business transactions in this respect to one receiver, or “fence.”

This has been already demonstrated. He had several confederates to whom he disposed of the goods he had so dexterously purloined, but in most cases he had to part with them at what drapers are accustomed to term “a ruinous sacrifice.”

This is invariably the case with burglars and robbers of every description. The receiver has always the best of the bargain.

The property must be got rid of, and this the “fence” knows perfectly well.

Peace, in addition to the two other Israelites already introduced to the reader had a Petticoat-lane confederate, who during his London career bought largely of him. This personage was interviewed by one of the special correspondents of the press. We subjoin a graphic account of his visit.

“That’s my name, and you’re quite right about my keeping a tobacco shop in this lane, and about my buying and selling ’most all kinds of old stores.”

This was the reply given to a comprehensive interrogatory addressed by a Sheffield reporter to a middle-aged keeper of a public-house in Petticoat-lane, whose name indicated that he was “of the order of Melchisedeck,” and who, rumour said, knew something of the manner in which the convict Peace had invested some of the money it is supposed he must have been possessed of shortly before his arrest.

If the police with their finished machinery and well-trained inquisitors have been able to discover nothing, it was hardly to be expected that the astute Hebrew dealer would allow himself to be trapped into any prejudicial admissions by a newspaper emissary, even though he was simply charged with the high and philanthropic duty of affording that dealer opportunity for clearing from his character aspersions which had been unjustly cast upon it.

Having informed the “old stores” man of the charitable nature of his mission, said the “special”:――

“Now, I suppose you never knew or had any dealings with Peace?”

“Me, dealings with Peace! Why, I never heard or seen ’im, except when I was bound over to keep it for six months, ’cause I give a cove a knock in the eye.”

At this sally the rowdy-looking congregation in the bar who had evinced a lively interest in the interview, delivered themselves of a unanimous guffaw. The special smiled blandly, and went on:

“I suppose you have seen what the papers have been saying about your supposed connection with Peace?”

“Oh, yes; I’ve seen it all. It’s all wrong. I’m quite innocent o’ this thing. Besides, it aint nothing to do with me. It aint me they mean. It’s the other man with the same name that keeps the ‘knell’ down the lane. If they wrote about me I should ’a took it up; but as they didn’t, I shall not trouble about it.”

“Glad to find you’re so clear of this nasty business; but have you heard much about the rumours here in the lane?”

“No; nothing except what there’s bin in the newspapers.”

“Ah! then I think I’ll call on the man at the ‘knell,’ and hear what he’s got to say.”

“Yes, that’ll be ’sgood a thing as you can do,” said the store dealer; and as the special passed the threshold sounds of merry cachinnation reached him from the idlers at the bar.

Trudging through the snow-slush, with pipe in mouth as an antidote to the many-flavoured, fever-charged atmosphere, the interviewer in a few minutes found himself outside the “knell.”

The proprietor having been inquired for, he was summoned from upstairs, and in about five minutes presented himself. He was a very young man. He was in his shirt sleeves.

He was short, but had good shoulders and breadth of chest, and his face, which had a puffiness betokening free application to the pewter pot, was adorned with a nose off one side of which the skin had been almost entirely scraped. A smile was as foreign to him apparently as vegetation to an iceberg.

The interviewer made no attempt to smile upon this young and promising vendor of Old Tom. He did not make another.

There was not the remotest smirk of sympathy or approbation in the countenance of his vis-à-vis.

He listened stoically to a few introductory original observations by the special, such as, “Very unexpected fall of snow this.”

“Quite an old-fashioned winter.”

“Spring will soon be here now, though.”

But on learning the nature of the caller’s business he was no longer passive.

His eyes brightened and jumped a bit, and he became loquacious, but continued cynical.

“I haven’t got nothing to say about the matter. All I know is that I don’t know nothing about Peace or about his money, or his loan society, or anything else. Besides, the newspapers know all about the case already. If they knows s’much, what do they want to send to me about it for?”

“Well, the fact is,” answered the special, “the function of a newspaper is to put the public in possession of reliable information. Reports which compromise your honour have been given currency, and although minute inquiry has been made no particle of foundation has been found for them. What I want is to get hold of the facts necessary to put the public au courant with things as they really are, and at the same time afford a much-injured party a means of retrieving his good name.”

The short man with the broad shoulders, stuck his hands in his breeches pockets, spread his legs, swung his head to and fro, lifted his eyelashes, and remarked, “Ah! you do――do you?”

Then he turned round to his wife and inquired of her in surly tones why she had called him down, and muttered something to her not at all complimentary to newspaperdom or its labourers.

“Well, look here, Mister. I don’t care for what the newspapers say. Let ’em find out what they can. I aint got nothin’ to say. All I knows is that if the papers says anything about me they’ll be sorry for it, that’s all.”

“Ah! but they have done so already. They have mentioned both your name and that of your house.”

“Well, what if they have? What good have they done?” rejoined the innkeeper, and then he continued, “I’ve been bothered enough over this matter already, and I don’t want to be bothered any more.” So saying he left the special in dudgeon.

The rumours which have been afloat anent Peace’s confederates in Petticoat-lane have been sufficiently weighty to justify a descent by the police on the houses of the suspected parties.

Nothing criminating was, however, forthcoming, and the probability is that, wanting divulgence by Peace, the public will remain ignorant what has become of whatever money he has stored.

Inspired by the extraordinary statements circulated at this time as to the enormous amount of property alleged to have been disposed of by Peace, and by the reported “finds” of hidden spoil in London, the Daily Telegraph writes:――

“For a precedent to the curious museum of plunder now in police custody at Bethnal-green we must go back to the days of that very eminent ‘fence,’ Jonathan Wild.

“The real character of this remarkable scoundrel has been unfortunately obscured, first in Fielding’s masterly ‘Jonathan Wild the Great,’ which is fundamentally a satire upon the statesmen of his time; and next in Mr. Ainsworth’s foolish and mischievous romance of ‘Jack Sheppard.’

“We must peruse the straightforward and dispassionate Old Bailey sessions papers to study Jonathan in his true aspect as a cunning, adroit, and not ill-educated rascal, who first reduced robbing to a system, and organised a detailed scheme for receiving and disposing of stolen goods.

“He started in business on a very small scale as the landlord of a little alehouse in Cock-alley, Cripplegate, where he surreptitiously purchased the ‘takings’ of the juvenile pickpockets from Moorfields.

“At night he would perambulate the brandy shops of Fleet-street, and traffic with the women who had contrived to rob drunken people of their watches or pocket-books.

“Growing bolder with success, it is on positive criminal record that he convened a meeting at his house of the most notorious thieves in London, and represented to them that if they took their booty to such of the pawnbrokers as were known not to be troubled with scruples of conscience, they――the thieves――would scarcely receive a fifth of the value of the goods which they had stolen; whereas if they could agree to bring their prizes to him he would make much more liberal terms for them.

“The penalty for failing to constitute Jonathan Wild their receiver-general was simply death. Bad faith was immediately resented by the denunciation of the thief to justice; and unless he could come to an arrangement with Wild the chances were overwhelming in favour of the robber going to Tyburn.

“Thus Jonathan Wild was not only a preceptor of thieves and a ‘putter-up’ of robberies, but also a receiver of stolen goods, and a thieftaker to boot.

“Removing from Cock-alley to a house in the Old Bailey, he found at length that he had accumulated an embarrassingly heavy stock of stolen property, and he absolutely purchased a sloop in order to transport his plunder to Holland and Flanders.

“The command of this vessel was entrusted to one Roger Johnson, a noted river pirate; and Wild’s factor at Ostend, and general Continental agent, was a superannuated thief called Randall.

“The sloop――her name, unfortunately, is not mentioned in the records of rascality――having discharged her cargo at Ostend, brought back to England such commodities as lace, wine, and brandy, which were landed at night, and, it is almost needless to say, without the custom-house authorities being troubled in the matter.

“Smuggling and dealing in stolen goods are operations possibly, no longer carried on in conjunction; still, who shall say that our modern Jonathan Wilds have not their favourite lines of steamers――it is not now necessary that they should buy ships of their own――and that they have not their factors and agents at Continental ports and in Continental cities?

“Many thousands of pounds’ worth of jewellery and bank-note――to name only two sorts of plunder――are stolen every year.

“There must be a mart for this precious merchandise, a mart the whereabouts of which must be perfectly familiar to professional burglars and thieves.

“Bank robbers and pickpockets have been known coolly to admit that the market price for a stolen five-pound note is three pounds ten shillings. Who buys stolen bank notes at this rate? Who melts down the stolen plate? Who wrenches the stolen gems out of their settings? Who sends the unset jewels to Amsterdam and elsewhere?

“If the police are unable to find out the wholesale dealers in stolen property, and trust to chance to make such a haul as they made the other day in the Commercial-road, might it not be expedient to allow the next professional burglar we catch to turn Queen’s evidence against the receivers?

“No terms can be made with a murderer, and Peace must be left to the gallows; but most useful revelations might be obtained from a professional housebreaker permitted to turn approver.

“Such a witness, if his evidence proved trustworthy, should receive――strictly or once in away――a full pardon.

“Convicts sentenced to penal servitude are not apt to be very grateful for a partial remission of their term of durance; and, indeed, in the case of Mr. Harry Benson, the Government, it appears, does not conceive that it is under any obligation at all to the convict for having made an exhibition of the old detective force in its full iniquity.”

In tracing the criminal career of a desperate character like Peace, it is curious to note how prone to wrong-doing he was from his earliest youth. His first theft is thus described:――

An apple of beautiful hue tempted Eve to her first sin, and it is said that fruit of a similar name first induced Peace to commit a serious theft. In the year 1830 he lived close to the orchard of the Rev. Joseph Smith, whose residence was known as the Plantation.

“The rev. gentleman was the pastor of the flock who worshipped at the Nether Chapel in Norfolk-street. But the ‘Plantation’ on Langsett-road had a different prospect to what is now the case.

“Then it was in the country really; on the banks behind the houses were farms and orchards; beneath the house were meadows sloping to the River Don, which was then alive with fish, trout being plentiful in the waters, and at times a salmon or sea-trout strayed into these higher regions from the Ouse.

“The railway connecting Sheffield with Manchester had not made its black streak across the opposite Old Park-hill, and a pleasant place was the residence of the Independent minister of those days.

“Behind the good man’s house was a goodly orchard, and within the enclosure fruit trees which carried crops of heavy, golden fruit.

“The lads of the neighbourhood viewed those crops with envy, and one of the leading spirits among them was Charles Peace, a well-instructed lad, fearless, venturesome, and domineering in spirit.

“He planned the robbery of the pastor’s orchard, but being inexperienced, was captured――whilst in an apple tree.

