Chapter CLV…

Chapter CLV

IDENTIFICATION OF PEACE――CHARGED WITH THE MURDER OF MR. DYSON.

The incidents described in the preceding chapters came to a denouement; this we shall have to chronicle a few chapters further on. Meanwhile we will put the reader in possession of other facts in connection with our hero.

Charles Peace, at this time occupied the attention of the detectives in a most remarkable degree, and every effort was made to bring the crime of murdering Mr. Dyson home to him.

Every effort was used to give as much publicity to the leading circumstances attendant on this crime. The public were furnished with the following account:――On the night of the 29th November, 1876, a civil engineer named Mr. Arthur Dyson, who resided at Bannercross-terrace, near Sheffield, was shot by a man whom he found lurking on his premises. That man was subsequently sworn to as being Charles Peace, a notorious character, who had been convicted of felony, and who was known to be a desperado.

Immediately after committing the murder Peace decamped across the adjacent fields, and from that time all trace of him was lost. A coroner’s inquest, sitting on view of the body of Mr. Dyson, returned a verdict of wilful murder against Peace, and on this a warrant was issued for his apprehension, and it is believed that he at last has been captured.

Peace was an “old bird,” and eluded those who were on his track. He was so successful in that, that many believed he had made away with himself by jumping down some old coal pit, and thus hiding his body whilst ridding the world of himself.

But the police officers who had had to deal with him did not believe this story. “Peace,” they said, “is not a man to do that; he’ll fight before he’s caught; he’s not dead.”

On the night of the murder there was a “handicap” in Sheffield, in which men were the competitors, and the railway stations were crowded with those who were returning home after viewing the pedestrian exhibition.

It was thought that Peace mixed up with this motley crowd and so effected his escape for the time being.

As to where he had gone was a question, but the police were almost as rapid in their movements as was Peace, though for the time being he appeared the most successful in the accomplishing of his purpose――the effecting of his escape.

Within five hours after Mr. Dyson’s death the whole of the large towns within a radius of two hundred miles of here had been warned of the crime which had been committed, and the railway stations of Hull, Huddersfield, Leeds, Manchester, Bradford, Liverpool, and Halifax, were most vigilantly watched, and it was known that Peace, being an old hand, knew the thieves’ runs and hiding places in those localities.

Notwithstanding every effort there was no indication of the whereabout of the man.

The houses of some of his relatives in Sheffield were searched almost nightly; nocturnal visits were made to the domiciles of other friends, but yet there were no tidings of “Peace,” and the closest scrutiny failed to show that he was having the slightest communication with any of those who in Sheffield had been regarded as attached to him, and with whom he had been in the habit of associating.

One Sheffield detective watched the Manchester Railway station for almost a month, but, of course, unsuccessfully.

The almost universally accepted version of the murderer’s escape was this――that Peace took train to Hull within a couple of hours after shooting Mr. Dyson.

Indeed, an officer who went to that town afterwards and who knew the “crimping places,” as he himself, graphically describes them, said he had no doubt that Peace had been there, and had remained a week or two, but after that there was no trace of him.

There was but one other theory left, and that was that the fellow had taken ship and gone to Hamburg――he being well versed as to the thieves’ haunts there.

It should here be stated, however, that before committing the murder Peace went to “a friend” and said he was short of cash. He borrowed £15――and forgot to return it.

Thus it will be seen that he was not short of funds when he set out with the intention of committing the murder――for that he intended to commit one there can be no doubt, although his particular reasons for doing so are, for the present, a complete mystery.

The authorities took care to circulate throughout the police districts of the United Kingdom a complete description of the man who was “wanted,” together with photographs of him, showing his visage when shaven, when wearing a beard, and, indeed, under all the appearances he had worn whilst in the hands of the police.

The authorities on the Continent and in the United States received similar advices, but still there was no trace of the man, and this only led the incredulous to be more firmly of opinion that Peace had committed suicide, and would no longer be heard of amongst the living.

It will be seen, from the official notice which we append, that if Peace fell into the hands of the police, there were marks on him which would make him somewhat easy of identification. For his apprehension a reward of £100 was offered by Government. The police notice was as follows:――

“MURDER.――£100 Reward. Whereas on the 29th ult. Mr. Arthur Dyson, C.E., was murdered at Bannercross, Sheffield, having been shot in the head, in the presence of his wife, by Charles Peace, who escaped in the darkness of the night, and is still at large; and whereas at the coroner’s inquest held on the 8th inst., upon the body of the said Arthur Dyson, a verdict of ‘wilful murder’ was found against the said Charles Peace.

“Notice is hereby given that a reward of £100 will be paid by her Majesty’s Government to any person other than a person employed in a police force in the United Kingdom who shall give such information and evidence as shall lead to the discovery and conviction of the said Charles Peace.

“Peace is a thin and slightly-built man, about forty-six years of age, but looks ten years older, five feet four or five inches high, grey (nearly white) hair, beard and whiskers (the whiskers were long when he committed the murder, but may now be cut or shaved off), has lost one or more fingers off left hand, cut mark on back of each hand, and one on forehead, walks with his legs rather wide apart, speaks somewhat peculiarly, as though his tongue was too large for his mouth, and is a great boaster.

“He is a joiner or picture-frame maker, but occasionally cleans and repairs clocks and watches, and sometimes deals in oleographs, engravings, pictures, &c., associates with loose women, and has been twice in penal servitude for burglaries near Manchester.”

Besides that Peace was known to be a “good shot,” and a quick one.

He had been a daring poacher when a young man, and always carried a revolver on him.

As a “cracksman” he stood in the foremost ranks of the thieving fraternity; he was a capital hand at opening a “safe,” and was utterly reckless as to consequences, and notoriously cruel.

Such was the man whom the police desired to apprehend, and it was well known that if he had a chance he would resist his capture, and not hesitate to resort again to the use of firearms. There is now almost every reason to believe that Peace has at length fallen into the hands of the police.

THE IDENTIFICATION.

A prisoner of the notorious character indicated above, was, of course, the object of special care and precaution. As a consequence it was found that there were marks on him of a singular description, and a word or two which he had dropped to a fellow-prisoner gave rise to a suspicion in the minds of the authorities that “John Ward” was not altogether what he professed to be――a half-caste American, and a juvenile in the art of thieving.

Inspector Phillips took the matter in hand, and as a result of his searches, came to the conclusion that the prisoner was no other than Charles Peace, of Sheffield, the murderer of Mr. Dyson.

He examined the prisoner more closely, and found the numerous discolourations and disfigurements on his body to coincide with the police description.

The photograph of the missing Peace was evidently that of this prisoner, and a number of other circumstances tended to prove the identity of the guilty man; so the police came to the conclusion that the man in Newgate was none other than the Bannercross murderer; indeed, it was generally understood that the prisoner did not attempt to deny that he was Charles Peace.

In addition to all this Mr. Jackson was in possession of some valuable information which he was not at liberty to divulge till the inquiry assumed a more definite shape.

Certain legal forms had to be gone through before Peace could be removed from Newgate to answer the charge made against him in the county in which the crime had been perpetrated.

One difficulty, however, stood in the way. The question at this time was, how to find out Mrs. Dyson; without her evidence the case would break down.

Mrs. Dyson was now “wanted” as badly as Peace had been. Some time after the murder she left this country to return to Ohio, United States, and was indeed seen on board the vessel at Queenstown by Sub-inspector Walsh.

There were persons who thought she would not remain long in America, and that she had returned to this country.

The question was, where was Mrs. Dyson? This was a query which naturally suggested itself.

Her appearance in Sheffield was a matter of great importance, for without her Peace might be kept outside the law which he had so long defied.

The public had at this time, perhaps, as much interest centred upon Mrs. Dyson as upon Peace himself.

There was a general belief, however, that Mrs. Dyson knew a great deal more than she divulged at the inquest――not, indeed, about the actual facts of the murder, but with reference to her previous knowledge of our hero, and her communications and transactions with him.

Certain letters produced at the inquest tended to show that between Mrs. Dyson and Peace much correspondence passed.

This was flatly denied by Mrs. Dyson, who declared that she had never seen the letters before, and in this unsatisfactory condition things remained for some time. When the Bannercross tragedy was occupying public attention, information respecting the appearance, conduct, and antecedents of Mrs. Dyson were read with interest.

Mrs. Catherine Dyson was married at Cleveland, Ohio, about the year 1866, to Mr. Arthur Dyson, civil engineer. In 1873 they returned to England, and lived at Tinsley, with the mother of Mr. Dyson. Afterwards they removed to Highfield, and then to Alexander-road, Heeley.

Darnall was their next abode, and at Darnall Peace first came upon the scene. He took a house near the Dysons, and endeavoured to become intimate. Mr. Dyson treated his advances with coolness, and then Peace altered his tactics, and endeavoured to make disturbances between husband and wife. Failing in this he spread mischievous reports about them, and finally threatened to shoot Mrs. Dyson.

For this a summons was issued against him, and neglecting to answer it, the summons was followed by a warrant. Upon this Peace left the neighbourhood, or at any rate endeavoured to give that impression to those who knew him. Mrs. Dyson, however, never believed that he had gone far.

Though letters, purporting to come from Germany, and signed apparently by Peace, frequently came to the house, she had the impression that he was still about the town, and at his tricks. At this time the Dysons went to Bannercross, where the murder subsequently took place.

Mrs. Dyson was then about twenty-five years of age, or half the age of her husband. She was a person of considerable muscular development, and not without personal attractions of face and figure. Her countenance was round and ruddy, her hair raven black, and neatly and fashionably tied up in coils.

After the murder of her husband she appears to have been animated by a profound hatred of Peace, and naturally so. The various statements she made tend, nevertheless, to show that she had an intimate knowledge of him, and knew his real character.

She scouted the then prevalent idea that he had drowned himself or otherwise put an end to his existence. She was certain, she stated, that he was not so far away, but that he would return and “finish” her.

It was not her husband he intended to shoot, but herself. She regretted she had not a revolver when she met Peace; in that case she should herself have shot him dead. She was convinced that he would escape capture till he had put a bullet through her head as well as her husband’s.

Her only protection was to have a revolver herself, and if he came she declared she should use it. These and other statements show the views Mrs. Dyson had at that time.

Her examination at the inquest was looked forward to with great interest. Then it was believed revelations would be made by her as to her knowledge of Peace, but in fact nothing transpired.

She positively repudiated the notion that there was anything kept back, or that Peace was anything more to her than he had been to her husband.

The following are some of her replies in answer to the Coroner, who pressed her very closely upon this point:――

Had there ever been a quarrel between you and your husband with regard to Peace?――No. No quarrrel.

You are quite sure that he never quarrelled with you on account of your familiarity with Peace?――No; I am sure he has not.

Has he ever complained of your speaking to Peace?――He did not wish me to speak to him.

Has he ever found fault with you for speaking to him?――No, he has never found fault, because he told me never to speak to him, and I did not.

The letters found near the scene of the murder created a good deal of bewilderment as to what they related to, and who were the authors of them.

These letters were found the morning after the murder by police-constable Ward, in Mrs. Else’s grass field, opposite Mr. Dyson’s house, and handed over to Inspector Bradbury.

Amongst them was a pink envelope enclosing a cent. American coin, the envelope bearing the words “C. Peace, Esq.”

The directions and other writing on the covers were evidently in a woman’s hand, and written by one who apparently was carrying on an intrigue with Peace.

These letters and papers were by the police evidently believed to have been written by Mrs. Dyson to Peace, for during the examination of Mrs. Dyson by the Coroner, the letters were handed to the latter, who thereupon closely cross-examined the witness as to her knowledge of them.

The Coroner, in alluding to the letters in question, said――

Have you ever seen this writing before (handing witness a quantity of letters)?――No.

Have you looked at them?――Yes.

Did you ever lend Peace a book?――No.

The Coroner (to the jury): These are letters and memoranda, gentlemen. They are not addressed to anyone――so it is difficult to say what bearing they have on the case. Addressing witness: Did Peace never write to you?――No.

You are quite sure of that?――Yes.

Did he never write asking you to meet him?――No.

The Coroner (to the police): I suppose some one will give evidence as to where these came from?

Mr. Inspector Bradbury: Yes.

The Coroner: It is difficult, gentlemen, to know what to do with regard to those letters; they are not addressed. There is one here. I do not like to read it, because it does not say for whom it is intended. It runs:――“I write you these few lines to thank you for all your kindness;” and so on. It is not addressed to anyone, and might have been written to Mrs. Dyson or not. To witness:

Did you ever write a letter to Peace in your life?――No, I never did.

Not a scrap of paper of anything?――No.

You never wrote a word to him on paper?――No.

Just be careful, please. Do you mean to swear you never have written a word to him on paper?――No.

Never at all?――No.

Mr. Bradbury explained that the letters were picked up by a constable about fifteen yards from where Peace was seen to get over a wall. They were found the morning after the murder. Peace had been in the neighbourhood to several places, and showed the papers, which he said were in Mrs. Dyson’s handwriting, and written by her at the time she lived in Darnall.

The Jury: Are they all in one handwriting?――Some are in ink and some in pencil. There is one scrap in Mr. Dyson’s handwriting, telling Peace that he would have nothing to do with him.

To witness: Whose handwriting is that?――I don’t know.

Is it in your handwriting?――No.

Can you write?――No, I never do write.

The Coroner said they were not addressed, but one scrap was identified by witness as her husband’s handwriting. It was, “Charles Peace is requested not to interfere with my family.” (To witness.) Do you know Peace’s handwriting when you see it.――Yes.

Witness then went over the letters, and thought that some of them were in Peace’s handwriting. The writing was similar to that contained in the threatening letters which were at Mr. Chambers’s office.

Inspector Bradbury explained that the letters had been given up to the chief constable, who had intended to be present at the inquest, but his brother’s death had prevented him.

The Coroner (to witness): I understand you to say that, with the exception of the threatening letter, Peace never wrote to you, or to him?――No, I never did.

Was this threatening letter addressed to you or to your husband?――To my husband.