“He had not learnt in those days the wiles and deceits which have since come so naturally to him.

“But he had not to cope with detectives, inspectors, constables, and other professional men, who render life obnoxious to a thief. His captor was actually the parish beadle.

“Had that man lived until these days how proudly he might have said――

“‘I caught Peace!’

“But the youthful aspirant to future honours did not obtain the reward he should have had for his speculation.

“He bargained for apples, and instead was taken before the wrathful owner of the fruit, Mr. Smith. The beadle shortly afterwards had a task to undertake which left no mark in local history, but did on the young man who stole the apples.

“Such was the commencement in ‘active’ life of him who now occupies a cell in Newgate, from thence to be taken to answer a record of crime the which has not been paralleled by Claude Duval, Thomas King, Richard Turpin, or others of that ilk.

“Those men had not the telegraph to compete with, yet failed; Peace had the widespread information of modern days to watch, and yet for a time succeeded.

“The marauders of the old shool, above mentioned, defeated justice for a time because on their thoroughbred horses they could outride the messengers of justice.

“Peace had to fight against the magnificent apparatus of science by which information is flashed across a thousand miles in a second of time, and yet he succeeded in baffling all who sought to track him.”

The blow that had fallen on Peace and his domestic circle was a terrible one, and in a short space of time, after his conviction, the house in the Evalina-road was tenantless.

A visit to the locality is thus described by an eye-witness:――

“Peckham approached from Greenwich, with a suggestion of sunshine in the sky, looked much prettier to-day. There are some goodly houses along Queen’s-road, but as one climbs the hill to Peace’s part, the houses taper away till long lines of modest brick buildings meet the eye. Where Peace lived may be called the tail-end of Peckham.

“His house is still to let, and though nobody that I can hear of has been to visit it――except members of the Press――the gentleman who has the letting of it thinks he will get a couple of pounds extra now that it has sprung into notoriety.

“Well, he may. I don’t know so much about the peculiarities of the Peckham people; but on this point I am inclined to agree with the lady who lives next door. She wants to let her front room, and has ‘Apartments’ in the window.

“That card appeals in vain to the eligible young gentlemen who usually want comfortable chambers, and she is afraid that respectable people will not care to come into such a ‘dreadful’ neighbourhood.

“She considers it a bad day for her when she came there, which she did a week before Peace was found out. Indeed, it was from Peace she had the keys to look over the house. An ominous introduction truly.

“Her idea is that before that house lets again £2 will have to be taken off, instead of being put on, the rent. I agree with her, for I can hear of nobody who has a good word for the house, except perhaps the postman, who told me, as we trudged together through the mud, that ‘it wasn’t a bad place in his view of it. The Thompsons did not trouble him much――they had very few letters.’

“A neighbour says that when the Thompsons came their house was a treat to look at, Mr. Thompson filling all the front windows with choice and costly flowers, which he carefully tended and watered with his own hands.

“People at Peckham are beginning to be a trifle impatient with inquisitive strangers who want to know about their most famous character. On my first visit to Peckham I looked in on the gentleman who combines the duties connected with her Majesty’s mails with dispensing flour and other household necessities to her Majesty’s females.

“I asked him if he knew and could tell me where ‘Mr. Smith’ lived――the party who had let the house to Mr. Thompson? This gentleman shut me up very sharp.

“‘I know where Mr. Smith lives, but I don’t think I would be justified in telling you, as you would only be bothering him like the rest.’

“I left that establishment with a feeling that my introduction to the natives of Peckham was not encouraging. A few yards further on I saw Mr. Smith’s address ln the windows of half-a-dozen empty houses, the notices inviting people to apply to ‘Mr. Smith, Ryde Villas, St. Mary’s-road.’

“I accepted the invitation, and found Mr. Smith a most obliging and very communicative gentleman.

HOW PEACE WAS FOUND OUT.

“I find the police scout the idea that the man ‘Ward’ was discovered through the jealousy of Mrs. Thompson, the younger of the ‘housekeepers’ at Peckham, and the professed wife of Peace.

“Those who had to do with the case told me that they had no information whatever from Mrs. Thompson, who never communicated with them, but disappeared as she sniffed danger.

“‘How then,’ I asked, ‘did it occur to you to connect the Blackheath burglar with the Bannercross murderer?’

“‘Well,’ was the reply, ‘we can scarcely tell you. We could not get our evidence so complete as we could wish, and we were obliged to wait for a time. That waiting served us well. Trifles, mere trifles, such as we can scarcely repeat to you, made us believe that this man was ‘somebody.’ We watched those who came about our place at Greenwich; then we watched those who came about Newgate. We got, after great trouble, a hint or two; we acted upon what we received, and were ultimately able to connect the man ‘Ward’ with Peckham; then from Peckham we worked Nottingham and Sheffield, and then the case gradually worked itself into shape.’

“For the police it was a lucky thing Mrs. ‘Ward’ took those two boxes to Sheffield.

“That, I believe, was really the first indication that Blackheath and Bannercross were connected.

“It suddenly flashed across one of the Greenwich division that this mysterious man, who called himself a ‘half-caste,’ resembled in every respect except one the man so urgently ‘wanted’ at Sheffield.

“That exception was his hair, particularly the absence of beard and whiskers. Height, breadth, eyes, manner of talking, singularity of fingers, and wide, straddling walk――to quote the police description, ‘walking with his legs apart’――all tallied. Put beard and whiskers upon that face, and it was――Peace.

“Inspector Bonny went to Nottingham; Inspector Phillips to Sheffield.

“Phillips was shown a portrait of Peace. He was confirmed in his suspicions. The photograph resembled the man in Newgate so closely that he had no doubt as to the identity.

“The rest of the story you know. How Phillips and Twibell found the property at Darnall in the possession of Mrs. Peace, how the property was identified as part of the proceeds of the Blackheath burglaries, how Police-constable Morris came to London and identified Peace in Newgate, and (as I telegraphed to you) how the Treasury, appreciating the importance of the case in the light of the identification, undertook the prosecution on its own account.

“To Police-officer Robinson undoubtedly belongs in the first instance the credit of capturing Peace. He unquestionably risked his life in his courageous encounter with the desperate convict, and well deserves such recognition as has been suggested by your correspondent.

“Let it not be forgotten, however, that Robinson’s share in the transaction terminated there. Without him nothing would have been done; yet after Peace’s bullet pierced his arm and the two constables came to his help, Robinson dropped the thread, which was picked up by Inspector Phillips and Inspector Bonny.

“These officers have been indefatigable in their exertions to bring home the graver charge against Peace. Day by day, and night after night they have laboured, and many a night since the memorable evening when Peace was caught in the act, they have slept not, neither have they rested, so anxious have they been to close once for all the career of the dreadful villain whose escape made everybody so uneasy.

“But it should not be forgotten (observed a writer at the time) if testimonials are spoken of, to remember these two officers.

“Robinson was a brave fellow, and acted like a hero; yet if Bonny and Phillips had not used their brains, and set their highly-trained wits to work, ‘John Ward’ might have been convicted of the Blackheath burglary and the shooting of the intrepid Robinson, and he might have been sentenced to penal servitude for life; but in Sheffield the Bannercross murder would have been regarded as an undiscovered crime.

“To Bonny and Phillips belong the credit of proving that Ward was Peace, that Blackheath meant Bannercross, that burglary was overshadowed by the bigger crime of murder. A wave of relief swept over Sheffield when it was known that Peace had really been captured at last. To Phillips and Bonny was due the fact that he was thought of at all as the man who shot Dyson two years before.

THE TROUBLES OF THE PEACES.

“There is really no peace for the Peaces. Now that Charles Peace, the man of Bannercross, has been caught there are dozens of persons who are anxious to tell all they know about him and his family.

“Several of them have got it into their heads that there is only one family of Peace, the head and front of which now awaits in Newgate the reward of his desperate misdeeds.

“Thus it comes about that several most excellent people are getting uneasy about the name they bear, particularly when they find it connected with some of the early doings of “the insignificant-looking” gentleman who has recently sprung into so much significance.

“The latest instance is that of a family of Peace who lived some time ago in Philadelphia――not the Philadelphia which figures in Sacred Writ, but the exceedingly secular locality of that name which figures in Sheffield.

“Mr. Charles Peace, of George-street, Philadelphia, has no connection whatever with the Charles Peace of the many aliases, burglar and murderer; neither is it right that his son, who also bears the (in these days) somewhat burdensome name of Charles Peace, should be associated with the person who has proved himself so eligible a candidate for the last attentions of the law.

“It is certainly a trifle too bad, even when people are thirsting for every particle of information about that extraordinary character, that the respectable member of a respectable firm of file manufacturers in Pea-croft, or his son who earns his livelihood in an honourable way in the file trade at Rotherham, should have themselves brought up in public as connected in even the remotest degree with the ruffian who had the misfortune to call himself by their name.

“So that, once for all, readers will understand the Philadelphia Peace and the Bannercross Peace are wide as the poles asunder.

“This incident reminds one of the trouble and suspicion to which many people were put shortly after the murder.

“Peace, it will be remembered, was described as a ‘little, insignificant-looking man, with grey hair.’

“There was at once an eager look-out kept for people who answered that somewhat general description. It was a bad time for ‘little insignificant-looking men,’ and as our local world has a good many people who come fairly within that description, several estimable and other citizens were frequently the object of glances which were not at all flattering in their meaning.

“Two elderly gentlemen were pointed out as greatly resembling the notorious Peace, and enjoyed a reputation on that account only a shade less comfortable than other gentlemen in this district, of most substantial proportions, who up to a short time ago were repeatedly referred to as remarkably like the Claimant.

“Even when a more specific description of Peace appeared mistakes were freely made, though not with the provoking results of a double apprehension, as in the case of that poor tramp at Barrow-in-Furness, who was subsequently apprehended at Hexham, and who complained bitterly――and not unnaturally――to our reporter who interviewed him in prison, that he should have been arrested a second time ‘when the police had already let him go once.’

“This poor fellow, to put matters right once for all, made a pilgrimage to Sheffield and called upon the Chief Constable, who, of course, had no more to do with his arrest at Barrow-in-Furness and Hexham than the poor tramp had to do with the arrest of the real Peace by Police-constable Robinson in that garden at Blackheath.”

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Chapter CLI

A VISIT TO WHITECHAPEL――THE STREET OF WOMEN――A MOTHER SEEKING HER SON.

We must leave Charles Peace for awhile to gather up the tangled threads of our story, and follow the fortunes of other characters who have figured in this “strange eventful history.”

The capture and conviction of our hero, together with the remarkable concurrence of circumstances connected with the history of the most accomplished and desperate burglar of modern times, created an amount of public interest which was altogether of an exceptional character.