Then he never wrote to you a threatening letter or any thing else?――No. The letters threatened both. Peace never wrote to me.

Then again with regard to the pink envelope and the cent coin the following took place:――

Mrs. Dyson (recalled) was examined by the coroner, who said: Are you an American by birth?――No.

You have been living in America?――Yes.

Where did you see this coin last (meaning the cent)?――I cannot say where I have seen this. I have seen several.

Do you know where Peace got it?――No.

Did you give it to him?――No.

Did you never give a coin at all?――No, I did not.

The papers, after Peace’s identification, published an account of the interview of Peace, before the murder, with the Rev. E. Newman, in which he made charges of a very gross kind against Mrs. Dyson, and produced letters, &c., in support of his allegations. There can be little doubt that these letters are identical with those afterwards found by the police-officer.

It is said that one great object Peace had in view in trying to get Mrs. Dyson to follow his fortunes was that she would be useful to him in disposing of the proceeds of his burglaries. At one time he offered her £50 to take a trip through the country with him.

Peace had a great liking for arms, and succeeded in stealing four revolvers in his burglarious expeditions.

With one of these, a six-chambered weapon, he shot Mr. Dyson at Bannercross, and he used the same revolver when he encountered Police-constable Robinson at Blackheath, and shot him in the arm, just before his capture.

This was his favourite revolver, but he had another, a smaller one, with five chambers, which he practised with at home.

It carried only a very little bullet, not much larger than a pea, and when fired its report was scarcely louder than the crack of a whip. A capital revolver for practice, he frequently used it in his garden, firing at a bottle for a mark, and gaining great proficiency of aim.

The third revolver had seven chambers; and the fourth ten chambers. The six-chambered one was his constant companion, however. He always carried it loaded, slept with it under his pillow, and kept the other three weapons, likewise loaded, in a drawer within easy reach of his bed, so that if his house had been surrounded by police, and they had endeavoured to arrest him, there is no doubt whatever that Peace would have fought to the last, and that he would have been captured at a terrible sacrifice.

He devoted a good deal of attention to his weapons; frequently drew the charges and cleaned them, and always had them ready for use.

The six-chambered revolver was wrested from his grasp at Blackheath by the police; but the other three, together with the ammunition, were sent down to Nottingham, and by a relative of Mrs. Thompson’s were dropped into the canal near the town.

The arrangements for conveying the prisoner to Sheffield, to be then and there examined upon the charge of murdering Mr. Dyson, had been made in what was supposed to be a satisfactory manner, and it was at this time that our hero committed one of the most daring acts in his whole career.

On Wednesday morning, of June 22, 1878, Charles Peace was taken in charge of two stalwart warders to the King’s-cross Station, for the purpose of being conveyed by express train to Sheffield.

But the proceedinge came to a standstill in a most extraordinary manner.

On Wednesday morning by a determined and nearly successful attempt at escape, by leaping from an express train, Charles Peace, alias Ward――notorious as the hero of the Blackheath burglaries, and accused, on the evidence of Mrs. Dyson, of having murdered Mr. Dyson at Bannercross, near Sheffield――added another startling chapter to the strange, eventful history with which the public are already familiar.

The facts of this daring attempt are briefly as follows:――The prisoner Peace left King’s-cross, London, by the 5.15 Great Northern train, accompanied by two warders from Pentonville Prison, where he had been confined, and he ought to have arrived at Victoria Station, Sheffield, at 8 54 a.m. The warders, who have been very much censured in Sheffield, have stated that when they brought Peace from London he was exceedingly troublesome throughout the whole journey, and wanted to leave the train whenever it stopped, and indeed when it was travelling.

At Peterborough he was allowed to get out, and the warders had considerable difficulty in gettlng him back when they urged him to return, as he was keeping the train waiting. He answered them sneeringly, “What have I to do with caring for trains?”

By way of precaution against this annoyance the chief warder states that he provided himself with a number of little bags, and that whenever Peace required it one of them was handed to him, and was afterwards thrown out of the window.

It is clear that the desperado had been on the lookout for a favourable opportunity of making his escape, and at last it came. He pretended great weakness, and used several of the bags on the way.

This may partly account for the fact that he had no irons on his lower limbs. His handcuffs were fastened with a chain about six inches long between them, and another chain for the warders to hold him by.

The point selected was peculiarly favourable to the attempt.

Between Worksop and Shireoaks――so called from certain oaks under which the three shires of Nottingham, York, and Derby meet――the ground is comparatively level; the country is also well adapted by the neighbourhood of the forests, as well as by old lime-pits and coal-workings, to offer temporary shelter to a criminal.

Peace, it is known, is well acquainted with the district, having tramped it repeatedly when some of his many enterprises were unsuccessful.

The warders, through Chief Constable Jackson, of Sheffield, have stated that when the train had passed Worksop, and was going at full speed, the prisoner asked for another bag.

The chief warder gave him one, and he stood up with his face to the window to use it, the under-warder being close behind him.

The window was dropped for him to throw it out, and, quick almost as lightning, Peace took a flying leap through the window. The under-warder sprang forward and caught him by the left foot. There he held him suspended head downwards, Peace kicking the warder with his right foot, and struggling with all his might to get free.

The chief warder, unable to render his colleague any assistance in holding Peace, inasmuch as he occupied the whole space of the window, hastened to the other side of the carriage and pulled at the communication cord to alarm the driver and secure the stoppage of the train.

The cord would not act, and some gentlemen who were in the next compartment, seeing the position of affairs, assisted in the efforts of the warder to stop the train.

All this time the struggle was going on between Peace and his warder, and eventually the prisoner succeeded in kicking off his shoe, and he fell, his head striking the footboard of the carriage, and he dropped on the line.

Supposing that the burglar had been able, as he came very near being, to jump clean through the window and alight on the soft embankment, fortune would also have favoured him in the matter of a fair start for Sherwood Forest.

The struggle lasted during about two miles, and even after Peace got out the train ran on for about a mile before the speed slackened sufficiently to allow the warders to follow him.

A three-mile start would have given the desperado such a chance of availing himself of the features of a very peculiar country as he of all men would have delighted in. When it had slackened speed sufficiently to allow the warders to alight the express train went on, and the warders hurried back along the line.

Mr. William Barlow, fruiterer, of Retford, who was a passenger by the train in which Peace was travelling, accompanied the warders, and in a plain, unvarnished manner he states that between Shireoaks and Kineton Park he heard a noise, and looking out of the window saw one of the warders with a shoe in his hand.

The train was brought up near the malt kiln at Kineton Park.

The two warders and Mr. Barlow at once got out, and ran back along the line, and when they neared the spot where Peace made his plunge, they found him lying insensible on the line.

He had been dragged for about twelve yards, and appeared much hurt, but when he was moved to the side of the road consciousness returned, and he begged them to cover him up as he was very cold.

A slow train, which is timed to reach Sheffield at 9.20, soon came up.

The warders shouted to the guard that Peace had jumped from the train and was lying there. The train was pulled up, and the criminal, who was now in no condition to offer resistance, was placed in the guard’s van.

He was then bleeding profusely, and apparently in great pain, but the guard made him as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

Meantime, in Sheffield, the scene was highly exciting. As early as six in the morning a crowd began to gather round the Town Hall and at all the approaches, and long before the time the convict was expected to arrive, the assemblage had become very dense. Several persons fainted, and were taken away; but still the crowd waited most patiently until the rumour spread that the convict had escaped.

Then the excitement was redoubled; the people surged backwards and forwards; they almost attempted to force the doors, and the police had hard work to keep their places at the railway station.

When the train which should have brought Peace arrived without him and ten minutes late, the great crowd outside commenced shouting and yelling in a most excited manner, and the utmost confusion prevailed.

The prisoners’ van, which was awaiting to convey Peace and the warders, was drawn up opposite the large hall-door.

The train being brought to a standstill, a surprising announcement was made by the guard.

“Peace has jumped out,” cried that official. The statement was for the moment treated by the crowd as a hoax, and meant as a “blind” in order to get the platform cleared; but when, instead of Peace, a sword, a bag, and a rug belonging to one of his warders were handed over by the guard to Inspector Bird, it was generally believed that Peace had really escaped, and that the warders were on his track.

It was rumoured at the station that Peace had escaped through the railway carriage window, and had succeeded in making off; but several of the more incredulous, however, would have it that he had been taken out of the train at Darnall, and would be from there quietly conveyed in a cart to Sheffield. Many persons lingered on the platform in order to satisfy themselves of his non-arrival.

At the Sheffield Police-court the few persons who had taken their seats in court by a quarter-past nine o’clock were astonished when, a few minutes subsequently, the chief constable entered, in a state of considerable excitement.

Addressing his audience from the bench, Mr. Jackson said he was sorry to tell them that they had put themselves to inconvenience in attending thus early in the day, all to no account.

“In short,” he exclaimed, “Peace has escaped from the warders; at least, that is what I hear.”

Meanwhile, the court very slowly filled, and a minute or two before ten o’clock the witnesses for the prosecution were admitted from the magisterial entrance.

Mrs. Dyson, it was noted, looked wonderfully well, and even more collected in her demeanour on Friday last, notwithstanding the fact that she was to undergo the ordeal of a special examination.

She again wore a black hat and feather, but eschewed the veil which before she persisted in keeping drawn close down over her features, and the thick waterproof, with which she formerly enveloped her figure, had given place to a mantle of a lighter description.

Punctually at ten, the stipendiary, Mr. Welby, took his seat. Mr. Pollard and Mr. W. E. Clegg, the prosecuting and defending solicitors, were also in their places, but the dock remained untenanted.

A quarter-past ten, and no Peace. The rumour was whispered around that it was doubtful whether he would be able to appear at all that day, and this view of the situation was strengthened when, after an interview with Mr. Jackson, the stipendiary hurriedly left the court.

Presently Mr. Welby came back and said――

As to this case, in consequence of the injuries the man Peace has received this morning it is necessary to remand him for eight days. Therefore, the cuse is adjourned for eight days.

There will be nothing further done this morning. Do not disperse in a hurry, for there is a large crowd outside.

Another correspondent telegraphed:――The news was again and again repeated that Peace was dead, but the fact is that this report was founded upon his fall from the carriage. No fears are entertained as to his ultimate convalescence.

On reaching the police-offices at Sheffield, the convict was carried to a cell where he was seen by Dr. Spowart, the police-surgeon, and Mr. Hallam, a surgeon of large experience. They found he was suffering from a severe scalp wound in the head and concussion of the brain, and he appeared in a very exhausted state. He vomited freely, and it was with some difficulty that stimulants could be administered to him.

His wound was carefully dressed, and he was laid on the cell bed, and covered with rugs. After a little time Peace was able to speak to his warders. The Sheffield police cells have the advantage of ample space, light, and warmth.

The furniture in each cell consists of a long wooden bench: but the apartment occupied by Peace has had added to it a mattrass and pillows, together with an ample supply of rugs.

There the little old man lies, his grey head curled down under the rugs, and near the door stand his two keepers.

During the first hour he was frequently aroused, and brandy administered to him. At first force had almost to be used to get him to take it, but afterwards he drank it without any objection; though at one time, with that thoughtfulness for himself for which he has been distinguished, he expressed a preference for whiskey, “if he must take any stimulants.”

The vomiting with which he was at first troubled, soon ceased under the influence of the restoratives, and the medical men have been unremitting in their attention. There are some officers in the Sheffield force who were very doubtful as to the injuries he had sustained, and believe that he has been up to his old cunning and shamming a bit.

These constables stated that when he was lifted up, and the bottle placed to his lips, he ground his teeth and clenched his fists, and appeared to be struggling in a fit.

He was laid on the bench, and force was about to be used to make him take the stimulant, when one who knew him well said very sternly, “Now, Charley, it’s no use. Let’s have none of your hankey pankey tricks here. You’ll have to take it.”

Charley recognised the voice, opened his eyes, and replied, “All right; give me a minute.” A knowing wink passed among the officers, and presently he sat up and took the brandy. Indeed, he seemed rather to like it, for he drank two gills in a comparatively short time.

He is now resting quietly, the only request he makes being that he may be well covered, as he feels the cold, which is in Sheffield exceptionally severe. When the Great Northern express train reached Retford the carriages for Sheffield and Manchester were detached and “made up” for the Manchester, Sheffield, and Lincolnshire Railway.

The compartment occupied by Peace and his warders was a third-class one in a composite carriage, immediately in front of the guard’s van.

In the next――a first-class compartment――were Mr. Benjamin F. Cocker, who resides at Retford, and another gentleman.

Mr. Cocker says: We had got about half a mile past Shireoaks Station when I heard a loud shout from the compartment where I knew Peace was. The gentleman with me said, ‘Peace has got out,’ and tried to open the window on the near side, but it was frozen fast. I tried the other window, and, opening it, leaned half my body out and tried to pull the communication cord. I saw the warder, who was doing the same thing. The warder said, ‘I have got hold of this cord, but cannot make it ring.’ After trying this all we could, at Branchcliffe siding we signalled to the signalman; again and again we tried the cord, and the train slackened speed. As it did so, I exclaimed to the warder, ‘You are a nice sort of fellow to let the man get out of your grip.’ The warder answered, ‘He jumped right through the window in a second. I held on him by the leg, but his boot came off, and of course he dropped then.’ The warder’s hands were covered with blood, for Peace had kicked him very severely while struggling at the window.”

For the present, at least, Peace will remain in Sheffield.

At half-past ten p.m., Chief-constable Cosgrove and his colleagues reported that Peace was slumbering in apparent comfort; but as the warder――who looked very wearied, and who evidently regards his charge as something entirely out of the ordinary run――remarked, “With one eye open.”

A little earlier in the evening the medical attendant had found it necessary to order the prisoner a little medicine.

[Sidenote: No. 87.]

This he refused to take; “but,” said the warder, “it was the doctor’s orders, and we were bound to carry them out.”

Peace screamed violently, and the warder stated that he found a good deal of force necessary to compel the prisoner to take the potion, which, it is believed, was a slight opiate.