This interest was not confined to one class of the populace. It permeated throughout every conceivable class from the highest to the lowest, and as a natural consequence the criminal portion of the community were deeply interested in the fate of one who had proved himself to be so much ahead of any of his compeers in crime.

Peace was looked upon as a sort of hero. Many admired him, and not a few pitied him. His adventurous life, his daring exploits, found favour in the eyes of rogues and thieves of a lesser degree, and his exploits formed the theme of conversation among numberless sections of the lawless portion of the thieving fraternity of London.

We must take a glance at one of the haunts of the dissolute and depraved. It is Saturday night, and the hour is ten o’clock. All London is alive, for Saturday night is the market-time of the poor.

The streets of Whitechapel presented remarkable scenes. Huge crowds passed down them, and bought their Sunday dinners from the butchers’ stalls upon the pavement, where joints of raw meat were suspended upon hooks, and which were lighted by pipes of blazing gas. Others crowded into the fried-fish shops and supped ravenously on rank plaice swimming in oil. Others resorted to the taverns, which were adorned with portraits of pugilists, and regaled themselves with Old Tom for which Whitechapel is so famous.

Close to one of these streets, where rioting and business seemed to go hand in hand, there was a narrow lane, silent as death. Gigantic warehouses rising on each side seemed to shut out heaven.

A man was walking down the lane――his appearance was dejected and his eyes were bent on the ground.

When he had come to the end of the lane he dived into a dark alley, which brought him out close to a railway arch.

Hollowed in the side of this arch was a hole like the mouth of a cavern, and running under the railway supported by black pillars was a street.

This was “the street of women,” described in the early portion of this work; it was the place where Laura Stanbridge led the boy, Alf Purvis, on a dark night.

Our pedestrian walked along the street, and the women who stood at their doors brawny, repulsive, and naked as the ogresses of old, did not molest him even with their tongues.

They looked upon him with kindness, for they had heard that he was the friend and companion of the celebrated Charles Peace, the burglar, and hence it was that they gazed at him in silence, with something like a feeling of reverence.

He turned down a yard and stood opposite to a house dilapidated and apparently untenanted, but from the cellar windows of which came shouts of laughter and streams of light.

He entered by the same means as those previously described, and having gained the kitchen, which was filled with thieves and beggars, sat down in a corner by himself.

There were several men seated round a table; at a little distance from the rest a tall pale man, who was clad in the dirtiest rags, but who, nevertheless, could afford to drink gin――and doses in large quantities――was speaking.

“It’s the greatest pity in the world as that gang got broke up by the beaks; they were an honour to our English gemmen――they were an honour to our land.”

“Ye――es,” said a man with a white comforter tied over his mouth, “ye――es; so I thought till they got nabbed like that there in the country. That was a pitiful job――old hands like that goin’ time arter time on the same beat, and almost on the same lay, with the whole vorld, as one might say, before ’em. It’s jolly hard――that’s what it is.”

“I tell you how it happened,” observed another of the company, who was smoking a short pipe, “the whole country laid awake at night a watching for ’em.”

“There was somethink under the rose, depend on’t,” said a red-faced man in a green cutaway, and his whiskers cropped in that peculiar fashion which stamps the habitué of the race-course. “Smoucher and Jim were both high-flyers and knew how to make their books as well as any going; but there’s days on which even the knowin’ ones gets taken in, though not so often as the knowing ones would have you believe. Well, it’s a pity as how they were copped. They’d never have gone into the neighbourhood if it had not ha’ bin for the Dandy.”

“Vell, there now, I hope as how he aint a goin’ to blame Alf for it,” said the man with the comforter.

“In course not. Who says I do?”

“Nobody as I knows on.”

“I remember,” said the pale man, “the first night as the Dandy came to this ’ere blessed crib, and sat at this ’ere table and drank Max with Lorrie Stanbridge. She brought him here. I remember it well enough. Why, he was only a boy then, but his eyes were as sharp as needles, and his long white fingers seemed a ’itching for the game even then.”

“Ah,” soliloquised the gentleman with the white comforter, “Vat a pictur that hand vos to be sure!”

“I was made a cadger on that night in the little room upstairs. The ‘Smoucher’ used to have it then, just as Lorrie has it now; but as I was a coming out who should I see but these two――Lorrie and the little bloke? I guessed as how he was to be ‘chanted the play’ too, but I didn’t guess as how that smock-faced kid was a goin’ to turn out as he has.”

“I never liked the ‘Smoucher,’” said the sporting man, “though I’ve often been on the ‘flimsy-kiddy’ and the ‘ring dodge’ down at Ascot with him. Still, I’m sorry he was made a target on, which, for sartain I am he has bin.”

“But, Jim,” said the man with the muffled mouth, “he vas a good sort. S’posin there vas any nasty or ticklish vork to be done on the fly, sitch as breaking a bobby’s head, he vas alvays ready and foremost to do it himself, instead of trying to put it on his pals.”

“Breaking a bobby’s head!” exclaimed another of the party; “‘taint so easily done. It’s all very well for you chaps to talk, but I say it aint so easy. But, Lord love yer, there aint anybody here as is fit to hold a candle to Charley Peace――he was the man to knock over the bobbies.”

“There aint no manner of doubt of that there,” said the pale man; “not a shadow of doubt. Charley was a wonder.”

“That he was, and no flies,” said Cooney, for he it was who had introduced the name of our hero. “He was allers straight and square with me; I aint got a word to say against him. You chaps here talk about the ‘Smoucher’ and the ‘Dandy’――why they were fools compared to Peace.”

“I dare say they were, or indeed are,” observed the man with the pipe; “but yer see, I never happened to fall across Peace. He was a bloke who, from what I’ve been told, kept hisself to hisself. Vell, I don’t care about blokes of that kidney. ‘Live and let live,’ that’s my motter, and do as ye’d be done by.”

“Well, and who says Charlie wasn’t one of that sort? He allers acted fair and square with his pals.”

“Ah, he was a wonder,” exclaimed the man with the muffler. “He stands alone――there aint a bloke as can come up to ’im. Pity he’s been nabbed, ’cause ye see he was a stunner in every way――leastways, I’m only a speakin’ from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, you are right enough,” returned Cooney. “You may take your davy about Charlie. You won’t find such another throughout England.”

“I’m precious sorry for him, poor chap. I don’t know as I was ever so broken down in the whole course of my life as when I heer’d of his conviction, ’cause you see he proved himself to be a downright good sort, as far as I am concerned.”

“But yer aint seen much of him of late, have yer?” inquired the pale-faced man.

“No, not much; yer know he was like hide-and-seek, and he kept as much to himself as possible; but, law, he wasn’t to blame for that, seeing what were agen him, he worked on the quiet, all to himself as yer might say.”

“And didn’t care about trusting anybody――eh?”

“Right you are, old man,” said Cooney, with a nod. “But for all that, I wouldn’t mind doing a seven years’ stretch if I could see him out of limbo, but Lord bless us, there aint much chance of that now. They’ve got poor old Charlie pretty tight, and he’s done for.”

“Will be tried for the Bannercross murder, I ’spose?”

“That’s their game――so I’ve been told.”

“Ah!” said the pale-faced man, “this is how we lose our friends; the best on ’em get nabbed, them as we care most about go the first. It’s the way of the world.”

“Who’s that old woman over there, talking to Bandy-legged Bill?” suddenly exclaimed the sporting man.

“Can’t say,” said the man in the white muffler. “She comes here to see Bill, and seldom speaks to any one else.”

“But who is she? Don’t you know her name?”

“Oh, yes――she’s known as Mother Grover.”

“Thank you for the information. I am about as wise as ever. Who is she, and what brings her here?”

“She wants to know about the Dandy, wishes to find him out, so I’ve been given to understand.”

“Does she want to pinch him, the old cat?”

“Ah, no. Hark ye,” said the man with the muffler. “She’s greatly interested about the Dandy, and I’ve been told she’s his mother.”

“Oh, scissors!” exclaimed the sporting man. “His mother――eh?”

“That’s about the size of it,” ejaculated the other, with a mysterious nod. “She was a bosom friend of Lorrie’s years and years ago; but they chipped out, and my lady, I mean Lorrie of course, is a bit too much for her. Oh, there’s a mystery about the Dandy and his belongings, but I do honestly believe that yonder woman is his mother.”

“It’s a rum story, take it altogether,” cried Cooney. “That woman is for ever following upon the heels of Bill Rawton. Why I cannot tell you.”

There was a dead silence for some time after this, but the eyes of most present were directed to the corner of the apartment where the gipsy and his companion sat.

The last-named were conversing in a low tone, which was but a little above a whisper.

“You are not so callous and hardened,” said the woman, “as to be dead to all feeling for another. I ask you to find my boy. You can do so――of that I feel assured. You know Laura Stanbridge, who is his friend, or professes to be so.”

“Hold hard,” interrupted Rawton. Don’t be quite so fast, mother. I am not her friend. I know her. She has done me a good turn more than once, and I have had it in my power to return the compliment. What of that?”

“What of it? A great deal. She will listen to you, and I wish you to do me a turn. I wish you to help me to find my son.”

“I don’t believe Lorrie knows where he is, and I am quite certain that I do not, and, what is more, I don’t want to know. He’s a chap I never cared a bit about――he was a deal too uppish for my money, and thought too much of himself; so you see it ain’t at all likely that I can assist you.”

“In other words, you won’t.”

“I would if I could.”

“You can――of that I feel perfectly well assured. It was into this house, years ago,” she murmured, in a low and concentrated voice――“it was into this very house that she decoyed my poor innocent boy, and I, loving him, I knew not why――crouching on the cold stones outside――shivering under the bitter winds. But ah, woman without heart! your day shall come, and it is nigh at hand.”

“Be silent,” whispered Rawton. “They will hear you.”

“I do not care who hears me.”

“But I do. You do not know the people here so well as I do. Your life might be sacrificed if they suspected your purpose.”

“Is it wrong or wicked for a mother to strive to rescue her son from the depths of sin?”

The gipsy laughed.

“You make a jest of it――do so,” returned his companion.

“Rescue the Dandy――rescue Alf Purvis! Bah!”

A shade of sorrow passed over the features of the woman.

“Is he lost, utterly and irretrievably, then?” she inquired. “Answer me, Rawton.”

“You and I are not likely to agree upon this subject,” returned he. I must tell you frankly that he is as unprincipled as he is worthless.”

“Do you wish to drive me mad?” said Mrs. Grover.

“Certainly not. But you must not place all the faults of this young gentleman upon the shoulders of Lorrie Stanbridge.”

“Who taught him? Who brought him up as a thief? She did!”

“We will not argue that question. He proved to be a pretty good pupil, and was not good for much when she took him in hand.”

“What has she made of him? Oh, Rawton, you know but too well, although you do not choose to say. Listen to me. I am growing old, have no tie but one, it is my boy; restore him to me, and heaven will bless you. Think of the many dreary and desolate years I have passed――think of all I have suffered, and take pity on me.”

“I do pity you,” cried the gipsy. “I am sorry for you, but what’s the use of that? You cannot be benefitted by my pity or commiseration. I do not know anything about Purvis; if I did I would tell you all I knew.”

“But you can find him――I am sure you can if you set about the task with a free goodwill.”

“Ask Lorrie Stanbridge. She is the person to apply to. Alf, to the best of my belief, is abroad. He has left his country for his country’s good, that is all I know about the matter.”

“He did leave England, but he has returned――he must have returned by this time. You can aid me. Oh, Mr. Rawton, you are kindly disposed, are not sunk so low, but have, I am certain, some good left in your disposition. I am a friend of Mrs. Bourne’s, and she speaks of you as a man who is――――”

“Who is what?” cried Bill, with sudden vehemence, and interrupting the speaker. “As what? Mrs. Bourne!――do you know her?”

“Yes. Have known her for many years.”

“I never heard that――Mrs. Bourne, eh?”

“Yes, the widow of Dr. Bourne. He who committed suicide.”

“I know. There is no occasion for you to tell me about that. I know the whole history of his crime, and his end.”

“You acted fair enough towards her.”

“Well, what of that? Who says I didn’t?” cried the gipsy, evidently moved.

“Nobody. If they did I should suppose they spoke an untruth.”

“Look here,” said Bill Rawton, after a pause. “You want me to help you, and I aint the man to say no to such a request, but that is one thing. I may have the will, which, to say the truth, I have, but I have not the power, I know nothing about this young gentleman――no, nothing about Alf Purvis, or Mr. Algernon Sutherland, as he now calls himself. Let me give you a word of advice. Don’t trouble yourself about the young scapegrace. You wouldn’t be much benefitted by finding him.”

“But he is my son. Oh, sir, think of that.”

“I do think of it.”

“Well, what then?”

“He is better lost than found.”

“Have you so bad an opinion of him, then?”

“I have a very bad opinion of him.”

“I dare say he has become hardened, and, as a natural consequence, is despised by many of his associates.”

“I am not one of his associates. Please to understand that,” said Bill Rawton, “I never cared anything about him――a stuck-up conceited jackanapes. I tell you frankly, I would never have anything to say to him――‘cause why?――he wasn’t my sort.”

“You hate him then?”

“I never liked him, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Oh, I do not want to know anything about his doings, or about his enemies. All I want is my son. Will you help me to find him?”

“I’ll do what I can to serve you, but you musn’t bother me as you’ve been doing lately. If I learn anything about him I’ll let you know.”

“You promise that?”

“I do. There’s a mystery about this young shaver, but it aint no business of mine. You want to see him?”

“I do.”

“Well, if I can put you on the scent I will――that’s all I have to say. So now you had better step it, for my friends yonder are wondering what business I have with you, so make tracks as soon as possible, or may be we shall get into the mire.”

The woman drew from her pocket a piece of dirty crumpled paper, which she handed to Bandy-legged Bill.

“There is my name and address,” said she, “and, oh, Mr. Rawton, I pray you to do your best. Restore my son to me, and I shall owe you a lasting debt of gratitude.”

“All right, mother,” said Bill, pocketing the paper. “I’ll do my best for yer.”

The woman rose and took her departure.

“Vell I’m blest,” cried the man with the cutaway coat. “Blow me tight if Bill hasn’t got a woman on the hooks. We shall see a big wedding presently, I s’pose.”

“I hope she’s got plenty of blunt, and that we may be invited, the whole piling on us, to the wedding breakfast,” remarked the man with the cutaway coat.

“She’s no blunt, you fool,” said the pale-faced man. “No such luck.”

“Ah, I see, Bill’s going to marry her for her beauty――a love match, eh?” observed another of the party.

“You’re a set of noodles to be talkin’ like that ’ere,” said Cooney. “Don’t ye know who she is?”

“No, I don’t,” returned the sporting man.

“Vell, then, I do. ’Tis Mother Grover, as vas a friend of Lorrie Stanbridge’s some years ago.”

There was a prolonged “ah!” at this last observation.

“That’s about the size of it,” observed Rawton. “There’s a bit of mystery about the Dandy. He came from a good stock, so I’ve been given to understand, and the woman who has just left is his mother.”

“Tell us all about it, Bill,” exclaimed several. “You aint the man to keep anything from your pals.”

“I don’t know as I’ve anything to tell you,” said Bill Rawton.

“Ah, gammon an’ all,” exclaimed the sporting man, “but if you are making up to the young and fascinating widow, and the matter is of a private nature, vell, in course ve won’t ax any further questions.”

“Shut up,” cried Rawton. “Making up to her! You must be going off your nut to be a-talking in that way.”

“Ah vell, I’m sorry I spoke.”

At this last observation there was a loud peal of laughter.

“You’ve got yer chaffing togs on to-day, it would seem,” observed the gipsy. “But there aint no secret in the case. The woman, as I said afore, is the mother of the Dandy――leastways that’s what I believe, and I don’t see any reason to doubt what she says. She’s been on to me for ever so long to find him for her. You know, all on yer, that he aint now on good terms with Laura Stanbridge; why or wherefore this is I don’t rightly know, and, as yer all know, he hasn’t shown up of late.”

“He’s got a precious sight too proud to mix with any of us. He was allers a la-de-da stuck up young shaver,” remarked the man with the white comforter, “and wasn’t at any time quite my book. But that’s neither here nor there. He’s mizzled, turned tail, and keeps aristocratic company――so I’ve been told――and much good may it do him――but go on. The old woman wants to find him. I hope as how he’s come into a fortune.”

“And if he has he’ll spend it jolly quick,” said Cooney.

“Not the least doubt of that, old stick-in-the-mud,” observed another of this choice assembly. “But stow magging――Bill’s got something to tell us.”

“No, I’ve not,” returned Rawton. “You know just about as much as I do myself, and if any on yer can find the Dandy, why it ’ill be doing the old ’oman a service, and you won’t go unrewarded when you give her the tip.”

“That’s business,” ejaculated the pale-faced man. “I likes a chap to come to business without any long palaver. If any on us tumble over my gentleman we shall know what to do. Do you see that, mates?”

[Sidenote: No. 85.]

“Aye, aye, governor, we all on us see that,” exclaimed several.

“But is it a plant?” suggested the man with the cutaway coat.

“Plant, Lord love yer, no,” returned Rawton. “The old ’oman’s right enough, right as the mail――I’ll take my davy on that; but she does take on, and no mistake. She’d give her life to find the Dandy.”

“But, hang it all, she never took much notice on him when she was with Laura,” said Cooney. “It’s a rum start, take it all together.”

“She didn’t take much notice on him at that time, I admit,” answered Bill. “But why didn’t she?”

“Can’t say.”

“Then I’ll tell yer. She didn’t know then that he was her son. Do you understand now, old thick-head?”

“Vell, I didn’t understand it rightly,” returned Cooney; but I s’pose it’s square and straight.”

“As straight as an arrow, take my word for it.”

“I don’t care which way it is,” said Cooney. “Blow the Dandy, say I. I only wish I could get Charley Peace out of quod.”

“Ah,” replied the gipsy, “and so do I. He’s worth fifty Dandys.”

“Have you seen anything on him?”

“Yes. I saw him on the day of his trial.”

“And how was he?”

“Oh, miserably cast down. Couldn’t hold up at all.”

“Poor chap. It’s hard lines. Why, the sentence was a cruel one.”

“It was――it was!” exclaimed several. “Everybody says so!”

“And what everybody says must be right――leastways, it can’t be very far wrong,” said Bill. “But it aint of no manner of use a-talking about that――Charley’s potted. There aint much chance now of his ever being a free man, not unless he can get the Home Office to commute his sentence, but I ’xpect there ain’t much chance of that.”

“Lord bless yer,” said Cooney, “yer might jist as well ’xpect to lift up St. Paul’s in the palm of yer hand. Commute――blow me tight, there aint no manner of chance of that there――and mind ye, Charley’s as right as the mail――never turned round on a cove in all his mortal days. Well, here’s to his good health.”

The speaker raised a full goblet to his lips and toasted our hero.

The woman known as Mrs. Grover, and who had been pleading so pertinaciously to Bill Rawton, was no other than Isabel Purvis, the mother of Alf Purvis.

The reader will doubtless remember that Laura Stanbridge had with her as a companion a Mrs. Grover when she first took Purvis under her protecting wing.

At this time her companion had no idea that the young bird-seller was her own son, but she had taken to him by one of those unaccountable influences which are past the comprehension of ordinary individuals.

As years passed over her head she comprehended that Miss Stanbridge’s protegé was her own offspring.

When the fact became clearly established she was solicitous of finding the young scapegrace, and for this purpose she applied to the gipsy.

Mrs. Grover, or more properly speaking, Isabel Purvis, had in early life been associated with a tribe of gipsies, and here it was that she had made the acquaintance of Bill Rawton.

She knew his wife, and had been mixed up with the wandering tribe, to which he at one time belonged, and hence it was that she sought his assistance in tracing out her son, the worthless young scoundrel, Alf Purvis, or Algernon Sutherland, as he chose to term himself.

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Chapter CLII

A POPULAR WATERING PLACE――THE RENCONTRE, AND FEARFUL DENOUEMENT.

Leaving the unwholesome purlieus of Whitechapel, we must journey to the resort of City clerks, Jews, tradesmen, professional men, and, in short, people of almost every denomination.

Margate, in the season, simply means London out of town. People flock to this place in shoals. It is, of course, requisite for the Cockneys to rejoice in buff slippers, nautical hats, and sea-side costume, and it is equally necessary for them to throng the pier and jetty, and ogle each other with a pertinacity which, it is presumed, is highly satisfactory to themselves, and agreeable to everybody; but our business is not with the select visitors to the jetty or the pier; for the purposes of our story we have to take a glance at another part of the well-known watering-place.

On the cliffs, just where the Infirmary stands, two figures might be seen walking side by side――they are in close conversation――the time is evening――the sun is set, and the vault of heaven is speckled with myriads of stars.

The two persons engaged in conversation are well known to the reader.

One is Tom Gatliffe, of whom we have heard but little of late, and the other is Laura Stanbridge, who, albeit somewhat faded, as far as her general appearance is concerned, carried with her yet the traces of that beauty which, in the years that are passed, stood her in such good stead.