“Even now, after all he has gone through,” said the warder, “he seems to have more than the strength of an ordinary man.”

The warder added that, having been himself afoot since two o’clock in the morning, he felt much exhausted. After taking the medicine the prisoner was less excited, but did not seem to sleep at all easily.

The police understood that the prisoner was to be retained in Sheffield till all is over. Not only in Sheffield, but at Darnall and Bannercross, where Mr. Dyson was well known, at Shireoaks, Kineton Park, and Worksop, near where the prisoner lived, and all round the district; an unparalleled interest was shown in the prisoner’s latest escapade.

The following further particulars are given by a correspondent:

The window was let down, and Peace, stooping in front of it, was using the bag, which the warders thought he was going to throw out as usual. Suddenly, with all the agility of a cat, Peace took a “header,” and threw himself out of the window. The under warder sprang forward, and was just in time to catch him by the left foot.

There he held Peace, head downwards, dangling out of the window――an extraordinary sight to those who happened to be passing at the time. Peace with his other foot kicked the warder’s hands, and struggled most determinedly to get free from the warder’s grasp.

The chief warder, finding the space too narrow to help his associate in the struggle, seized the rope communicating with the guard’s van, and endeavoured to stop the train.

Peace, knowing that the window was too narrow to let the other get forward, became more savage and ferocious still, and kicked and wriggled about with great violence.

Still the warder clung to him, and, for a distance of two miles, Peace was hanging head downwards by the carriage side. At last, by supreme effort, he managed to wriggle off his boot, which was left in the warder’s hand, and the convict fell on the stepboard of the carriage, from which he bounded upon the ends of the sleepers.

The train was still travelling very rapidly. The communication cord having failed to work until a gentleman in the next compartment, hearing a noise, and suspecting something was wrong, managed to pull the rope, and the warders had the satisfaction of hearing the deep “boom” of the gong.

The train slackened speed and the warders got out and ran back up the line for nearly a mile, where they found Peace lying as he had fallen, having evidently received injuries sufficient to prevent his getting away.

He was conscious, however, and gave the warders a smile of satisfaction as they came up to him. They found him in the act of trying to wriggle the handcuffs off his wrists.

Blood was flowing from a wound in his head. They picked him up, and, as the slow train which arrives at Sheffield at 9.20 a.m. was coming up, they signalled it to stop. The convict was put into the guard’s van, where for the rest of the journey the warders kept a sharp look-out.

He asked to be wrapped up in a rug, as it was a very cold morning, exclaiming, “Oh, my head!――oh, my poor head!” precisely the same observation he made when he was brought to Greenwich Police-station, after his encounter with Police-constable Robinson, the morning he was caught.

On his arrival at Sheffield, an immense crowd awaited the train, but Peace was promptly seized by four officers, conveyed to the van, and was soon at the Police-office, where he looked a piteous spectacle.

As he was lifted out of the vehicle and removed inside the police-station he appeared in a very exhausted condition, but after a little time he spoke a few words to the warders and took a pretty stiff dose of brandy, which was administered to him by medical orders.

PEACE’S EFFORT TO ESCAPE.

Various versions were very readily afloat after the express had reached Sheffield as to how this daring convict had succeeded in eluding his custodians, but they were all more or less wide of the mark.

Through the courtesy of the chief constable, we are able to give the following authentic particulars of this last and most astounding feat of this remarkable man.

It appears that when the warders brought Peace from Pentonville on the previous week he was exceedingly troublesome throughout the whole journey, and wanted to leave the train whenever it stopped; and indeed when it was travelling.

At Peterborough he was allowed to get out, and the warders had considerable difficulty in getting him back into the train.

The chief warder adopted a plan of his own on the present occasion, and he provided himself with a number of little bags, and whenever Peace required it one of them was handed to him, and was afterwards thrown out of the window.

From the moment of their leaving Pentonville he appeared to set himself deliberately to work to annoy and irritate and vex the officers to the utmost of his power.

And no one unacquainted with him can form any conception of his matchless powers in that direction.

Having been in prison so many times, he is as well acquainted with the rules which guide the warders as they are themselves; and any infringement of those rules on their part he would quickly detect and make a noise about.

His set purpose seemed to be to provoke them to a breach of the rules, and to serve him as he too richly deserved to be served.

He behaved more like a beast than a human being, until the carriage became almost unbearable.

The train had passed Worksop, and a part of the country was reached which Peace knew too well. All the way down on this, as in his previous journey, he had been adopting the most ingenious and cunning devices to put the warders off their guard, but without success.

Now was his last chance of eluding them, and if he could but escape from the carriage, he could follow, perhaps, well remembered “cuts,” steal into Darnall or some other place of refuge, and, profiting by past experience, be no more discovered.

The train was whirling along at express speed; but what of that? To such a man to regain freedom was worth a supreme effort――though he died in the attempt. He had used several of the bags referred to on the journey, and he asked for another.

The chief warder gave him one, and he stood up with his face to the window to use it, the under warder being close behind him. The window was dropped for him to throw it out, and quick almost as lightning Peace took a flying leap through the window.

The under warder sprang forward and caught him by the left foot. There he held him suspended head downwards; Peace kicking the warder with his right foot, and struggling with all his might to get free.

The chief warder――unable to render his colleague any assistance in holding Peace, inasmuch as he occupied the whole space of the window――hastened to the other side of the carriage and pulled at the communication cord, to alarm the driver and secure the stoppage of the train.

The cord would not act, and some gentlemen who were in the next compartment, seeing the position of affairs, assisted in the efforts of the warder to stop the train.

All this time a most desperate struggle was going on between Peace and the warder. Peace, whose vitality seemed to be unbounded, was struggling with all his might, quite reckless of the consequences of falling headlong on the rails, or of being caught in the train and dashed to pieces. The warder held on to him like grim death; determined not to let go of him, but unable to secure a firmer grip of his prisoner.

The passengers all down the train had had their attention arrested by what was going on, and were craning their necks out of the windows, astonished at the spectacle which met their gaze.

The train, it is stated, ran a distance of nearly two miles whilst this exciting scene was being enacted; and then Peace succeeded in kicking off his left shoe, which remained in the warder’s hand; and he fell with all the force of his own weight and the impelling motion of the train.

In his fall his head struck the footboard of the carriage, and he rolled over into the six-foot between the up and down lines.

The train ran on about a mile further before it could be stopped, and then the warders and others jumped out and ran back along the line in pursuit of their prisoner.

They found him in the six-foot, near to where he had fallen, insensible, and blood flowing from a wound in his head.

They assisted him up, and the down slow train, which was due shortly after, was stopped, and he was lifted into the guard’s van.

In a few minutes he recovered so much consciousness as to say, “I am cold; cover me up.” Rugs were placed upon him, and in a little while he arrived in Sheffield.

NARRATIVES BY EYE-WITNESSES.

Mr. W. Barlow, fruiterer, of Retford, who attends Sheffield market, was a passenger on Wednesday morning by the fast train by which Peace was travelling.

Between Shireoaks and Kineton Park he heard a noise, and looking out of the window saw one of warders with a shoe in his hand. The train was stopped as soon as possible, but it had run nearly two miles before it came to a stand, and was brought up near the malt-kiln at Kineton Park.

The two warders and Mr. Barlow at once got out and ran back along the line, and when they neared the spot where Peace made his plunge they found him lying insensible on the line.

He appeared much hurt, but when he was moved to the side of the road consciousness returned, and he begged them to cover him up as he was very cold.

Shortly afterwards a slow train came up, and this was stopped. Peace was put into the van and brought on to Sheffield.

It seems that the escape was managed in this way. As the train was flying on at full speed Peace induced the warder to allow him to open the window.

No sooner was this done than the convict flung himself head first through the opening. The warder seized him by the leg, and held on for some time, but the prisoner struggled so violently that his shoe came off in the warder’s hand, and the wretched man fell upon the line.

One of the first persons who reached Peace after his desperate leap was a blacksmith, named William Stephenson, who is at present working at Kineton Park.

He says:――About a quarter to nine o’clock I was standing close to Kineton-park station, when the fast train from London came slowly into the station. Almost everybody was at the carriage windows, and some were craning their necks out, and looking back up the line. We asked what was the matter, and they shouted excitedly “Peace has escaped; he has jumped out of the train.”

We knew all about Peace at Kineton Park, and there was a general rush from the platform up the line after the warders, whom we could see just ahead of us.

The guard said they had just stopped for the warders to get out, and we rushed on.

We came up to the warders as they got to Peace, who was lying by the side of the up line about a mile from Kineton-park station in the direction of Shireoaks.

At that point the line runs almost on a level with the surrounding country.

Peace appears to have jumped out of the window on the right hand side of the train, and when the slipping off of his boot released him from the grasp of the officer he fell in the six foot between the up and down metals.

The velocity he received from the motion of the train then rolled him over, and he must have fallen where we found him, or have crawled off the metals of the up line.

He was lying on his back, and was to all appearance unconscious.

Blood flowed freely from a large gash over his right ear, and he did not speak.

Just then a slow train came up from Shireoaks for Sheffield, and that was stopped. We lifted Peace into the guard’s van, and laid him on the floor.

He did not say anything about his attempt to escape, but merely said that he was cold, and asked for a rug to be put over him. He was brought to Sheffield.

The people in the train were wonderfully excited, and had seen the struggle from their carriage windows.

After Peace’s arrest frequent references were made to the large black rimmed spectacles which he had worn with so much ostentation for the purpose of concealing his identity.

Indeed, they had played almost as conspicuous a part in his case as a certain pair of elegant gold-framed spectacles did when their owner was under the searching cross-examination of a gentleman who on Wednesday occupied a seat on the bench.

Precious as the spectacles of Mr. Peace are to him, they have narrowly escaped destruction. After he had been picked up on the line on Wednesday morning, and taken on to Sheffield, two men named George Hewitt and Wm. Turner walked down the metals to see what could be seen.

Peace had fallen at a place called Harrycroft, between Brancliffe siding and the canal siding, near to Kineton Park; and when the men reached the place and were looking round they saw lying on the line Peace’s spectacles. They handed them over to the station-master at Kineton Park.

The warders had evidently been too much occupied with their re-capture of Peace to notice that he had lost his spectacles, or to think about them.

Probably there never was more excitement caused by the expected arrival of an individual who had gained notoriety, through whatever source it might be, than was manifested at the Victoria Station on Wednesday.

Notwithstanding the bitter cold, a concourse of perhaps some thousand persons of all ages and both sexes assembled in the square opposite the court, intent on seeing Peace if possible, and though a large body of police, under the charge of Inspector Bird, did their utmost to keep the crowd from gaining ingress to the platform, the station was crowded.

It was generally believed that Peace would be removed from his cell to Pentonville, and brought down by what is known as the newspaper train, leaving King’s Cross at 5.15, and due in Sheffield at 8.58.

When the train steamed into the station some twelve minutes late the crowd had increased very considerably.

Those outside commenced shouting and yelling in a most excited manner, and the utmost confusion prevailed.

The prisoners’ van, which was awaiting to convey Peace and the warders, was drawn up opposite the large hall door. The train being brought to a standstill, a surprising announcement was made by the guard.

“Peace has jumped out!” cried that official; and to see the amazement that came over the countenances of Inspector Bird and his men were at once painful and amusing in the extreme.

The affair was for the moment treated by the crowd as a hoax, and meant as a “blind” in order to get the platform cleared; but when, instead of Peace, a sword, a bag, and a rug belonging to one of his warders were handed over by the guard to Inspector Bird, it was generally believed that Peace had really escaped, and that the warders were on his track.

It was rumoured at the station that Peace had escaped through the railway carriage window, just after passing through Welwyn, and that he was once more at large.

Passing from mouth to mouth, this version of the story soon spread far and wide. Several of the more knowing, however, would have it that Peace had been taken out of the train at Darnall, and would be from there quietly conveyed in a cab to Sheffield.

Many lingered on the platform, however, in order to satisfy themselves of his non-arrival, for they seemed to entertain the idea that it was probable he had been secreted in one of the carriages till the course was clear for his conveyance from the train into the van.

But when the latter was driven away without its expected charge, and the police returned to the Town Hall, the crowd commenced to disperse, and by and by the station assumed its normal appearance.

Peace was carried to the first cell to the right of the stairs on the second landing. Under ordinary circumstances a police cell is not the most luxuriously furnished room in the world; but the Sheffield police cells have the advantages of ample space, light, and warmth.

The “furniture” in each cell consists of a wooden bench, and that answers all the purposes of a bed, a chair, a sofa, and so forth. On this bed the convict was laid, rugs were rolled up for his pillow and a heap of rugs was thrown over him.

Mr. Harrison, who was a witness in the case, was at the court, and he was asked to see Peace, but he manifested a decided reluctance to do so; and, indeed, said he would as soon attend upon――well, somebody else, as he would see Peace.

Dr. Spowart, Police-Surgeon of the Walkley Division, and Mr. Hallam of the Central Division, were promptly in attendance, and they found that he was suffering from a severe scalp wound in the head and concussion of the brain; and he appeared in a very exhausted state.

He vomited freely, and it was with some difficulty that stimulants could be administered to him. His wound was carefully dressed; he was laid on the cell bed and covered with rugs. There were some officers present who were dubious as to the extent of the injuries he had sustained, and believed that he was up to his old cunning and shamming a bit.

When at intervals a little brandy was given to him, he was lifted up and the bottle placed to his lips. He ground his teeth, clenched his fists, and appeared to be struggling in a fit.

He was laid on the bench, and force was about to be used to make him take the stimulant, when one who knew him well said, very sternly, “Now, Charley, it’s no use. Let’s have none of your hankey pankey tricks here. You’ll have to take it.”

Charley recognised the voice; opened his eyes, and replied, “All right: give me a minute.”

A knowing wink passed amongst the officers, and presently he sat up and took the brandy. Afterwards he took stimulants when offered to him; and he even went so far as to express a preference for whiskey over brandy.