She has lost but little of that fascination of manner which may be likened to that of the wily serpent――but she is more staid and thoughtful――and we may add even more dangerous in many ways than she has been heretofore.

Gatliffe had at one time been perfectly fascinated with her blandishments, and for many years she held him in bondage. Now, however, he could be esteemed only a sort of friend, if such a term could, with propriety, be used; anyway the connection between the two was now severed.

Gatliffe, who had betaken himself to Margate for a change, met Laura accidentally there: people do meet at Margate in a most unaccountable manner, and this was the case with those two. They became for the nonce inseparable companions during their sojourn at the sea-side.

“It has been well said,” observed Laura Stanbridge, “that one has only to go to the sea-side to renew old acquaintanceships. Such appears to be the case with us. My dear Tom, of late you have not thought it worth while to call upon me as of yore. Have had other matters to engage your attention, I suppose.”

“Well, to say the truth, I have,” returned her companion.

“I judged so. Do not for a moment imagine I am saying this as a reproach. On the contrary I believe, and always have believed, you to be genuine. Still, it would pain me much if it came to pass that we should be no longer good friends and true. You understand my meanings, at our age one does not so easily form new friendship; and this, I suppose, is the reason why I cling so tenaciously to those whom I have known in earlier and, I think I may add, in happier years.”

“Happier!” repeated Gatliffe, with something like sorrow in his tone.

“Certainly, happier.”

“Oh,” answered her companion, “the brightest days of my life have long since passed away, and I have not much to live for now.”

“Not much to live for? You are a prosperous man, and have reason to be thankful, all things considered. It is true you have been deserted by one who ought to have clung to you, but I expect you have cast from your mind a woman who has proved herself to be unworthy consideration.”

“Silence!” exclaimed Gatliffe. “I do not care to listen to observations of this nature. Do not speak disparagingly of one who, whatever her faults may be, is far removed from either of us. I am surprised at the observations you have made, and I must beg of you not to allude to this subject. Indeed, I am at a loss to imagine why you have chosen to broach it.”

“Oh, I have done. She was once your wife, and now――――”

“She is nothing to me only an honourable lady, whom I cannot do aught else but esteem and admire; but pray how did you come to know about my connections?”

Laura Stanbridge laughed.

“How?” said she. “Why, my dear Tom, I suppose you will admit that your devorce is a matter of public notoriety?”

“It was so many years ago I wish it to be forgotten. I wish to forget it myself if that be possible.”

“Then I will never again allude to the circumstance. My dear Tom, you need not be told that I am not likely to say anything to offend or annoy you. The past has passed away, and we have only to look to the future.”

“That is true,” said he, “and do you know, Lorrie, I have serious thoughts of beginning life again if that be possible?”

“And how do you propose to do this?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I propose going to one of the Colonies――to America, or Australia, it doesn’t much matter which; but I am certain I shall be able to do well in either place, and, to say the truth, I am thoroughly sick of this country.”

“Why, so am I,” quickly rejoined his companion. “Let us go together, a woman has a better chance there than in England. Take me with you.”

Gatliffe made no reply, but appeared to be lost in thought.

“You do not answer,” said she. “I’ll work and slave for you, and be your faithful friend and companion. Oh, what happiness it would give me, for I love you――and none other but you!”

She placed her arm round his shoulders, drew him towards her, and embraced him fondly. She was like the syrens of old――false and seductive.

“We will talk about this on some future occasion,” observed he, for he had not altogether the faith in the woman by his side as he had during the first few years of their acquaintance.

Nevertheless he was in some measure attached to her, and found it difficult to shake her off. She was his evil genius.

At one time he had, like many others, been infatuated with her, but this infatuation had in a great measure passed away. Still, even at this time, she exercised considerable power over him, and most unquestionably she had to a great extent lowered his moral tone.

It has been said, and there is no denying the fact, that we are all creatures of circumstances. Poor Gatliffe had been the victim of untoward events which were far beyond his own control.

There were times when he thought of the woman whom he in the earlier years of his life indulged and almost worshipped, but she had left him for rank and power.

He did not blame――on the contrary, he made every possible excuse for her desertion of him.

He was not, however, aware that his own illicit intercourse with Laura Stanbridge had become known to her very shortly after his intimacy with that heartless, designing, and worthless woman, who lured but to betray.

It is just possible that he might have been prevailed upon to suffer her to accompany him to Australia or America, but a circumstance occurred which put that altogether out of the question.

This it will be our purpose to describe.

Gatliffe and Miss Stanbridge were walking close to the edge of the cliffs, as the moonlight cast its beams on that part of the rocky eminence running from where the Infirmary stands to a place known at this time as Marsh Bay.

It will be perhaps needless to say that his female companion demonstrated the strongest affection for him, and made use of all her blandishments to draw him towards her.

A spectator at a casual glance would have conjectured that they were lovers――albeit they were neither of them particularly young at this time.

They had not gone very far when the figure of a man was observed making towards them. He was coming in the opposite direction to the one they were taking.

Laura Stanbridge was at no loss to understand who the stranger was, and perhaps, of all men in the world, he was the very last she had any desire to see.

As he approached he indulged in a low satirical mocking laugh, which jarred upon the ears of Gatliffe’s companion.

“Ah, oh!” he ejaculated. “It is you, eh? and with your fancy man, too! I am most charmed at this unexpected meeting, because it gives me assurance that you are alive and well, which is vastly consolatory. Taking a moonlight stroll, my charmer――eh?”

Gatliffe did not condescend to take any notice of these sneering observations, but he was a little ruffled, nevertheless.

“You will be pleased, or, rather, I shall be, by your abstaining from sneering observations, and if you have nothing better to say, pass on.”

“Not until I have a word or two with you, madam,” said Alf Purvis, for the newcomer was none other than he.

“Not until I have told you a piece of my mind. You think, perhaps, that I am in ignorance of your doings. Who was it that betrayed me, and set on detectives to find out the forged cheque business? A curse light on you!”

“This lady is under my protection,” said Gatliffe, “and I must request you to go your way.”

“You request?”

“Yes, most certainly; this is not the time or place for you to indulge in personal and impertinent remarks.”

“Do not heed what he says,” ejaculated Miss Stanbridge. “He is unworthy of notice.”

“It is of no use your endeavouring to carry it off with a high hand, you worthless, base woman,” cried Purvis. “I know you, my lady. No one knows you better, and it will go hard with me if I don’t have my revenge. You have betrayed us. Do you hear, you infamous strumpet?” he added, shaking his fist in her face.

“You audacious young scoundrel!” exclaimed Gatliffe, who was by this time incensed beyond all reasonable endurance. “Begone, while you have a whole skin.”

“You threaten, do you? Do you happen to know the character of the woman you seek to shield and protect? Shall I tell you a little of her history? It will greatly interest you, I dare say. Listen――――”

“Get you away, and give me no more of your impudence,” exclaimed Gatliffe.

Alf Purvis indulged in a low mocking laugh, which so exasperated his adversary that he raised his fist and gave him a heavy blow on the chest, sending him reeling back several paces.

When he had recovered from this first assault, Purvis rushed at Gatliffe and struck him in the face. The latter closed with his younger opponent, and a struggle ensued, which was, however, but of short duration, for Purvis was no match for the powerful and athletic engineer, who threw him violently to the earth, and when he rose again stood on the defensive.

But by this time Alf had had enough. He stood scowling and swearing at a respectful distance.

“Come dear,” said Laura Stanbridge, “Let there be an end to this. I am sorry to have been the occasion of this scene of violence.”

“You sorry!” exclaimed Purvis, “Have you any feeling? You care as little about him as I do about you. I am sure a worthless creature like you is hardly worth quarrelling about.”

Tom Gatliffe and his female companion walked on, followed by their tormentor, who was bent upon mischief.

He gave expression to a series of taunts and degrading observations, but now that the first outburst of passion was over Gatliffe had no desire to recommence hostilities. Nevertheless he was greatly annoyed at the pertinacity of Purvis, who continued to aggravate Laura Stanbridge in a manner which soon became insupportable.

“You had better discontinue those impertinent remarks. Go your ways. We neither of us have any desire to listen to your impertinence,” said Gatliffe.

“I don’t want to pick a quarrel with you, sir,” returned Purvis. “You have done me no wrong, but as to your companion, she has been the very bane of my existence. She it was, who, when I was a helpless lad, taught me to become a thief. I am not romancing. She has made me what I am. Perhaps you don’t know that she is a trainer of thieves.”

“Silence! No more of this, you audacious miscreant,” cried Gatliffe, in a violent rage.

“And you are her champion! Well I wish you a better office.”

“If you persist in annoying us, I will inflict summary chastisement on you, let the consequence be what it will.”

“I say again I have no desire to fasten a quarrel on you, Mr. Gatliffe. I believe you to be upright and honourable, but that’s no reason for your espousing the cause of one who is so utterly worthless. In the due course of time you will be convinced of the truth of all I have been saying. Take my advice――have nothing to do with that woman. Shall I tell you her early history?”

“I again request you to keep your remarks to yourself,” observed Gatliffe, who was at this time everwhelmed with astonishment at the turn the conversation had been taking.

“Well, sir,” said Purvis, “on consideration, it is doubtless neither pleasing nor palatable to you to hear the truth spoken, but I warn you to be careful in dealing with the odious woman by your side. In the earlier years of her life she was under the protection of an old gentleman, whom she robbed and afterwards poisoned. I have the whole history of this part of her career by heart――she is an adultress and a murderess. Listen to the story I have to tell.”

Alf Purvis was on the edge of the cliffs when he made these last remarks. Laura Stanbridge, who was at this time pale with ill-suppressed passion, sprang forward, and stretching out her arms, she with a tiger-like spring, rushed full at her traducer. Throwing the whole weight of her body in the sudden assault, she pushed Alf Purvis with such terrible force that he reeled and tottered for a moment, then a loud splash in the water told that the ill-fated young man had fallen over the precipice.

“Gracious heavens, what have you done?” exclaimed her companion pale as ashes and trembling in every limb. “He has fallen over.”

“And a good job too; I know how to protect myself.”

Poor Gatliffe was stupefied with astonishment and fear.

“But this is murder,” cried he.

“Not so,” returned his companion with perfect composure――“he has fallen over the cliff. Do you understand?”

“I will be no party to such an act of atrocity,” said he. “Oh, miserably guilty woman, have you no pity, no remorse?”

“Not any for him――none whatever.”

Gatliffe, who was at this time almost beside himself, looked over the cliff.

The tide had been at the flood about half-an-hour before the murderous act. It was now flowing out. Gatliffe saw a dark speck on the water, which he judged to be the head of Purvis.