After being thus attended to, he would immediately lie down and curl himself up under his rugs, scarcely leaving even his little grey head visible.

Mr. Hallam visited him at frequent intervals during the afternoon and evening, and on each occasion he found him steadily improving.

The vomiting had long ceased; he took stimulants and food readily, and was indeed going on “as well as could be expected.”

When Mr. Hallam saw him late at night, he said he should not come down again unless he was sent for.

I was infected for once by the common curiosity, and instead of waiting patiently to read your report of the final hearing before the magistrates, of the charge of murder against Peace, I betook myself to the Town Hall in good time, in the hope that, if I should escape being squeezed as flat as a red herring in the process of effecting an entrance, I might see the noted prisoner, and admire the tact with which my friend, Mr. W. E. Clegg, would cross-examine Mrs. Dyson.

It soon appeared that I was out in my calculations. I gather from your second edition that this morning “the early birds did not catch the worm,” though they did receive the next best thing, the shock of a surprise.

“Peace has escaped” was the cry. I had made up my mind to the disappointment of my expectations, and supposed I should hear in an hour or two that the mangled body of Peace had been picked up on the line, or that the prisoner, maimed and battered, had been found and sent to hospital.

However, I betook myself to the Court to try what was to be heard and seen. We sometimes hear how hard it is to get together magistrates enough to do the business. There was no such difficulty this morning. I should think some of these excellent gentlemen were there to perform a work of supererogation and score an attendance that might count in the scale of merit.

And they were in capital time too. For a quarter of an hour several of them, with sundry non-magisterial friends, were on the bench.

A few moments before the stroke of ten entered Mr. Welby, the able, mild, and unpretending stipendiary. On his left was Mr. Overend, Q.C., whose genial and ruddy countenance seems to defy the power of years; and on the right was Mr. T. W. Rodgers, with a patriarchal aspect. The audience was curious and excited.

The Mayor did not put in an appearance, but a fair majority of aldermen and councillors were present, and had established themselves in the best places they could get before the doors were opened to the common public.

Mr. H. E. Watson talked last week of “the governing families of the town,” but these were, I suppose, the governing men, and as they serve the public assiduously it was meet that they should have a sort of priority. A few minutes after ten enters Mr. Pollard, Treasury solicitor, bland and cheerful, and bowing to the Bench, takes his seat.

A little later appears the prisoner’s solicitor, Mr. W. E. Clegg, with no marks of fussiness or anxiety, such as would make a client nervous, but with the self-contained look, assuring those who were interested that all the resources of an active, acute, and trained legal mind were at their service.

Everybody looked and listened. There was the prisoner’s dock empty. It contained several chairs, with a pitcher of water and a glass.

The whisper went round that the prison surgeon was in attendance on Peace, and the speculation was――Is he in condition to be brought up? Or, if not, will Mr. Pollard offer the prisoner’s advocate the opportunity to cross-examine Mrs. Dyson in his client’s absence?

Everybody expected to see Mr. Pollard rise, state to the Bench what had happened, and make a suggestion as to the course to be pursued.

Presently there was a move, and the chief constable made a private communication to the stipendiary.

Mr. Welby left his seat and went out, followed by Mr. Overend and Mr. Rogers.

Then Mr. Clegg, and next Mr. Pollard, were called out. For five or ten minutes there was nothing to do but look round and speculate.

There is but one female in court. How is this? Is female curiosity defunct? Don’t the ladies want to see Peace and the woman whose name has been so unhappily mixed up with his, and who may be regarded as one of his victims?

No doubt they do. Never was female curiosity more lively, and this morning there were many early breakfasts, and there was a decided resolution, to be in time.

Soon after nine o’clock, quite a bevy of ladies had made their way into the police offices, never doubting that their potent claims would carry them into the court, and secure them the gratification they longed for.

It was a painful duty for the chief constable to make the ladies aware that the examination of the day was likely to take a very delicate turn indeed――so delicate that the presiding magistrate would have to point out to any ladies who might be present the propriety of retiring.

I will not undertake to say that there were not applicants who could have run the risks of all this, but the case was to put to the group so plainly as to induce them all to retire.

But, as I have said, there was one woman in court and the whisper went round “That is Mrs. Dyson.”

“Is that lady a widow? I should not have guessed it,” was the remark. Certainly she was out of mourning.

I have the pleasure to remark that the lady appears quite to have recovered the shock of her bereavement of two years ago, and that her two voyages across the Atlantic with her sojourn there, seem, judging from her rosy visage, quite to have restored her spirits and established her health.

With every desire to be as complimentary as possible, and to paint female charms with the liveliest colours, I cannot borrow the imaginative language of a pretended interviewer of New York, who has soared into the realms of fiction to find Mrs. Dyson’s version of her husband’s murder, and to discover the grounds surrounding his mansion, and the servants who were brought to the spot by the screams of their horrified mistress.

The Bannercross cottage is capable of development when seen through a New York telescope. The American interviewer enlists the sympathies and stirs up the credulity of his readers at the outset, by saying Mrs. Dyson is “a young and extremely handsome lady.”

One does not want gratuitously to take the edge off so very pleasant a compliment. But if the said interviewer had seen, instead of imagining, Mrs. Dyson, I fancy he would have given us a guess at her weight in pounds――for that is a common ingredient in an American description――and if he had been a good judge, he would have put the figure pretty high.

However, I may satisfy your readers by saying Mrs. Dyson is buxom and blooming; and when Mr. Dyson’s heart was pierced by her youthful charms he no doubt showed himself a good judge of female beauty.

It was remarked last week that when she was examined for the prosecution, she wore a veil, and Peace remarking that she kissed the book without raising her veil, insisted that she should take the oath “without a veil between” her lips and the calfskin binding.

To-day she had provided against such an objection, and had discarded the veil, her headgear being a hat with a feather, jauntily set on.

As I am not a milliner, and only saw her sitting, I cannot tell you anything about the rest of her dress, but that her general appearance was stylish and cheerful, and it did not appear that the prospect of being put through the small sieve by Mr. W. E. Clegg had alarmed her――certainly it had not blanched her cheeks.

Well, but while I have been noting Mrs. Dyson and the less notable persons, the magistrates and advocates have concluded their consultation out of court. They resume their places, and then Mr. Welby makes the brief announcement that ends all questions for the day.

A very large proportion of the public were glad to hear that Charles Peace had recovered very satisfactorily from the injuries he had received.

As previously stated, he first refused to take any stimulants, and only seemed to desire to be left alone curled up under a heap of rugs.

Later in the day he revived a good deal; took stimulants freely, and when Mr. Hallam, surgeon, saw him late at night, he found him so much improved that he expressed his intention not to come down again unless sent for.

The necessity did not arise for Mr. Hallam to be again called in. Peace continued to improve during the night, and on Thursday morning, when the surgeon saw him again, he was much better. Peace spent a very restless night.

He tossed about a good deal, and his conduct was altogether so marked as not to escape attention.

The two warders who brought him from London had never both left him since they picked him up on the railway on Wednesday.

One of them sat close by Peace’s side throughout the whole night watching his every movement, and not for an instant having his gaze averted from his now more than ever remarkable and distinguished prisoner.

At intervals Peace, as already stated, tossed about a good deal, and then he became quiet, and apparently dropped into a sound slumber.

Presently the watchful eye of the warder has seen him peep stealthily up from under his rugs, evidently to ascertain whether he might risk any move without being watched.

Of course there was not the slightest chance of his escaping from the cells; but if opportunity offered he might make an attempt upon his life. He frequently took stimulants――brandy and milk; and when Mr. Hallam saw him on Thursday morning he found him very much better, and ordered him tea and bread and butter.

When asked “What sort of a night he had had?” by one of the officers, he replied in that hypocritically whining tone which he knew so well how to simulate, “Not very good. I can’t sleep.”

He remained lying down under a good supply of rugs, and although hitherto extremely talkative and effusive in his efforts to recognise all who approached him, he now said but little, even when roused to take stimulants.

On Thursday night two members of the borough force were told off to assist the warders in their care of the convict. Two lamps were placed in his cell in such positions as to throw their light full on his face; and near him sat one of the warders and the two policemen.

The second warder rested on a “shake-down” in the corridor while the first kept his watch, and at intervals they changed.

On Thursday night, Peace was reported to be much better, and he asked for soup and other stimulants, which were supplied to him.

Peace’s career continued to be one series of surprises, not the least astonishing of which came to light on the morning after his attempted escape. His object in jumping from the train appears to have been not so much to escape as to destroy himself.

He was often heard to express a strong desire to be buried at Darnall. It was there, it will be remembered, that he occupied a little villa residence standing in its own grounds, and the garden attached to which he cultivated with so much care; it was there he unhappily made the acquaintance of the Dysons, and became so offensive in his friendship that they had to leave the village to escape from him; it is there his married daughter lives; it was there his wife was arrested on a charge of being in possession of goods the proceeds of his burglaries; and to Darnall she returned immediately after her acquittal on the charge at Newgate.

These and perhaps many other associations appear to have endeared the place to him. It is also a remarkable fact that the spot selected by Peace at which to make his daring leap from the carriage was, measured by the rate at which an express train travels, within a very short distance of Darnall Church.

At first it was supposed that the only and real purpose in his mind in endeavouring to give his custodians the slip there was that――hoping to escape unhurt――he knew the country well, and could take short cuts across the fields and find safe and friendly shelter at Darnall. His object, however, appears not to have been to regain his freedom, but to destroy himself.

On Thursday morning, Mr. W. E. Clegg, visited the convict in his cell, for the purpose of receiving instructions from him as to his defence, and before he left Peace drew from his pocket a scrap of crumpled paper, and handed it to him.

As it was contrary to the rules of the Pentonville establishment that a prisoner should have any letter or anything of the kind upon him, the warders asked that the paper might be handed over to them. The note was written in pencil, and read as follows:――

“BURY ME AT DARNALL. GOOD-BYE. GOD BLESS YOU ALL. C. PEACE.”

It appears that when a Pentonville convict has a letter sent to him, it is opened and read by one of the officials, and if there is nothing in it objectionable it is initialled and passed on to him.

The scrap of paper upon which Peace had written, and which he had kept treasured up in his pocket, was part of a letter which had been so handed over to him. Where he got the pencil from to write the note, and when he wrote it, is unknown.

From its contents it would certainly appear that his deliberate object in springing through the window when the train was going at express speed was to destroy himself; and, bad beyond description as he is, he seems to have possessed sufficient human feeling to desire that his remains might lie amongst those whom he had known in life.

At intervals during Thursday morning he seemed to suffer much mental distress, and exclaimed with great intensity of feeling, “I do wish I was dead!”

In the face of all these facts the warders, it may be readily imagined, redoubled their already vigilant watch over him, and his slightest movement did not pass unobserved.

Peace’s escape from instant death when he leaped out of the railway carriage window was a matter of surprise to everybody. His custodians never expected to see him alive after his fall.

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CLVI. OUTSIDE THE POLICE-COURT――EXTRAORDINARY SCENES

As was generally expected, there was a most exciting and most unusual scene outside the police-court on the morning appointed for the examination.

On Friday comparatively few people knew that Peace was to be brought before the magistrates, but almost as soon as it was opened the court was crowded to its utmost capacity, the approaches were lined with excited people eager to gain but a glance at the prisoner or Mrs. Dyson, and in the hall on the ground floor were several hundred people who were unable to get upstairs.

Outside a mob surged to and fro, obstructing the traffic in Castle-street, and several free fights occurred between people whose only object seemed to be to get nearer the Town Hall door without the faintest hope of getting in.

This was the state of things when it was not generally known that the proeedings of the Police-court presented a feature of unusual attraction.

But when it had been announced by the stipendiary, and announced in the papers, and was known by everybody, that the prisoner had been “remanded until Wednesday morning at ten o’clock,” and that Mrs. Dyson was to be cross-examined, it was generally anticipated that a crowd such as had never before been attracted to the Police-court would besiege the building. Some fears were entertained even that serious results might follow from the immense crush when the doors were opened and everybody in the large crowd made an almost superhuman individual effort to occupy one of the small number of places set apart for the gratification of the public.

The Chief Constable accordingly took every precaution to guard against the rash and ill-judged violence of an excited crowd.

A large staff of police-officers were marshalled in front of the Town Hall, their instructions being to keep the crowd moving as long as possible.

They found on arriving that they had been forestalled by the public, who had already assembled to the number of about 200, and were being rapidly reinforced.

Some of the people who were there had, it is said, taken up their positions as early as five o’clock, and verily they looked it. The cold, raw air had exercised to the full its nipping influence upon them.

Their faces were pallid, with just a dash of blue in the lips, and a dab of carnation on the tip of the nose. Their shoulders were raised almost to their ears, and their coats drawn carefully round their throats.

They shivered occasionally in a most complete and uncompromising manner, but there was even in that shiver an expressed determination to stand their ground to see Peace, even though an insidious fox, in the form of a biting wind, were gnawing to their very vitals.

The unmistakeable meaning conveyed in the shiver was echoed in the ceaseless stamp of feet upon the pavement, as the people endeavoured by that means to keep up something like circulation in their benumbed extremities. There could be no doubt of their intentions.

They had come to see Peace, and they would see him however much they suffered.

But waiting was very monotonous work, and despite the excitement of the occasion, the time passed slowly and wearily along.

The individuals who composed the crowd must have been those “with whom time ambles withal,” for the minutes dragged themselves along in the style supposed to be appropriated to “linked sweetness,” and each succeeding minute seemed to be longer drawn out than its predecessor.

The crowd was not large enough to get up any enthusiasm, and it was not until towards eight o’clock that anything like life and fun were observable.

Then the new arrivals were frequent and numerous, and what had been the fringe of the crowd became a compact mass.

Castle-street, near the Town Hall, was crammed full of people, and now that it was evident that the whole of them could not get in, an excited and determined struggle for places began and was carried on with vigour up to the time when it was known that their labours had been in vain.

It was an intensely and essentially selfish crowd, and its composition was a medley of a motley character.

Nearly all classes of society were represented in that mass of people, and one extraordinary feature was the immense number of women amongst them.

Men, women, and children were huddled together as closely as it was possible for human beings to be packed.

They were crushed and crushed and crushed again until almost all the compressibility contained in their individual bodies had been utilised, and they were contorted into angular portions of humanity, all of whose sides geometrically corresponded with the sides of other portions of humanity presented to them.

Thus it may be imagined that space was economised at the expense of comfort, but that was a trifling consideration.

The people had come to see Peace.

Comfort was a secondary matter――away with it! So they grinned――those of them who had room to do so――and bore the discomfort good humouredly so long as they did not lose a point in the struggle towards the door.

Those immediately round the door were, of course, the early risers.

They were, without exception, people in the lower classes of society. Boys, who might fairly be classed as gamins, with a neglected look and a suspicious air of having been out all night, had taken up front positions, and, having become jammed in by the crowd, were unable to get out, though there was not the slightest probability that the police would let them into the court.

Many of the men were dressed in their working clothes, whilst some of the women had only shawls thrown over their heads.

Further back in the crowd other classes were represented.

Not a few silk hats were observable, dotted about here and there, amid the sober shoal of less demonstrative round felts, and one of the former dodged about in a most amusing manner, as its owner made the most heroic but unsuccessful attempts to defend a fair companion who wore a beautiful sealskin jacket.

There was also a good sprinkling of young men, who would perhaps be looked upon as “swells” by the lower classes, but these young gentlemen did not show any of their distinguishing characteristics, and kept quiet.

As nine o’clock approached the people began to be excited, and their ebullitions of feeling found vent in a series of rushes which produced a swaying, surging movement on the part of the crowd.

This placed in jeopardy the situation of some of the people who had secured what they thought to be good chances of getting in, and they fought manfully to retain any advantage they might have gained.

Their struggles, however, against the surging of the crowd were puerile and utterly inoperative, and their vehement protestations against the injustice of the dispensation was laughed to scorn.

As a natural sequence curses and blasphemy took the place of protestations, but these were alike ineffective, and everybody seemed to devote his attention to swindling everyone in front of him of his position. The slightest rent in the crowd caused by a rush called forth numerous claimants, and angry passions were allowed to rise, without stint in the breasts of those who allowed their chances to pass.

Women as well as men struggled to the front, and as they asserted their rights courtesy retired. Place aux dames was an obsolete idea. The women placed themselves on the same level as the men, and demanding the rights extended to men, received courtesy in the same ratio.

Judging by the looks of some of them they did not enjoy the working of the principle, and they would have been only too glad to sink their rights for a little comfort and convenience.

It was a case of every man for himself, and the hindermost, who were supposed to be left in the care of the prince of darkness, were of course the women.

Nine o’clock struck, and the excitement of the crowd reached fever heat. It was pretty generally known that Peace was to arrive about nine, and it was thought the doors now would soon be opened.

The people on the outside of the crowd saw that it would be hopeless for them to attempt to get into the court, and in the hope of seeing something to recompense them for their trouble they gravitated towards the Castle-green and Water-lane entrances to the Police-offices.

Those who went to Water-lane had the satisfaction of seeing a number of gentlemen pass in the portals of the offices, receive a military salute from the numerous constables posted about the place, and disappear in the long passage at the top of the steps.

Several other people came up the same way, and some having the necessary credentials were passed in, and the others rejected and turned back. One of the funniest scenes of the morning occurred here, when a fat and self-sufficient landlord, accompanied by his gaudily-dressed wife, sailed down Water-lane, and with an important air strutted up the steps, throwing dignified nods at the police-officers.

His wife waddled after him, and they successfully passed the gauntlet of police until they came to the steps.

Here they were tackled in an apologetic but firm manner, and after having been reminded, as they were loth to go, that they were obstructing the passage, they, were unceremoniously ordered out.

The spectators who assembled in front of the Castle-green entrance certainly had the best of the day. They were in the very thick of the excitement. The prison van had gone down Castle-green to the station, and Peace was momentarily expected.

He would be concealed in the inmost recesses of the van, but what of that? He would be there. Time sped. It was ten minutes past nine. The train must be late.

No, there was the jingle of the bells on the harness, and the heavy rumble of the wheels was heard as the ponderous conveyance turned out of Bridge-street into the Green. But what――what is this? Why does the van come so slowly? Why does everyone seem so dejected?

Why does not the driver turn his pair cleverly round into the Parade Ground with a triumphant and defiant crack of the whip? What does it all mean?――he can’t have escaped.

The suspense for the moment is fearful, almost agonising, and then the word is passed, “He has escaped――jumped out of the train, going at full speed.”

A few incoherent sentences convey a world of information, and form the groundwork of numerous rumours. The news spread like wildfire. The crowd in front of the Town Hall is dazed. The strain is gone. No longer do they struggle to get the best places. A feeling of insecurity has come over them.

They think of Peace in the dock as an insignificant old man, but Peace at liberty is a very different individual.

He is surrounded by an air of villainy with a dark background of vengeful intrepidity, and his constant companion is a “six-shooter.”

Society feels unsafe, and though an additional lustre has been imparted to the halo of glorious romance which surrounds his life by his latest achievement, a universal hope is expressed that he will be recaptured.

The wildest rumours are floating about as to his mode of escape, and circumstantial details are not wanting as to his having overpowered the warders, alighted uninjured, and, plunging into a wood, eluded pursuit.

But these surmises are premature. Again the van was brought out, and driven off to the station. These were anxious moments. More than half the people declined to believe the rumour that Peace had escaped.

It was such a likely thing for Peace to attempt, that some one would be sure to suggest it, and thus start a rumour. On the other hand, it was so unlikely that a couple of London warders would allow a little man like Peace to escape, that the majority of the people assembled would not accept the statement.

However, the bringing out of the van a second time gave a foundation to the first rumour, especially when it was now expected that he had been retaken. The van was not long away.

Again the jingle of the bells. The horses came up Castle-green at a smart pace. Triumph was written on the faces of the local police.

The van turned into the yard of the police-station; with a good swing, the doors were banged to and locked, and once more Peace was safe.

Now came another struggle for places, and this was continued fiercely. Traffic had been resumed, however, and every now and then the consistency of the crowd was broken in upon by a vulgar cart, an impertinent hansom, or a blundering ’bus.

The breaches were most trying to the people in the roadway. They must either sacrifice their positions or be run over. As long as they could they stuck to their places, but preferring not to be run over, they relented and ran for it.

Women as well as men were in the way of the conveyances, and it was most funny to see the terrified faces of the women as, after being elbowed out of the crowd by men who coolly took their positions, they suddenly found a horse’s nose within a few inches of their faces. Flight was the first thing with them. Then when they were safely out of the way they were frightened, and exhibited a tendency to screaming and hysteria; and subsequently, when all was over, they became vaguely, but virtuously, indignant.

Such scenes as these beguiled the minutes which crept slowly by, until about a quarter-past ten, when it was known that a remand had been granted. More vague rumours flew about for a few minutes, and then the chief constable appeared at one of the upper windows.

Immediately there was a breathless silence, and Mr. Jackson announced that Peace had been remanded for eight days in consequence of injuries he had received. He had made an attempt to escape, but had been recaptured.

A great shout greeted this latter statement, and society once more breathed.

In spite of the obvious wish of the chief constable that it should move on as well as breathe, society did not move on, and for hours hung about the street in the hope of picking up gossip, reliable or unreliable.

Now and then a wild rumour sent a thrill through the crowd. Several times Peace had just expired. Others stated that he was so “smashed that he had to be carried about in a sack.”

Then it was given out that he was very little hurt, and was “drinking brandy like mad.” And lastly, as might have been expected, that “he was not hurt at all, but was only shamming.”

Mrs. Dyson, though only a lesser light by the side of Peace, was somebody, and her apparance was anxiously looked for. But here again disappointment waited on the unhappy people.

[Sidenote: No. 88.]

She got safely away, and the only thing in the way of a sensation that turned up to gratify the crowd for long waiting was the appearance of the Pentonville warders.

They had occasion to appear in the Haymarket, and, being identified by their uniforms, were made the butt of much unpleasant chaff.

They were followed about by the people, laughed at, jeered, ironically cheered, and asked the most pertinent, yet impertinent, questions.

Eventually they were protected by a strong body of police, and, amid a discharge of chaff, succeeded in gaining the Police-offices.

After this nothing more happened, and as nothing seemed likely to happen, first one and then another of the members of the crowd dropped off, until finally the last man, sighing over the barren results of all his struggling, scuffling, suffering, &c., cast a furtive eye at the Police-station, and a perfunctory glance at the now lighted Town Hall clock, and departed.

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Chapter CLVII

THE EXAMINATION OF CHARLES PEACE UPON THE CHARGE OF MURDERING MR. DYSON――SCENES IN COURT.

Peace remained in a very prostrate condition, and, according to his own account, he was not fit to make his appearance in a court of justice. It was deemed, however, expedient to proceed with the charge.

Mr. Pollard, on Friday morning, put it to the Sheffield stipendiary whether the “leap for life” which Peace, the burglar, made from the express train was not inconsistent with his innocence of the crime of murder.

Mr. Welby suggested that a convict under a life sentence might have other reasons for the leap than the fear of hanging. No doubt it was with the convict a case of mixed motives.

Had he been able to escape, even for a few days, a lease of life for at least six months would have been secured, as his case would have been kept over till the Leeds Assizes following those which open next week.

Having been remanded for eight days, the desperado, like many less deeply interested, believed that his respite had been secured. Perhaps but for this knowledge the criminal would have played a deeper game by not getting better so soon.

The brandy with milk and arrowroot, which from the first few hours of his capture he took pretty freely, produced such an effect on his sound and wiry constitution that by Thursday evening Mr. Hallam, the surgeon specially in attendance, was able to say that if no change for the worse occurred, he might be brought before the stipendiary on the following morning.

The prisoner has proved such a troublesome and expensive “guest” that the authorities seemed to entertain a strong desire to see him again in Pentonville or such other place of security as it may seem fit to assign him to.

The secret of the examination being held to-day was last night divulged to the press, but only on condition that they should keep it private till the prisoner had been actually brought up.

Of course it was kept yet more secret from the prisoner.

This helped him to sleep last night, and, though he showed himself much more querulous than has been his wont, he took in the morning a plentifully early breakfast.

The surgeon, having seen him, decided that he was fit to be brought up. Soon after ten o’clock the prisoner was accordingly helped out of his cell, but apparently had no idea of where he was being taken.

The warders presently placed him in a large armchair in the corridor, and into this he sank with a lengthened sigh, leaning his head on his hands, as if much exhausted.

Then suddenly, with an ugly expression in his eyes, he protruded the lower part of his face across the long table which had been set in the corridor, and exclaimed with clenched teeth, but in a low tone, “What are we here for? What is this?”

The scene might well arouse the criminal’s curiosity. Unwilling to cause excitement either to the prisoner or to the public, the authorities had improvised a court in the corridor of the prison, where the light was supplied by candles.

The stipendiary, with his clerks, sat ready to examine the prisoner.

The chief constable was present, also Inspector Bradbury and Police-constable Walsh, who was in charge of Mrs. Dyson. Mr. Pollard again appeared to prosecute, and Mr. W. E. Clegg conducted the defence.

The scene was dreary and depressing, especially as there was no audience for the principal actor to play up to, even had he been so disposed, the public having been excluded.

After several half-whining protests from the convict the stipendiary decided to go on, when, with a sudden change of voice, Peace exclaimed in his old sharp tones, “I wish to God there was something across my shoulders.”

He was then plentifully supplied with coverings through which his newly-bandaged head at times could hardly be seen. His high but narrow forehead slopes rapidly upwards, and, though much of his apparent weakness was evidently mere affectation, his wan and haggard aspect was pitiable as well as repugnant.

Towards Mrs. Dyson, who was placed at some distance along the table, he alternately glared, and scowled and leered, and more than once became very excited in his demands for justice when the stipendiary firmly refused liberty to press certain questions which he deemed irrelevant.

Mrs. Dyson was tastefully dressed entirely in black, and without her veil. She seemed in good health, and, though apparently suffering somewhat from suppressed excitement, gave her evidence clearly, calmly, and without a particle of flinching.

The whitewashed walls of the cold corridor did not look more stonily at Peace than did the face of the woman whom he tried to claim as his former paramour.

The absence of spectators was a relief to her, and she stood quietly and without apparent weariness during her long and trying cross-examination.

Mr. Clegg did the best he could for his client, but refused to take any notice of the low mutterings or loud protests of the prisoner.

The stipendiary refused to let the letters be read aloud, but the most exciting passages were given. These documents are a series of comparatively dull communications written on old envelopes and dirty scraps of paper.

Here is a specimen: “How well you never told that man I looked at you out of the window you left me to find out for myself and would not put me on my guard, as I do you. Hope you won’t do it again. Don’t talk to little Willie much, or give him any halfpennies. Don’t be a fool; it looks as if you want people to know the way and――”

A blank occurs here, and the remaining portion of the letter now legible says: “If you are not more careful we will have to say quits. I have told you not to say anything until――”

On the theory of the defence the Willie referred to is Mrs. Dyson’s son, aged seven and William Henry by name. (Mrs. Dyson’s reply to every question was a decided repudiation of the suggestion that the letters had been written by her.)

At these repudiations the convict affected to be savagely indignant. Also when Mrs. Dyson said the portrait had been stolen from her room he muttered between his clenched teeth――

“Stolen――stolen――stolen!”

He glared towards the witness with a tragic air, and then buried his head in his arms, which were stretched on the table.

At another time, when Mrs. Dyson was being questioned as to whether any struggle took place between her husband and the murderer, and replied in the negative, Peace, who had seemed comparatively quiet, shot his head up and made his lower jaw protrude in a loathsome manner, as he glared at the witness.