He rushed madly from the spot, and made for a narrow cutting which led to the sea-shore.

But one dominant thought possessed him. He had a burning desire to save the victim of the atrocious outrage.

But how this was to be accomplished he could not very well determine. When he came to the end of the cutting, his eyes rested on a boat, which had been moored against a stake driven into the sands.

He released the boat, jumped in, and rowed his hardest.

Far out in the distance he beheld a black speck, which he believed to be Purvis, who, despite the giddy height from which he had fallen, might yet be swimming for his life.

“Pray heaven it may be so,” he ejaculated. “If he is lost I shall never forgive myself.”

He pulled lustily at the oars. The sea was rather rough, and although he was a tolerably good rower on the Thames, or any other river, he had but little experience in the management of a craft on the sea; but he did not care much about the danger and risk he was running――he was actuated by a higher feeling.

His object was to save and succour a fellow-creature, and so he bore bravely on. As he did so he heard Laura Stanbridge’s voice. Heard her cry out――

“Come back, Tom. The attempt is useless.”

He took no heed of the warning, and never stopped till he had come within sight of the black speck. Then, to his dismay and horror, he discovered his mistake. It was but a floating buoy.

He was so moved by this discovery that he was near bursting into tears.

His eyes swept the waste of waters, but he could discern nothing like a human form; yet, nothing daunted, he rowed in almost every direction in the hope of seeing some trace of Purvis.

Darkness now fell upon the scene――some heavy clouds obscured the moon, and sadly and reluctantly the unhappy rower made for the shore.

When he had gained the cutting be moored the boat to the stake, and slowly and sadly crept up towards the cliffs.

“Oh, that I should have lived to see this dreadful sight――this infamous, cruel, and cold-blooded assassination!” he ejaculated. “It is most horrible――most infamous! What is to be done? I feel as if I had been party to a murder, and shall never know what peace of mind means.”

His knees seemed to sink under him, and he was so utterly prostrated that he felt as weak as a child.

When he reached the cliffs he was confronted by Laura Stanbridge.

“Well,” said she, “the attempt you have made has not proved successful, I suppose?”

“Go, woman!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “I will have naught to say to you. Go your ways, and never――never let me set eyes upon you again. I cannot express to you my disgust and horror. A curse will cling to you.”

“He deserved his fate, and it is useless now to indulge in recriminations. He drove me to madness, and upon the impulse of the moment I did an act which in cooler moments I should have shuddered at. Do not upbraid me. It was but a sudden impulse. I was smarting under his taunts, his infamous slanders, but it is done. The worst is over.”

“The worst, woman! The worst is to come――a life of bitter remorse!”

“Well, Tom, I regret――――”

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t call me Tom. The tie between us is broken now and for ever!”

“Do you intend to betray me, then?”

“I know not what to do. I am so supremely wretched that I wish I sank beneath the waves.”

“What folly is this? It was an accident――a mere accident. Of course I never intended to hurl him from the cliff. Do you think it’s likely? Listen――for my sake you must keep silent. It is known only to our two selves. He fell over by accident――walked too near the edge, and then you did your best to save him. Nothing can be plainer.”

“I’ll be no party to so infamous a crime. I will not tell an untruth. No, not to save your worthless life. You are a monster, a murderess, and I have done with you.”

“I am in your power to a certain extent, I admit. Still, at the same time, permit me to observe that you will do well by holding your tongue, for your own sake as well as mine,” she added, with something like a sneer. “Do you understand?”

“Just Heaven! do you dare to threaten?”

“I don’t threaten, my friend――I merely suggest, and my suggestion is a very natural and reasonable one, and when you have duly considered the matter I doubt not that you will be of my opinion.”

Tom Gatliffe was perfectly appalled, not only at the observations which had fallen from her, but at his own position.

If she chose to accuse him of the crime, what witness could he call to prove his innocence?

He could not deny that he had struck the murdered man――that they had a short but fierce struggle.

He felt that he was in a very dangerous position.

All these thoughts rushed rapidly through his brain, and he was almost inclined to look upon himself as an accessory.

“Ah!” he ejaculated. “Cursed be the hour when I first set eyes upon you.”

“It’s no use you talking in that way. We have known each other for many years. There are numbers of persons who will vouch for that, and so it’s no use your endeavouring to shirk the question. This miserable business may, in a great measure, be attributed to my love for you.”

“Are you mad, woman?” cried Gatliffe, drawing back with ineffable disgust. “Your love for me! I have brought myself to a pretty pass, it seems.”

“No doubt you have, dearest,” she returned with perfect composure.

He now saw the nature of the woman with whom he had to deal, and the last words uttered by Purvis seemed to be almost prophetic.

He stood for a moment or two gazing upon the woman who was so callous and hardened that she did not demonstrate the faintest symptom of remorse for the atrocious act she had perpetrated.

“So,” said she, “it would appear that you, like the rest, are disposed to round on me. I confess I was not prepared for this, but after all it does not matter.”

“I do not understand you, woman,” he ejaculated. “I am appalled, and am utterly at a loss. A murder has been committed before my very eyes――a crime so infamous that I stand aghast――and am almost petrified with astonishment. Had I guessed your horrible purpose――――”

“Don’t make matters worse by abusing me――it will not serve any purpose. It is necessary, for both of our sakes, that we should be friends,” she observed, in a low tone.

“Friends!” he exclaimed. “Never again will I consent to even hold discourse with you――never again will I hold out the hand of friendship to a cold, cruel, heartless assassin. Get thee hence! I will not have anything further to say to you.”

He turned and was about to take his departure.

“Oh,” said she, “it is thus you treat me. Stay a moment, if you please. Possibly you are about to denounce me.”

“And if I am it is no more than you deserve.”

“We will not argue that question. Do so if you please; but, hark ye, Mr. Thomas Gatliffe, a word in your ear. If you accuse me of committing this atrocious crime, as you term it, I must tell you frankly, I shall be constrained, in self-defence, to declare that you are the murderer of Alf Purvis. So it is, perhaps, just as well for you to understand what you have to expect.”

“Infamous, abandoned, and guilty woman!” cried Gatliffe, who was at this time driven to a state bordering on distraction. “I have no fear for myself. Think not to escape by such a miserable device. I both abhor and contemn you. Away, wretch! Away, murderess and adultress; I am far beyond the reach of your malice――go!”

“I shall go when I feel disposed to do so. I am proof against your taunts and abuse, and I should advise you to be a little more temperate in your language. You don’t know at present whom you have to deal with.”

“I say, go. I will have nothing more to say to one who is so vile.”

“Very well, sir, as you please. We are to part in anger, it would seem. The fault is not mine.”

“Yours!” exclaimed Gatliffe, casting upon her a look of unutterable disgust. “Part in anger! Away, woman――away! I loathe the very sight of you.”

She came forward with the intention of making an urgent appeal to him, but he thrust her fiercely from him, turned on his heel, and without uttering another word fled from the spot.

When he reached Margate he made for the station, booked for London, and hastened on to the metropolis.

Laura Stanbridge, after he had left her so abruptly, remained for some time lost in thought.

“Ah,” she murmured, “he’ll keep silent upon this subject――I think I know enough of him to be assured of that. He is not likely to turn against me for all his vapouring. I don’t think I have much to fear as far as he is concerned; but if he does play me false, well, I have my remedy, which I shall not hesitate to make use of. Anyway, he will find it difficult to come out of the business with clean hands――certainly not without a strong shade of suspicion. Let him do his worst, then, if he means to turn traitor. Yes, let him do his worst. That base, ungrateful boy has met with his deserts. For years I have been thirsting for revenge, but never deemed it would be brought about in this fashion.”

She walked slowly on in the direction of a small cottage, which she rented furnished, for a few weeks during the season.

Upon her entering the habitation in question, her maid observed that she looked troubled and careworn. The reason for this alteration in her appearance the girl could not quite understand, but she said nothing, laid the table for supper and then looked inquiringly at her mistress.

“Oh! any visitors? Is that what you mean?” said Miss Stanbridge.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not any visitors to-night, Jane. Mr. Gatliffe is called suddenly away. I shall be all alone this evening.”

The table having been laid, and the supper served, Miss Stanbridge partook of her evening meal as if nothing had happened. Her heart was as hard and petrified as the nether millstone.

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CLIII. THE STOKE FERRYMAN

Tom Gatliffe, as we have already intimated, went direct up to London, after the terrible scene on the cliffs.

He made up his mind to cast off the woman who had, in days gone by, held him in bondage.

Come what would, he was determined never to have anything further to say to her. But his mind was distraught, and every turn he expected to learn that a body had been picked up off Margate.

However, days passed on, and no news received of the ill-fated Alf Purvis; but Tom could not dismiss from his mind the harrowing circumstances connected with the tragedy, and deemed it advisable to keep silent and await patiently the issue. It would be time enough for him to be outspoken when he felt assured that silence would be criminal.

The infamous woman――the perpetrator of the act of atrocity which we have recorded――remained for a few days in Margate after the event, then she, like her companion, returned to the metropolis.

She was quite calm and self-possessed, and did not appear to have any remorse for the past, or fears for the future.

* * * * * * *

On the side of a dark-rolling river, half buried among willows and rushes, stood a small cottage. Suspended before the door was a large bell, the rope of which swung backwards and forwards in the breeze.

The road which passed the cottage consisted of two huge ruts, with grass growing in the space between; it ended at the river bank.

To this bank were chained two boats――the one a kind of barge adapted for the carrying of vehicles and large burdens; the other one of those small flat-bottomed boats which may be propelled either by oar or pole and which are called punts.

It was Stoke Ferry, the most desolate of all spots on the river as it passes on its course to the sea. The cottage was the residence of the ferryman――the bell was rung by those who wished to be ferried over to the other side.

Some years previously the house and ferry had been put into the auction-room. An old man whom nobody knew had bought them, and had lived there since that day.

He was never seen outside his door, except to ply his calling as a ferryman, and once a month to go to London, where he would always remain a night and return the next day with a face, they said, more pale and stern than before.

He had no servant in the house to help him; he did all his washing and cleaning himself; he took his meat from the butcher, his bread from the baker, and his milk from the farmer’s man at the door. He was only known by the name of the Stoke Ferryman.

His habitation was well suited to a misanthrope; it was surrounded by barren fields, exposed to cold winds, and in the winter the river would flood his garden, and would beat against his primitive residence, the walls of which were mossy and green from damp.

The neighbours looked with astonishment upon this man as a sort of natural curiosity. He remained buried in solitude within sight of men; he dwelt amongst waters, and seemed to live in eternal cold and darkness, for no lights ever shone from his windows――no smoke ever rose from his chimney.