While Mrs. Dyson’s depositions before the coroner were being read the prisoner caused another scene. On being removed to his cell, at the end of the proceedings, his energy seemed quite to leave him; but when his counsel visited him in his cell shortly afterwards the prisoner seemed comparatively cheerful and careless, and gave his instructions and suggestions in quite a business-like fashion.

Only passages from the letters alleged to have been written by Mrs. Dyson were read aloud in court.

In spite of the policy of secrecy followed by the stipendiary and Chief Constable Jackson, a large crowd gathered at the Town Hall, and long before the usual time of opening the doors so great became the pressure against them as to burst them open, and the courts were rapidly filled.

The police were able, however, to clear them without any serious trouble.

People knew that the ordinary business of the Court would commence at eleven o’clock, and they settled down to wait as comfortably as possible for that time, knowing that they would then be able to gain admission.

When the doors were opened to the public, the two courts were soon filled again, and the people rested in expectation till authentic word came that the convict’s examination was well-nigh over.

Throughout the time there was greater excitement than at any period since the great Sheffield flood, but the police were able to preserve order.

Robinson, who captured Peace at Blackheath, after such a desperate struggle was in Sheffield, on a visit to some friends, and his frank and yet jovial bearing has impressed very favourably those who happened to meet him.

A suggestion was made that a public testimonial should be presented to him for his bravery, and, in spite of dulness of trade, was likely to be received with favour. Robinson had not seen Peace in Sheffield.

Up to half-past ten at night the prisoner was behaving with comparative composure, and had taken refreshments when he required them.

The following is a fuller account of the particulars of this examination:――

A few minutes after ten o’clock Peace was assisted out of his cell and placed in an armchair in the corridor where the inquiry was held. He seemed to be exhausted, and sinking into the chair he exclaimed, “Oh, oh!” and leaned his head on his hand. He then looked about with an air of surprise, and exclaimed, groaning deeply, “What are we here for? What is this?”

The Stipendiary (Mr. Welby): This is the preliminary inquiry which is being proceeded with after being adjourned the other day.

Prisoner (groaning again): I am not able to bear it. I ought not to be brought here.

The Stipendiary: Then you must do the best you can. This is only the preliminary inquiry. You are not absolutely obliged to be here――so you must attend as well as you can. You are represented here, and the preliminary inquiry is to be finished to-day.

Prisoner: I wish to God there was something across my shoulders. I am very cold. Oh dear! oh dear! Then am I to be committed to-day?

The Stipendiary: The preliminary inquiry will be finished, and if the evidence is sufficient you will be committed.

Prisoner: I want to have my solicitor here. Oh dear! and I want to call my witnesses.

Mr. Clegg: You will have sufficient time for that; you will have plenty of time to call your witnesses.

Prisoner (groaning): I am not able to go on. Oh, I am so cold! (A thick rug was here thrown over him by one of the warders.) I am not able to go on; I am not. (Groaning again.) This is not justice; it is not justice.

The Stipendiary: You must take it for what it is.

The prisoner here uttered some words, which were taken to be “Oh, never mind that;” and afterwards asked that his counsel should come nearer. He seemed to suffer from the cold and the draught of air in the corridor.

Prisoner (apparently recovering himself, and looking more alert, and speaking with more energy): Then, I say, it is not justice; it is not justice. Why does not my solicitor prevent this, and ask for a remand. What is my solicitor doing not to prevent this? Tell my solicitor I want him.

Mr. Clegg: Well, what do you want?

Prisoner (sharply): Why don’t you ask for a remand?

The Stipendiary: It is no use asking for a remand at all, I tell you; the inquiry is going to be proceeded with.

Prisoner (piteously): It is not justice. I am not able to go on; you know how I am. Oh, dear, it is no matter if I’d killed myself. It would be no matter. You know how I am, and ought to have a remand. I feel I want it, and must have a remand.

The Stipendiary: Remand will not be granted; and you had better attend to what is said.

Mr. Clegg: If you want to say anything wait until I am cross-examining Mrs. Dyson, and it can be done then. You had better save your energies until then. The inquiry will be proceeded with to-day.

Mrs. Dyson was then called and sworn. She looked well, but spoke slowly, as if labouring under suppressed emotion.

Mr. Pollard: Catherine Dyson, there were some papers produced the other day in court. Bradbury, will you produce those papers?

Inspector Bradbury handed in the papers.

The Stipendiary: Those, I suppose, are the papers and the card.

Mr. Pollard: They are the papers produced by Bradbury. (To witness): Have you seen those papers before?――Yes; at the coroner’s inquest in December, 1876.

You have Seen the first card――the card numbered one. That, I think you say, is the handwriting of your husband on the back of it?――Yes.

With reference to all the other papers, do you know the handwriting?――No, I do not.

The Stipendiary: You had better look over them, every one of them, before you speak to them all.

Witness then looked over them, prisoner meanwhile languidly saying: They are not all there. I want to look at them.

Mr. Clegg: Be quiet.

Witness: I do not know whose handwriting it is.

The Stipendiary: You do not know whose handwriting it is on any of them?――No.

The Stipendiary: You have looked at them?――I know none of them except the post-card.

Prisoner (interrupting): I want the milkman called.

The Stipendiary: You had better be quiet. Your time for calling witnesses will come.

Mr. Pollard (to witness): Were any of those written by your authority? Do you know any of them?――Not by my authority. I know nothing of them.

What distance should you say it is from the house that you lived in at Darnall to the house you removed to at Bannercross?――About five or six miles, to the best of my knowledge.

Mr. Clegg: Before proceeding with the cross-examination I should like to recall Mr. Inspector Bradbury.

The Stipendiary: Why so?

Mr. Pollard: I have a question to put to the inspector that I omitted to ask the other day.

Mr. Bradbury was recalled, and was examined by Mr. Pollard.

Do you produce a bullet?――Yes (producing it).

From whom did you receive it?――From Dr. Harrison, on Dec. 8, 1876, the day of the inquest.

Cross-examined by Mr. Clegg: You remember on the last time, Mr. Bradbury, that I asked you if you had seen a photograph?――Yes.

Have you got that photo now?――Yes. (Produced a photo.) I got it from Mr. Jackson, the chief constable.

The photo was then handed to the stipendiary, and Peace, eyeing it, said in an aggrieved voice: “They have taken it out of the case.”

Mr. Clegg, addressing him, said: Will you be quiet?

Mr. Pollard: I want to ask one or two questions of Mrs. Dyson with reference to these photographs.

The Stipendiary: Certainly.

Mr. Clegg: Perhaps it will be better if you let me finish my cross-examination first.

Mr. Pollard: I prefer to do it now.

Mr. Pollard: Mrs. Dyson, have you any remembrance of being photographed? First of all, whose photograph is this? (Handing a photograph to the witness.)――It is the prisoner’s and mine.

Where was that taken?――It was taken in 1876.

The Stipendiary: What part of 1876?――I cannot remember the date. It was summer.

When was it taken?――At Sheffield Fair.

Was it at the summer or winter fair?

Peace: It was the winter fair.

Mrs. Dyson: I won’t say, because I am not sure.

How near was it to Nov. 29, 1876?――It was some months before that date; at the Sheffield Fair.

The Stipendiary: There is a name at the back of the photo.

Mr. Pollard: Will you look at that (handing a small photo to Mrs. Dyson)?――That is mine.

Had you in the years 1876 or 1875 a photo like that, in that position?――Yes; I had one in a locket.

Was it in 1875 or 1876?――I had it in 1875.

Can you say at all whether it was in 1875 or 1876?――Yes; I had it in the early part of 1876.

You say you had it in a locket?――Yes.

Have you that photograph is the locket now?――No it was taken from me.

How do you mean?――It was taken out of the house without my knowing how.

It was in the winter?――Yes, 1875, as well as I can remember.

The Stipendiary: Before the larger one was taken?――Yes it was.

Can you say it was the winter of 1875 or 1876?――Well, it was about Christmas.

Do you say that the locket was stolen?――No, the photograph was then out of the locket.

You were living at Darnall then, were you?――Yes.

Where was the locket when you missed the photograph from it?――It was in my bedroom.

Did you speak about the loss?――Yes, I mentioned it to my husband.

Did you make any search for the photo?――Yes; I also told an officer before I went to America.

You made a search for the photo?――Yes.

Did you ever find the photo?――No.

Mr. Pollard: Is that the locket, or a copy of the photograph that you so lost?――That is not the original, because the one that I had was taken in Cleveland, Ohio.

Mr. Pollard: And this is a copy of it――is it?――Yes.

Mr. Pollard: I see that this has the name of F. Barber, photographer, Church-gates, Sheffield.――Witness: This is not the original. The original was taken by Mr. Wragg, Cleveland, Ohio.

Mr. Pollard: Did you ever go to Mr. Barber’s to be photographed?――No, no; I never had a photograph taken in this country except that one.

Mr. Pollard: Except the one that was taken at the fair.

Mr. Pollard (to the Stipendiary): That, you see, is done on glass. That was done at the back of the other.

The Stipendiary: Oh, I see.

The Clerk: There was only one photograph taken then?――Witness: Only one.

The prisoner here put his legs on the table, and the Stipendiary, addressing him, said severely: You must not put your feet on the table.――Prisoner (sharply): All right.

Mr. Pollard (to witness): Did you tell any other person at the time besides your husband of the loss of the photograph from your locket?――I told one of the officers.

That you told us; but anybody else?――No.

Mr. Clegg: Besides, if you did it would not be evidence.

Mr. Pollard: Unless the neighbour was――I do not want to put it in her mouth.

Mr. Pollard (to witness): Was your husband with you that day in Sheffield Fair?――Yes.

On the day you were photographed?――Yes.

The Prisoner; Call Daird (meaning the policeman of Darnall)――will you, please?

At Sheffield Fair the prisoner was a neighbour of yours?――Yes. I believed him at that time to be a respectable man.

And a picture-frame maker, as you said?――Yes.

You said you had this (referring to the photograph) with you then. Where was it kept?――On the mantelpiece, in the kitchen.

When did you miss it?――In a week or so after it was taken.

When did you next see this one (lifting another photograph)?――I cannot exactly say the day. One day last week, in Mr. Jackson’s hands.

In the hands of the police?――Yes.

Did you give it to any one?――No; I did not give it to any one. It was taken away without my knowledge.

Then with reference to the photograph which was taken from your locket――what about it?――It was taken away without my knowledge.

When was that?

Mr. Robinson: I have got all that down as in the winter of 1875.

Mr. Clegg: I might as well take this photograph at once (showing the double one to the witness). Was not that photograph taken in the fair of 1876?――In 1876――I think so, as well as I can remember.

The photograph I am now holding?――Yes, I see.

Was this photograph taken in the fair of 1876?――I said I could not remember the date.

Was it during the time that you were residing at Darnall?――Yes.

When did you leave Darnall, was it on Oct. 29?――On Oct. 25, 1876.

Was it at the fair preceding the time that you left Darnall?――It was at the fair before I left Darnall.

I want now to know, for certain. Are you certain this was taken in the preceding fair before you left Darnall?――I did not say the preceding fair.

Well, I ask you now?――I cannot say. I am not quite certain, but I should be able to find out, if necessary.

But I want to know now?――I cannot say.

You have already said you thought it was the Summer Fair of 1876?――I think so, but I am not quite certain; but it was taken at Sheffield Fair.

I will try and assist your memory. Did you not say before the coroner that you had known the prisoner for about ten months?――I don’t recollect exactly.

At the time you gave evidence before the coroner in December, 1876, how long had you known the prisoner?――Perhaps near a year.

Had you been with him to more than one fair?――No.

Had you been with him to what is called a Winter Fair?――No.

Then the fair at which you had been with him was the Summer Fair?――Yes.

You say you had only known him a year, and you had not been with him to a winter fair. Now, then, cannot you now say that it was the summer fair of 1876?――Oh, no; I cannot say, because I am not quite sure.

I will try and assist you a little further. How many months was it before you took out the summons against him for threatening your life that you had been with him to the fair? I cannot tell you how many months. I cannot tell you exactly. It might be two or three months, perhaps. I cannot be quite sure.

When were you married to Mr. Dyson?――I do not remember the date.

Don’t remember the date? What year was it?――I can’t tell you that.

Do you mean to swear that you can’t tell the year when you were married?――No, I can’t say what year.

Not what year?――No; but I can find out.

Dou you mean to say you don’t know what year you were married in?――I don’t.

Where were you married?――In Cleveland, Ohio; Trinity Church.

Mr. Clegg: Were there any witnesses present at your marriage?――Certainly; my sister, Mrs. Thomas Mooney.

Mr. Pollard: I object to this. I can’t see the relevancy of it.

The Stipendiary: She says she can’t remember when she was married.

Mr. Clegg: I don’t wish to waste time; but I believe all the questions I ask will have a relevancy to the case.

The Stipendiary: I must trust you to a great extent. I do not myself see the relevancy.

Mr. Pollard: It will do no good to go into the whole history of a person’s life from their first years.

Mr. Clegg: I am only starting the question of whether she was married, and I have every reason for asking for full particulars of the facts.

The Stipendiary: If she could remember the year of her marriage I should say the rest was not necessary.

Mr. Pollard (to Mr. Clegg): Ask when it was about.

Mr. Clegg: If she had told me the year I should have been satisfied. (To witness): Your sister was one of the witnesses. Who was another?――Dr. Sargent.

Did you get a certificate of your marriage? Certainly; it is with my agent in America.

What is your agent’s name?――Booth, Barratt, and Co., St. Louis, Missouri, United States.

Had you any object in leaving your certificate there?――I have left other papers there. They are more safe then carrying them about.

The Stipendiary here interposed with reference to the manner in which Mr. Clegg was cross-examining.

Mr. Clegg: In this case it is a question of credibility as to what actually happened, and as this witness is the only person who actually saw what happened I think I have a right to test her credibility in every possible way. I have an object in asking these questions as to her marriage, in consequence of what I am instructed she has told somebody about it. I wish to inquire into it, whether it is true or not.

Mr. Clegg: Was your husband friendly with the prisoner?――Yes.

Did he frame any pictures for you?――Yes.

(Prisoner muttered something which was not distinctly heard.)

Did he tell you what they were?――Yes. One was a portrait of my sister, one of Mr. Dyson, and my brother, and my little boy.

Was your husband’s mother not amongst them?――I think not.

Will you swear he did not frame that?――No, he did not.

Had your husband a portrait or picture of his mother?――I had one.

The Stipendiary: What about your objection, Mr. Pollard?

Mr. Pollard: Of course I make my objection. I was leaving it in your hands.

Mr. Clegg: Will you swear he did not frame a portrait of your husband’s mother?――No, he did not. There was one in a pot frame.

The Stipendiary said something to Mr. Clegg, who replied, “I will show the portrait to you, sir. I do not want to prove anything that is not material.”

Mr. Clegg: This is a material object; a most material object.

The Stipendiary: It is not, in my idea, of sufficient importance to be gone on with.

Mr. Clegg: I think you will see, when I bring out what I want to know about this portrait, that it is a very material object.

The Stipendiary: Very well, I will say no more; but if it is merely a question of general credibility, it is unnecessary.

Mr. Clegg: Did you ever ask him to frame this portrait――this picture of your mother?――Yes. I was to get a large one of my mother. I mentioned it to him about framing them, but I never got the photographs.

Did you ask him to frame your mother’s portrait?――Yes; but he never did it.

Mr. Clegg: Did you write him any letter?

Mr. Pollard: She gives a reason why she did not ask him.

Mr. Clegg: It is not an answer to my question. I do not care about her reasons.――(To witness): Did you send him a letter about it?――No.

Mr. Clegg (holding a bundle of letters in his hand, and calling the attention of the witness to one marked No. 6): Look at this letter. Is it in your handwriting?――No.

Is it in your husband’s writing?――No.

Do you know whose writing it is?――No, I don’t.

Did any person know of your wish that he should frame the picture of your husband’s mother but your husband and yourself?――Not that I am aware of.

Except your husband and yourself?――Not that I am aware of.

Have you ever seen the prisoner write?――No.

You will swear that you never saw him write?――No, I never saw him write. My husband used to write for him. I have seen him sitting at a table with writing materials in front of him.

Can you tell his writing if you see it again?――I have not see him write.

(Peace here leaned against the table, and looked with great interest at the witness.)

Have you never seen letters purporting to come from him?――No, I never have, for I did not know he could write, because he used to get my husband to write for him.

As far as you are concerned in reference to this wish, that you wanted the prisoner to frame your photo――

Mrs. Dyson: I did not ask him to frame mine.

I did not ask you that. I said your husband’s mother’s photo. You did not tell anyone of that?――I do not remember that I did.

Now, just listen to this letter; will you take it into your hands and follow it while I read a copy? Now listen: “Saturday afternoon――I write you these few lines to thank you for all your kindness, which I shall never forget, from you and your wife. She is a good one. Does she know that you are to give me the things or not? How can you keep them concealed? One thing I wish you to do is to frame his mother’s photograph and send it in with my music-book; if you please do it when he is in. Many thanks for your kind advice. I hope I shall benefit by it. I shall try to do right to every body as far as I can, for I can always look upon you as a friend. Good-bye. I have not much time. Burn this when you have read it.”

Madame, will you still venture to swear that that paper is not in your writing?――No, it is not.

Peace: I will prove it, though.

You remember you are upon your oath?――Yes, I do.

Peace: I want these witnesses of mine called.

You were very intimate with Peace, were you not?――Yes, I used to go into his house with his wife and daughter.

Have you been together with him, and have you not been to places of amusement together?――I have been with him, his wife, and daughter.

I did not ask you that. Have you not been alone to places of amusement with him?――Not to places of amusement. I have been to one place in Sheffield alone with him.

Where?――I don’t know where. Peace said there was a man there who was his brother.

What sort of place was it?――A public-house.

Mr. Robinson: Did you see that man there?――Yes, we saw him.

Do you know the name of the street?

Prisoner (raising himself up, and addressing his solicitor, extending his arm towards Mrs. Dyson): Ask her about going to the theatre with me.

Mr. Clegg: Have you been to the theatre with him?――I was with him and his daughter and wife.

Was your husband there?――No; but I had other friends along with me.

Have you been with him alone to the Albert Hall?――To the Albert Hall?

Yes, to the Albert Hall?――No, I never was with him alone; his daughter was with me.

The prisoner again raised himself up, and exclaimed, “Send for Mr. Cowen;” and then, as no attention was paid to his request, he leaned back again on his rugs.

Have you been to any public-houses together?――I have already told you I have been to one.

More than one?――No, not along with him; but he has followed me into public-houses when I was with my husband. He followed me into one or two at Darnall. I cannot tell you the names of them.

Was one the Duke of York?――I believe so.

Didn’t you use to go there alone?――I used to go there.

Stop a bit. Did you not sometimes go to that house to get something to drink, and tell the landlord to put it down to Peace, the prisoner?――No. (Peace muttered something about it being false.) There was no landlord, only a landlady, in the house then.

Oh, you do remember that? The name is Mrs. Liversidge――is it not? I ask you now, have you been to the Halfway House?――Yes.

Have you told the persons belonging to that house to put down the drink you had to Peace?――Not to my knowledge.

Not to your knowledge?――No.

Will you swear you have not?――I cannot swear it but I say I never have to my knowledge.

Did you frequent that house?――I called there two or three times, I believe.

Did you know a person of the name of Goodlad?――Goodlad?

Yes. Did you know the pianist at the Star Music Hall, in Spring-street?――No.

Mr. Goodlad was here called up.

Mr. Clegg: See, that is the man.

The Stipendiary: Do you know that man by sight or name?――Which one?

The Stipendiary: Come forward. See, that is him. (Mr. Goodlad advanced.) Look at him, Mrs. Dyson.

Witness: I never remember seeing him before.

Prisoner (groaning): Call his master; call his master.

Mr. Clegg: Have you and the prisoner been to the Star Music Hall together?――I don’t know it by that name.

Then I will ask you this question――have you been to a music hall together, and to a public-house?――He called it a picture gallery. I didn’t hear any music there. There was no music there.

The Stipendiary: You had been to a place he called a picture gallery?――Yes.

Mr. Clegg: Where was it?――It was in Sheffield.

Can you tell me whereabouts it was?――I could not tell you the street. I could not find it now.

Have you been to a public-house with him, where there was music and singing?――We were at his brother’s public-house; and he said his brother was in some music society. I believe so, I am not quite sure.

Have you been to music-hall held at a public-house where there was some music and singing?――Not to my knowledge.

What?――It looked as if there was some music because there was a small stage, but there was no music in our time. It was early in the afternoon.

Have you not been at night, when there has been music and singing, and that man who was called has been playing there?――No, I do not remember to have seen his face.

The Clerk: You say you have not been there at night?――Witness: No, it was in the afternoon.

Mr. Clegg: Do you know a public-house in Russell-street, Sheffield, called the “Marquis of Waterford?”――No.

Mr. Clegg (to witness): The public-house that I am talking about now is in the street where the prisoner’s brother lived?――I do not know it by name.

But do you know it now I have given you the place? Do you know where the prisoner’s brother lived?――I do not know where he lived. He was in that public-house.

Mr. Clegg: Will you call a man of the name of Cragg? (Cragg was brought before the Court.)

Mr. Clegg: Do you know that man?――No, I never remember seeing him before.

That man is the landlord of the public-house that I have been talking about?――I never remember seeing him, but he may have been there and me not see him.

Have you been to several public-houses with him (the prisoner), and had something to drink with him at those public-houses?――No, I had soda water.

Mr. Clegg: Well, that is something to drink.

The Stipendiary: You do not deny that you have been at these public-houses?――I have been there.

But you have not seen these men that have been produced, to your knowledge?――Not to my knowledge.

Mr. Clegg: You have had some drink there?――I have had a bottle of soda water or pop.

Have you had something stronger than either of those two?――No.

How many times have you been with him to these various houses?――Only once.

Where?――The house where you speak of.

But I think you do not know it?――I have been to the house where his brother was.

But I am not talking about the place you call the picture-gallery. I am talking about another public-house altogether.――Oh, I did not understand.

Have you been to more than one public-house with him?――I have been to the picture-gallery and another place with him.

Those are two, and have you been with him to the “Halfway House?”――Not with him.

Or to the “Duke of York?”――Not with him.

Have you and he been out of the town together?――Yes; he followed me one day to Mansfield.

Was any one with you?――Mrs. Padmore and her three children.

When was that?――The summer before we returned.

Was that about the time you had your photograph taken with him?――No; not about the time.

Was it before the fair or after the fair?――I cannot tell you exactly.

Don’t take refuge behind “Cannot tell exactly.”――I cannot remember the date, and you don’t want me to tell a lie.

I don’t want you to tell me a lie.――It was in the summer some time.

Before or after the photograph was taken?――I cannot tell you exactly.

Was it immediately preceding or subsequently?――I can’t tell you exactly.

Can you tell me whether it was before the fair or after the fair?――Don’t remember.

Oh, please do try and remember?――Well, I can’t; but I will find out for you.

Was it before or after you had taken out the warrant?――Why, long before.

The Stipendiary: Was it a warrant or summons?

Mr. Clegg: Well, both.

Mr. Pollard: The summons was taken first, and then the warrant.

Mr. Clegg (to witness): It was long before that, you say?――Yes.

Then at the time you went to Mansfield with Mrs. Padmore had you had any quarrel with the prisoner?――Yes; I didn’t want him to annoy me.

Had you had any quarrel?――Yes, because he was a nuisance to me.

That was before you had your portrait taken with him when you went to Mansfield?――I don’t remember.

At this point the prisoner groaned loudly several times, and finally caused his head to fall forward on the table, placing his hands underneath. In this position he remained.

Examination continued: Do you say it was two or three months before?――I didn’t say two or three months. I said a while before.

What do you call a while?――A month or so――two or three weeks. It might be longer. I am not quite sure.

Before you took out this summons against him, had you any quarrel at all?――Had I any quarrel?

Mr. Robinson: You summoned him for a certain thing. Had you any quarrel before that certain thing?――Not a quarrel, only that he was such a nuisance about the house, calling me a brute, and listening on the doorstep to our conversation.

The prisoner here again groaned, and asked for the surgeon.

Mr. Hallam, the police surgeon, felt his pulse. He then suggested that his feet should be raised by being placed on a chair. This was done, and then the prisoner lay back in his arm-chair with his feet curled before him.

Had you any unpleasantness before you went to Mansfield?――He was a constant source of annoyance by his disagreeableness. He used to listen at the door, and jump over the wall, and be very disagreeable indeed. He was a constant annoyance.

What train did you go by when you went to Mansfield?――The afternoon train.

Where did you go after you got there? Was he with you?――He followed us, and came into the house just as we were sitting down to tea.

Do you know a person of the name of Kirkham?――Kirkham?

Mr. Clegg: Call Kirkham. (Kirkham a person about twenty years of age, was brought into the corridor.)

The Stipendiary: Do you know him?――Yes; I remember his face.

Mr. Clegg: You know him now; there can’t be any doubt about it?――I remember his face.

Mr. Pollard: Do you know him by name, or only know his face?――I only know his face.

Mr. Clegg: He delivered the milk?――He and his father.

Have you never give him notes, with instructions to deliver them to Peace?――I gave him two receipts.

Two receipts? What were they for?――For pictures, framing.

What were they written on?――On paper. I don’t know whether there was an envelope. I think only a piece of paper.

Have you not given him notes or receipts?――I have given him two receipts.

I ask you have you not given him notes?――No, no notes.

Little scraps of paper?――No, I have given him two receipts.

Where did your husband keep his address cards?――In his writing-desk.

Locked up?――No.

Where was the writing-desk?――In the sitting-room.

Had you no address cards?――I, myself? No.

Did you ever see your husband’s?――No.

The prisoner had a daughter named Jane――had he not?――Jane Ann they called her.

Now, then, look at that (showing her a card).――It is in the same writing as the other.

Mr. Pollard: It is an address card. What is its number?

Mr. Clegg: It is “No. 2.” (To witness): Read out what it says (handing witness the card).――Witness: I cannot read it, and it is not written very plain.

Then I will try and assist you. You can read?――Yes.

And you can write?――Yes.

This is what it says then: “After he is going out I won’t go if I can help it――so see me. Love to Janey.”――I did not write it.

Has that card been altered from “Mr.” to “Mrs.” Look?

Mr. Vickers: Is there some alteration there?――Yes; there is an “s” there.

Will you venture to say you did not use that address card and alter that from “Mr.” to “Mrs.?”――I did not alter it.

It is on your husband’s address card?――I am aware of that.

Now, do you know a little girl named Hutton?――I don’t remember the name.

Do you know a Mrs. Hutton living in Britannia-road?――No, I don’t remember the name; but I might know her if I saw her. I can’t tell her by name.

Did you not go and meet him there?――No, I never did.

Were you never together in Mrs. Hutton’s?――We called together one day, when I was looking after a little girl to go errands for me.

Was it Mrs. Hutton’s little girl?――Yes, I believe that was the name.

Will you swear that you never gave notes to her little girl to give to the prisoner?――I will.

Will you give her a pen? I should like to see her write what I shall dictate to her. What do you write with generally――a steel pen or a quill pen?――It does not make much difference, though I usually write with a quill.

Well, write with a steel pen, “I will write a note when I can, perhaps to-morrow.” Yes, that will do. Go on and write, “You can give me something as a keepsake if you like, but I don’t like to be covetous, and to take them from your wife and daughter. Love to all.” You have not written this half as well as the first part.――It is the best I can do.

Now, look at this first line, “I will write to you a note,” and look at this card. Now, madame, will you swear that this is not your writing?――That is not my writing.

Now, I will go over these letters. Did the prisoner ever give you a ring?――Yes.

Peace: Did I give her what?

Mr. Clegg: Do you be quiet.

Did you write to acknowledge the receipt of that ring?――Not to my knowledge.