When there was a dearth of scandal――it was not often this was the case――but when there was a lull in this respect, the gossips would always fall back upon the Stoke Ferryman.

Some said he was a sorcerer, that he had dealings with the Evil One; some that he was a criminal hiding from the eyes of the law; others that he was only an eccentric individual, who was a little crazed in consequence of a great trouble he had met with in early life.

When the children in the neighbourhood were troublesome and could not be brought to order by ordinary means, they were told that they would be handed over to the Stoke Ferryman, and this threat invariably had the desired effect.

At a little less than a half mile from the ferry stood the habitation and fertile land known as Stoke Ferry Farm, and at about two miles distance or a little more perhaps, was the residence o; Mr. Kensett, the magistrate.

It was the hour of twilight. Frogs croaked hoarsely from the damp ditches by the river-side, sometimes an owl flew past with its white ghastly wings and hollow cry.

A woman stood before the ferryman’s house. Her face was pale and haggard, her limbs were weary, and her garments were soiled.

She stood there for some minutes in a state of trepidation. Presently she seemed to muster up courage, for she seized the rope and rang the bell violently.

The cottage door was opened, and an old man with a lantern advanced down the garden path slowly towards the gate.

Through the bars of the gate which was secured by a padlock, he examined her face.

“Umph,” he murmured, “I suppose you wish to cross over, madam.”

“No, I do not. I wish to speak with you,” she answered.

“Speak to me! And what might it be upon? Well, I am all attention, proceed.”

“I wish to speak to you alone.”

The old man extended his thin, horny hand towards the barren, dusty plain, then towards the silent river.

“You may speak here safely,” said he, with a grim smile. “We are quite alone, and I do not expect we shall be interrupted by visitors.”

“Ah, sir,” she cried, in a tone of anguish, “they say you know more than other men, and if this be so, which I do not for a moment doubt, you may be able to render me a service.”

“I do not at present see in what way. What is it you desire?”

“To find my son, whom I have been searching in vain for.”

The ferryman regarded her for a moment, and then shook his head.

“Do not refuse me the assistance I require. If I do not find my poor boy, I shall die. My feet are blistered with walking, my eyes are sore with weeping, and my heart is pining for him I cannot find. Oh, sir, if you have the power to assist me, you will not――you cannot refuse.”

She fell upon the damp ground, and prayed with clasped hands to him who looked at her through her gate.

“Such are women,” muttered the misanthrope. “When their own resources have failed them, they make one shallow hope an assurance, and appeal to a poor old man as if he were a god.”

“It is my last hope,” she moaned.

“What is your name?” he asked, absently.

“I am called Mrs. Grover,” she returned, “but that is not my real name.”

“And what might be your real name, then?”

“Purvis.”

“Ah, indeed. I have heard it before, I think,” he ejaculated, as he gave a convulsive start, while his eyes glared at her through the iron bars like those of a caged wolf who sniffs blood in the air.

There was a pause of several minutes――then he slowly unlocked the gate.

“You had better come in,” said he.

She entered.

He opened the door of his house and bade her follow him.

She entered a room which was heated by a clear coal stove, and that was why no smoke ever rose from his chimney. It was lighted by an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling, while huge oaken shutters, and a baize edging to the foot of the door, prevented a gleam of light from penetrating abroad.

The walls and floor were hidden by books; a table in the centre was covered with papers, and with instruments of a kind which she had never seen before.

He trimmed the lamp, and sat down, leaning his face on his hand. He seemed to be lost in thought, but all this while his eyes were bent upon her――his eyes full of sorrow and compassion.

Under other circumstances, the woman would have been frightened, and, as it was, she was not without certain misgivings; she was in the lone habitation of a forlorn and mysterious man.

She was surprised at his pensive attitude, and his singular silence, which appeared to her to be almost preternatural.

“Ah, sir, you already know my errand,” said she in a beseeching tone. Do not keep me in suspense. If you can do anything in respect to my poor boy, I feel assured you will not deny me the favour I ask.”

“If I can. Ah,” murmured the recluse, “does it not strike you as being a little remarkable that you should seek the assistance of a poor old hermit like myself? I have no home, woman――am poor――and, I may say, dispised. How can I serve you?”

“I want to find my boy――he who, years ago, was at Stoke Ferry farmhouse.”

“From which place he ran away?”

“He was turned away. The cruel farmer tied a hare round his neck, and beat him unmercifully. Small wonder is it then that the poor lad left Stoke Ferry farm for good and for all.”

“He did not leave it for good――not for any good, as far as he was concerned.”

“He was the son of a gentleman, and could ill brook the cruel usage to which he was subjected.”

“We will not quarrel about that, Mrs. Grover,” said the ferryman; “it is hardly worth while. Mr. Jamblin was a worthy man――a litte headstrong, perhaps, but he was a good man for all that. Do not speak ill of the dead.”

“Oh, I don’t speak ill of Mr. Jamblin. Still, had he been a little more tolerant, the boy would not have been driven to seek his living in the streets; neither would he have associated with lawless characters.”

“Isabel Purvis, the thoughtlessness of man, and the bleeding of your own heart, drove you to a crime――you abandoned the child which you, as its mother, ought to have cherished. Is not this so?”

“It is――I do not deny it. But I have had a lifelong punishment.”

“True, you have repented. You are punished now, but you will be pardoned hereafter, let us hope,” he added, in a lower tone.

She shuddered, and felt half afraid of the mysterious man who spoke so calmly, and appeared to be so self-possessed.

“You have heard my last observations――have you not?”

“Yes,” said she, “and they have sunk deep in my heart. It is quite true. My son has led an evil life――so I have been told.”

“Who told you?”

“I have heard it from several.”

“Name one.”

“William Rawton.”

“Rawton――Rawton! He’s a gipsy――is he not?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I have seen him once or twice――that is all. Cannot he give you any information about your son, whom, it would appear, you are now, all of a sudden, so anxious to see?”

“It is not so sudden. I have been anxious to see him for a long time past. You forget, sir, that it is only lately I have had reasons for thinking he was my son.”

“Ah, true, there is something in that. It’s a pity you had not known it earlier.”

“I divine your meaning,” she cried, seizing his hands. “You know he is dead, and do not like to tell me. And yet――――”

“Yet what?”

“He cannot be dead, he is so young.”

The ferryman rose, and opened a small cabinet.

From this he took a book bound in black, and placed it on the table before him.

Now his face became stern, jets of fire seemed to dart from his deep-sunken piercing eyes.

Mrs. Grover began to tremble.

“In this book,” he muttered, in a hollow voice, “are recorded the vile deeds of a woman who is as nefarious as she is alluring.”

Mrs. Grover started to her feet.

“What is her name?” said she.

“It would not benefit you if I were to tell you,” he answered.

“But I can guess. I think I know whom you mean.”

“Do you? Please to say then.”

“Her name is Stanbridge.”

The old man nodded and pored over his book.

“Am I right?” she inquired.

“Be silent!” he cried, “Have you no wounds in your heart which words will open? Be silent, my friend, and listen to your woes which are kindred to my own.”

He opened the book. She shuddered. There were pages of writing, and the letters were all red.

“You need not be under any apprehension,” said her companion. “I am not likely to do you or anybody else any harm, although my ways are not altogether like the ways of other men.”

He turned to a particular page in the book.

“Listen,” said he. Then he read.

“Isabel Purvis.――Hiding from the police for the abandonment and attempted murder of her child. Repentant, and desirous of gaining an honest livelihood. The daughter of Satan discovers her――she pretends friendship, worms from her the relation of her crime, threatens to hand her over to justice if she refuses to obey her, and to destroy her.”

Mrs. Grover groaned.

“Yes, yes!” she ejaculated; “all this is but too true――every word of it. How could it have become known to you?”

“That is my business,” said he, turning to another page.

“Alfred Purvis runs away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and sells birds’ nests in London. The fiend finds him in a low lodging-house in Westminster, takes him to her den, depraves his mind by slow degrees, teaches him to cheat, places him under a notorious thief, sends Mrs. Grover upon the streets because she, warned by the instincts of a mother’s love――――”

“I did not know at that time that he was my son,” cried the miserable woman.

“Possibly not. Indeed it is certain you did not; but listen. Alfred Purvis was placed under the care of Mr. Jamblin――he ran away to London. In different hands he might have been a credit to his relatives――I say he might――it is not certain――but he might; but under an obstinate agriculturist he became mischievous, and under a fiend――――”

“Why do you not continue?” exclaimed the woman. “There is more writing on the page. Go on. Pray go on. I can bear it――indeed I can. I am quite calm, as you see.”

He closed the book, she sprang towards him with a yell, but his eyes repelled her; it was not because they were stern――it was because they were so sorrowful. She crept back from him.

“Tell me, sir, for mercy’s sake――tell me if he is alive or dead. His grandfather, Lyme Kensett, yearns to see him. Already he has saved this unhappy and ill-fated young man from being convicted――now he wishes to make him his heir. Is he alive?”

“He is,” said the old ferryman――“he is alive.”

“Bless you for telling me this. It has given me new life. I may yet see him. Tell me where he is. Oh, give him to me!”

The old man shook his head.

“I cannot do that,” he slowly answered. “She must do that, I cannot.”

“She――Laura Stanbridge?”

He bent his head.

“Is she in London?”

He made the same sign.

“Now leave me,” he said.

She arose and went to the door and gained the garden beyond. He followed her to the gate. As she opened it he laid his hand upon her shoulder, where it felt like hot steel.

And he hissed into her ear――

“When the cup is full come to me.”

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CLIV. THE UNEXPECTED MEETING――LAURA AND MRS. GROVER

We are again in London――it is night――the day’s work is over with many of the inhabitants of this mighty human hive. But there are thousands, however, whose work commences after dark. Journalists, reporters, printers, and those who minister to the pleasure of the public as entertainers, have each and all to ply their vocation after what are the recognised working hours of the great body of the people.

The doors of the theatres had opened for the second price; from the cafés, saloons, and taverns, of the Haymarket and its purlieus red lights began to gleam――hoarse voices to swear――and this fearful quarter, where, but a few years back, vice and debauchery reigned undisturbed, now began to fill with the votaries of vice and the victims of vanity――men who covered their natures of beasts with the garb of gentlemen――women, who, with sad gaiety and lurid smiles, walked, walked, and walked, in order that they might not starve.

In a dark street near Leicester-square two women met beneath a gas-light. Both started. One of them tried to pass. The other seized her.

“No, I must speak to you, Laura Stanbridge,” said the elder of the two.

The woman whom she addressed affected surprise.

“Why, is it really you, Mrs. Grover?” said she.

“Yes, it is me,” she answered, gloomily. “It is years since we met, but I knew you in a moment.”

“Indeed! In that you had the advantage of me, for at first, I confess, I was at a loss to understand who you were.”

“That is likely enough. Time has altered both of us, but me more especially.”

“I don’t see that it has. But do you want anything of me?”

“Yes, I do, or I should not have troubled to make myself known to you. I desire to have a little conversation with you.”

Laura Stanbridge hesitated.

“Humph! Something to say, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I may learn something from her,” she muttered to herself, “better keep in with her.”

Then aloud she said――

“You are the last person in the world I should have expected to meet. Still, of course, I am glad to see you.”

“Oh yes, I dare say you are.”

“Let us enter this café,” said Laura.

They entered the establishment in question, which was provided with some marble tables and luxurious ottomans.

It was divided into two compartments.

They passed into the further one, where they could converse with privacy.

First, however, it was requisite to order some refreshment.

“Garcon!” cried Laura.

[Sidenote: No. 86.]

A waiter, with shaved cheeks, and a small black moustache of the true Frenchman style, answered the call.

“Une verre de parfait amour,” said Miss Stanbridge.

He bowed, vanished, and returned with a tiny glass filled with a liquor red as a girl’s lips, luscious, and perfumed as the nectar of the gods.

“Now, my dear Mrs. Grover,” said Laura, as she sipped the beverage and reclined in a voluptuous attitude, “I am all attention. Pray tell me what you have to discourse about. The wickedness and vanity of the world――or what?”

“There is no occasion for you to make a jest of a subject which to me is, alas! a most serious one,” returned her companion. “I have come to ask what you have done with my child.”

“Your child?” cried Laura, raising her eyebrows. “The person to whom you allude is no longer a child.”

“Well, then, my son, if that term pleases you better.”

“We will not dispute about terms――I presume you allude to a young man who was at one my time protégé.”

“The boy whom you adopted from the streets and taught to be a thief was my son. I always loved him,” said the unhappy woman. “I always loved him without knowing why. But he was the babe I nursed at this breast, and carried in these arms, and kissed with these lips――the babe I abandoned when I was mad and foolish, and whom they tore from me, and made me fly for my very life. I never knew this until lately, and I have been searching for you for months past. I asked Bill Rawton to put me on the right track, and I have asked everybody I could think of.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Yes, I have.”

“This is very curious and romantic; and you really mean to say that you have not seen or heard of your young friend for all these long and weary years?”

“No never――never once have I set eyes upon him. But what could I do? You threatened me with the police if I tried to baulk you and I was altogether at your mercy. I did not know that he was my darling son, and if I had,” she said fiercely, “the rope itself should not have held me back, but I did not know that then. I only knew that I loved him, but I did not know why.”

Laura Stanbridge sipped her parfait amour.

“This is really very dramatic, Mrs. Grover――very dramatic indeed,” said she with perfect composure, “And I suppose there will be no harm in grattfying your curiosity, especially as it may serve you as a lesson not to play at pitch and toss with babies in the future.”

“I do not care a pin for your taunts. Jest at me as you will――it will not harm me; only tell me where he is.”

“I should be clever indeed to tell you that, seeing that I do not know myself.”

“Have you quarrelled then, and do you never see him then?”

“I never see him and never wish to do so; he was my friend――he is now my bitterest enemy. I suppose you have heard of Dandy Sutherland, as he is termed.”

Mrs. Grover turned pale. “Eh,” she murmured, “Then my boy has fallen into his hands? All is lost, all is lost.”

“Dandy Sutherland is the Bully Grand of the Forty Thieves, and the standing toast of every boozing ken between Westminster and Whitechapel. While other men have been content to shine in one branch of the profession, the Dandy has made himself master of them all, and is equally notorious as a drummer, as a mobsman, a shofuller, a smasher, and a cracksman. In this last capacity he is only surpassed by the celebrated and famous Charles Peace, who surpasses all others as a daring and accomplished burglar.”

The Dandy, therefore, is not to be named in the same day with Charles Peace, but he has other accomplishments――practises other forms of villainy which Peace never attempted.

“Gracious heaven! Can this be possible?”

“It is not only possible, but true.”

“Admit that it is so, but this does not help me to find my son. Where is my boy?”

“His genius for calculation would have made his fortune at cards before the hells were abolished,” observed Miss Stanbridge, not taking any heed of her companion’s queries. “And could he obtain an entrée into the ‘Ottoman’ or ‘Cocoa-nut Tree,’ where hundreds of pounds are frequently staked upon a game, his skill at billiards would speedily enrich him.”

“And is he not rich now?” inquired the other, stifling her rage that she might obtain the information she desired.

“He was not rich when I last saw him; on the contrary, he was poor, but this is some time ago. I have not seen anything of him for a long time past. He is unsettled and extravagant. Besides, he is an unprincipled corrupter of our own sex, and so spends more thought upon vice than upon crime. Vice is a safe game because it is played at by all the aristocracy, but it is the reverse of lucrative.”

“And this man, this Dandy Sutherland, as you call him, am I to understand that he is an associate of my son’s, or is he my boy himself?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, forlorn and afflicted parent,” said Laura Stanbridge, “Dandy Sutherland, with his fifty aliases and his thousand crimes, is no other than the youth whom I had the honour of initiating into his profession.”

The mother did not speak. She stared at Laura stupidly as if she had not understood her, but she turned pale, and breathed very hard.

“I repeat,” said Laura, “that your son is now called, by the thieving fraternity, Dandy Sutherland, and that he has been compelled to fly from the officers of justice in consequence of a burglary and murderous outrage he has been engaged in, and, I think, seeing that he is wanted by the police, that it is very doubtful about your finding him――for some time to come at all events. If he is caught they’ll give it him pretty hot, I fancy,” remarked Laura, carelessly, as she sipped her parfait amour.

“And you will be glad to see him in trouble. If you say that again I will throttle you,” cried Mrs. Grover, with a sudden burst of passion.

“Now don’t be noisy, my dear old friend,” returned her companion, with a smile. “It is, of course, very dramatic, but we don’t want to bring down the house just now――we don’t, indeed.”

The unhappy mother fell into a chair, and the tears streamed in hot torrents from her eyes. Suddenly she sprung to her feet.

She snatched a handkerchief from her bosom, and showed Laura Stanbridge a golden ring and a slip of paper, on which the ink was brown and faded, as if it had been written years before.

“I will save him yet!――I will save him yet!” cried the woman. “Do you know what I will do?”

“Can’t possibly imagine.”

“I will go to him, and will show him this ring and paper, and I will tell him that he is not base born, but born in lawful wedlock, and heir to a squire’s land. That will tempt him to turn from his evil ways, and he will go to his grandfather, and, of course, he will not know what my son has been, and what he will never be again, but will make up some clever story, and it will be all right.”

“Oh, it must be a wonderfully clever story to put your son straight with Squire Kensett――wonderfully clever, indeed. Why, don’t you know that the worthy magistrate in question has already had Dandy Sutherland before him upon the charge of attempting to defraud the Saltwich Bank?”

“Before Squire Kensett,” cried Mrs. Grover, perfectly aghast at this piece of information.

“Most certainly.”

“Alf is the squire’s grandson.”

“Is he?”

“Most certainly, he is the son of Mr. Robert Everhard Kensett――read that,” said Mrs. Grover, handing her companion the paper.

“Ah I see a marriage certificate, and your husband――this Mr. Robert Everhard Kensett――is dead.”

“Yes, he is. The ship he sailed in foundered at sea and all hands on board were lost.”

“How very unfortunate――very sad indeed! But this instrument appears to be genuine.”

“When I show it my son he will do as I wish; will he not?”

“No one could refuse to exchange constant anxiety and danger for perpetual substance and respectability.”

“You think he will come with me then?” asked Mrs. Grover, for the sake of hearing such words again.

“I am sure of it, if you find him.”

“If I find him!”

“Yes, at present that little difficultly stands in the way.”

“Oh, how happy I am, and the thought only came into my poor weak head lately. My boy will be a squire, and perhaps they will make him a magistrate. Only fancy his being a magistrate.”

“I confess I cannot fancy it. At present he is hunted like a wild beast, and has been compelled to leave the country――so I have been told. He had better keep out of the way, and no doubt he will, for he is cunning as a fox.”

Mrs. Grover looked at the speaker anxiously.

“What are you doing with my certificate?” said she.

“I am folding it up to put in my pocket. It is a very important paper, and perhaps you might lose it.”

“Oh, no, I am not likely to do that,” said the other, earnestly. “I have kept that paper and the ring my husband gave me ever since I was a young and wicked girl. Don’t put it in your pocket. I shall want it, you know, to show it to my son.”

“But I don’t mean to let you show it to your son.” And she sipped her parfait amour.

“Not let me! Why not?”

“Because I don’t wish your son to become a squire and a magistrate. He would be too proud to remember his old friends.”

“Oh, Laura!” cried the miserable mother, “you cannot find it in your heart to hold him back from a life of honesty and drive him to sin and death. Ah, woman, you have made him everything that’s bad. Have you not done enough?”

“No!” shrieked Laura, rising to her feet――“no, I have not done enough, for, do you know, woman, how this precious son of yours turned round upon me?”

“No, I never heard.”

“Hark ye, woman! I knelt to that man――I, Laura Stanbridge――and he spurned me as if I had been a leper. I became a woman for once, and I was trodden on. Do you think I am likely to serve him――the recreant, heartless scoundrel? No, no, madam. You know little of me if you imagine I can forget the bitter wrong done me. I fostered a serpent, and now I both hate and despise this precious sample of manhood. Go your ways. Do as you will――you cannot count on any assistance from me. Find him if you can――but I tell you once and for all that I have done with him.”

Mrs. Grover listened to this sudden burst of fury at first with a shudder, afterwards with an icy calmness.

She had taken a resolution. Without replying she moved towards the door.

“Stop!” cried Laura Stanbridge. “Understand me distinctly. I have nothing to say against you personally. I do not dislike you, but as for him――――”

“No more. Say no more. You have done your worst.”

“Do not be sure of that. Possibly worse is to follow.”

Mrs. Grover moaned and sank back in her chair. There was no life in her eyes but one tear which struggled freely down her cheeks――no life in her frame but a slight quivering in her hands.

Laura Standbridge looked at her with a smile. Then she drew the marriage certificate from her pocket and read it over carefully, and she took the last sip of her parfait amour.

After awhile her companion recovered herself. She arose, and, holding up one hand in a deprecating manner, she passed out of the café.

“Unhappy woman!” exclaimed Miss Stanbridge, after she had gone, “She little thinks that she is not likely to see her son this side of the grave. Strange that the body has never been found――drifted out, I suppose, and never will be recovered. All things considered we must deem ourselves fortunate.”

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