Had you any envelopes in your possession like this?――I cannot say.

Look it well over. It is important.――I cannot say.

Was the prisoner living next door to you when he gave you the ring?――Yes.

The attendant surgeon, Mr. Hallam, here went to feel Peace’s pulse, whereupon the prisoner groaned a good deal, and seemed to be very ill. He, however, found his invalid all right, and left him for a time.

Now, then, just look at that letter――that envelope with the writing upon it. Is that your handwriting?――No; it is not my writing.

Did anybody besides you and the prisoner know he had given you a ring?――I don’t know. I guess his daughter knew; at least he said so.

Did you know whether the daughter could write or not?――I don’t know. I guess she could.

Do you know about when that writing was given to you?――No; I can’t remember.

Very well. Now then, listen to me. I am going to read a letter, and you follow me. “I don’t know what train we shall go by. I have a good deal to do this morning. Will see you as soon as I possibly can. I think it would be easier after you move; he won’t watch so. The r――g (meaning the ring) fits the little finger. Many thanks, and love to Jennie. I will tell you what I thought of when I see you about arranging matters. Excuse this scribbling.”

Mr. Clegg: What is the next word――is it “hello?”――I don’t know, I cannot tell.

Now, you admit you have received a ring from him?――Yes; he gave me a ring.

Will you swear that is not a letter from you to him?――It is not from me.

Not about putting the ring on, and trying it on and telling him the ring fits?――The letter is not from me.

You will not swear the letter is not from you?――It is not from me.

Did the ring fit?――No.

Did you tell him not?――I did not keep it very long. It did not fit my little finger.

Mr. Clegg: Did you try it on?――Yes, I tried it; but I could not put it on.

What sort of a ring was it?――I could not tell you exactly. It was not worth much.

Do you remember the prisoner’s foot being damaged?――No; I do not remember anything about it.

(The prisoner groaned, and his solicitor had a consultation with him.)

Will you swear that you did not write this note to him (producing a letter marked No. 5)? Is that in your handwriting?――No.

Mr. Clegg: I will read it to you.

Mr. Pollard: The witness keeps on saying she did not write the letter to him, or the note. I object that, unless it is proved the thing is connected with the case it cannot be used. She denies that she wrote it.

Mr. Clegg: I submit, then, sir, that you have a most curious coincidence. She admits that the ring is given to her by the prisoner, and yet she denies writing the letter in which the ring is mentioned to her.

The Sipendiary: What does it all lead to?

Mr. Clegg: It leads to this. This woman has sworn now, as she did previously, that she did not write any of the letters, and I am in a position to prove that she did.

The Stipendiary: She distinctly denies it. You have evidence quite enough to damage her credit.

Prisoner (moaning): I demand that justice be done.

The Stipendiary (to prisoner): Don’t you interrupt.

Mr. Pollard: I will take your opinion on the subject.

[Sidenote: No. 89.]

The Stipendiary: I think enough has been gone into for the purposes of the preliminary examination. You can reserve the rest for the trial. I consider that enough has been gone into for the purpose of the preliminary examination.

Mr. Clegg: Supposing that at the trial this man is not defended――a state of things which is not at all unlikely.

The Stipendiary: You know very well that in that case the judge would order some learned counsel to defend the prisoner. I am not going to deal with a state of circumstances that may arise at the trial. It would be presumption in me to provide for want of justice before the judges.

Mr. Clegg: This is a preliminary inquiry, and I can put in whatever I think is for the benefit of the prisoner. Though it is only a preliminary inquiry I am bound to do it.

The Stipendiary: I rule that sufficient has been asked about those lettters.

Mr. Clegg: I shall persist in asking these questions until I am stopped.

The Stipendiary: Then I stop them now. You have quite enough for your purpose.

Mr. Clegg: I don’t think I have.

The Stipendiary: You have quite enough. You can prosecute her for perjury if she has spoken falsely as to what has been asked of her. There are two very particular points, on which she has decisively spoken in reference to these letters.

Prisoner: She has done more than that.

The Stipendiary: You may if you have cause, indict her for perjury; it can lead to nothing else.

Mr. Clegg: Then at present I don’t think I have got sufficient, in my opinion, to test this witness’s credibility.

The Stipendiary: In my opinion, you have. If what you have asserted is shown to be true, you have more than sufficient to damage her credibility, and more than sufficient to have a cause for indicting her for perjury. Beyond that it is not necessary for you to go, and I rule you shall not go.

Mr. Clegg: How can I indict the woman for perjury unless I put the letters in her hands?

The Stipendiary: She has looked at them, because I told her to look at them myself. I said to her, “Look at each one, and see if it is not in your handwriting.” That is in itself sufficient.

Mr. Clegg: Those letters have been already produced by the prosecution. I have the right to call for those to be read, and if you will not now let me cross-examine her in reference to them in detail, then I ask that the letters be read; then I can cross-examine upon them, and that comes to the same thing.

The Stipendiary: You should have done that before. It is too late now. I cannot have them read now.

Mr. Clegg: Put that decision on the depositions. I ask that those letters put in by the prosecution be read by the clerk of the court.

The Stipendiary: You have seen them.

Mr. Clegg: I have not seen them. I have not had the opportunity of reading these original letters. By mere favour I have had copies of them sent to me.

Prisoner: It is nothing but injustice.

The Stipendiary: You will take the ruling of the Court, Mr. Clegg, if you please, and have done with it.

Mr. Clegg: I put it to you as a matter of law.

The Stipendiary: I have given my decision.

Mr. Clegg: I object to proceed until these letters are read.

Prisoner: Hear, hear.

The Stipendiary: You can proceed with your cross-examination.

Mr. Clegg: I have a right to have the letters read if I please.

The Stipendiary: You can read them over yourself if you like.

Mr. Clegg: If they are put into my hands I shall read them to witness.

The Stipendiary: Then you may read them.

Mr. Clegg: Very well, then; that is all I want. The witness has denied that she has had anything to do with them. (To witness): Have you read them?――Some of them.

Have you read them all?――Not all of them.

Then I will read them to you.

Mr. Pollard: There will be no necessity for their being read aloud. Let the witness read them for herself.

Mr. Clegg: I will read this one to you now, if you please. (Reading): “If you have a note for me send now whilst he is out, but you must not venture, for he is watching, and you cannot be too careful. Hope your foot is better. I went to Sheffield yesterday, but I could not see you anywhere. Were you out? Love to Jane.” Did you write that letter?――No.

Mr. Clegg: Now I put that letter in. Have you had an envelope in your possession like that (handing an envelope to the witness)?――I don’t know; perhaps I might have. As regards the envelope, the prisoner used to come for paper and writing materials to my house.

Prisoner: No, I did not; oh, no.

Mr. Clegg (holding a yellow envelope in his hand): Have you read the contents of this?――Yes, excepting something I could not make out.

Will you swear that is not your handwriting?――I swear there are none of them in my writing.

Mr. Pollard: I think you need hardly put it to her now, because she has sworn over and over again that there are none of them in her writing.

Mr. Clegg (to witness): Did you ever give the prisoner an American cent?――No.

Did you ever borrow any money from him?――No.

Not at all?――I never did.

Mr. Clegg, reading: “Things are looking very bad, for people told him everything. (Then there is something missing.) Pick out F. D.” Do you know what that means?――No.

Mr. Clegg (again reading): “Do keep quiet, and don’t let any one see you.” You did not write that? No; I did not write that.

The Stipendiary: She says she didn’t write these letters.

Mr. Clegg: Well, I wish to question her on the point.

The Stipendiary: I will not have it, and I will have my ruling attended to. It shall not go down on the depositions.

Cross-examination continued: You had a son named Willie?――William Henry.

How old is he?――Seven years old last December.

Did the prisoner ever give your son any halfpennies or coppers that you know of?――No, not that I am aware of.

You have seen that letter as well (handing a letter to witness)?――Yes, I have seen them all.

Do you know a woman named Norton?――Norton! I seem to remember the name. I think I remember the name.

Did you ever write this to the prisoner, “Mrs. Norton is raising h―――― about what I――――(then follows a blank)――――. Can you settle it, and send me the prints?”

Mr. Pollard: Witness denied that she ever wrote the letter, and the magistrate has given a ruling.

Mr. Clegg (to witness): When you were before the magistrates last week you said that you left Darnall in consequence of the prisoner annoying you?――Yes, on account of his annoyance.

Had you seen him from July, 1876 up to the time when you left in October?――No.

Did you know where he was?――No, I did not. He made himself scarce on account of the warrant I had taken out against him.

Did his family leave the neighbourhood before you left?――I don’t know.

What do you now say was the reason for your leaving Darnall? Because we were afraid of him. That was the reason. We thought he might come in in the night. We thought we had better go where he would not know where to find us.

It was because you were afraid of him?――Yes; he had threatened both my life and that of my husband.

Was the sole reason you left because you were afraid of him?――Yes; and we were told that he visited Darnall in female attire.

Did you say that the prisoner had threatened to blow your brains out, and those of your husband?――Yes; I said that.

Will you say that he threatened to blow your husband’s brains out?――Yes; I will swear that threatened to blow out both my brains and my husband’s.

Did you state that before the coroner?――The case was not brought before the coroner.

Were you not examined before the coroner?――Yes; on the case of murder, nothing more.

Were you examined as to the death of your husband?――Yes.

Did you say then that the prisoner had threatened your life at all?――Not that I remember.

The depositions of the witness were then put in by Mr. Pollard, from which it appeared that before the coroner witness had said that Peace had threatened to blow out both her brains and her husband’s.

Had there been any quarrel between prisoner and your husband?――I say he had been very annoying.

Was there any quarrel?――I can’t say there was any quarrel, because my husband would not speak to him.

Have you ever received a letter from the prisoner at all?――No sir. Oh! yes. I have received threatening letters.

Have you got them?――Mr. Chambers has them, I think.

I am now talking about the night of the murder. Previous to your going into the closet had your son been taken to bed, do you know?――Yes.

Did you see the prisoner when you were in the bedroom?――No.

When you were coming out of the closet did you see the prisoner?――Yes, I did.

Did you say to him, “You old devil, what are you doing here now?”――I don’t remember saying anything to him, but he said, “Speak or I’ll fire.”

Will you swear that you did not say, “You old devil, what are you doing here to-night? I should have thought that you had brought enough disgrace upon me?――I don’ remember speaking at all. I was too astonished.

Did he say to you, “I will let you have the notes back again if you will get him to stay proceedings?”――No.

Did you say, “You know very well he won’t do it, as he has placed it in the hands of the lawyers?”――No; I did not speak to him.

Your husband then came up?――Yes.

How far was he from you and the prisoner before you first saw him?――About two or three feet.

How far is the passage from where you were to the closet? Close by.

Well, how many yards?――I can’t say.

How far were you from the closet door when you saw your husband?――Only three or four feet; I was just at the end.

Whereabouts was the prisoner when he came up?――The prisoner was going down the passage.

Was he walking or running away?――He was going at a rather quick pace.

Was he walking pretty quickly away from your husband?――He was going down the passage.

Away from your husband?――Away from him.

When your husband was going towards the prisoner did you hear him say, “If you don’t stop I’ll fire?”――No.

Did you see the prisoner on the ground?――How do you mean?

With your husband. Was there any struggling between your husband and the prisoner?――No, no.

How far were you away from them when your husband was shot, did you say?――A few feet off.

Did you hear the prisoner speak to your husband before he fired?――No, I did not. There was no speaking at all.

Not from the time that he came out right up to the time he was shot?――No.

Will you swear that your husband and the prisoner were not struggling together on the ground?――No, they were not struggling. They were not close enough together.

Mr. Clegg: What became of the lantern that you had?――What became of my lantern?

Yes, had you it in your hand?――I threw it down.

Before you saw your husband come out had you the lantern still in your hand?――Yes.

This concluded the cross-examination of Mrs. Dyson.

Mr. Pollard (re-examining): Are there some steps coming from the passage into the roadway?――There are one or two steps.

When your husband fell in what direction did his head fall?――From the side of the passage.

Did he take any step forward after the bullet struck him?――No, he dropped instantly.

At the time the bullet was fired did you see whether Peace was down on the pathway of the causeway?――Yes.

Therefore he would be some few feet below your husband?――Yes. He was down off the steps on the causeway when he fired the second shot.

And you say he would therefore be some two or three feet below your husband’s head at the time he fired?――Yes.

You were saying something about threatening letters. Between July and October, 1876, did you see any threatening letters?――Yes.

How many?――I know of two, and there were perhaps more.

Have you those letters?――Mr. Chambers, solicitor, has them. Mr. Dyson gave them to Mr. Chambers.

You gave them to Mr. Dyson, your husband, and he gave them to Mr. Chambere?――Yes.

You don’t know whose writing they were?――They were signed as if from prisoner, and seemed to come from Germany.

(Prisoner: I wish to call witnesses.)

The Stipendiary: It’s not time to call witnesses.

Prisoner: Am I going to be committed to-day? I want my witnesses called before.

The Stipendiary: It’s not the time.

This concluded Mrs. Dyson’s evidence, who then retired.

Police-constable 235, John Pearson, was next called and examined by Mr. Pollard. Do you know the prisoner?――I do, three or four years.

Prisoner: Let that person come up here, will you? I don’t know him.

Mr. Pollard (to witness): Three or four years from now?――Yes, I knew him about two years before the murder.

You remember the date of the murder of Mr. Dyson in November, 1876?――Yes.

Did you receive some instructions from your superior officer to go in search of the prisoner?――I did. I received instructions the same morning at half past two o’clock.

That was Nov. 30?――Yes.

Did you go to any place in Hull which you had any reason to know?――Yes, I went to 37, Collier-street.

Who was living there?――Peace’s wife, I believe. The same person who had been locked up here in the name of Hannah Peace. She was keeping a shop.

You failed to find him there?――Yes.

Mr. Pollard: I propose now to take the escape and recapture of the prisoner on the last occasion.

Stipendiary: You have gone after the time.

Mr. Pollard: I put it on the ground of what it is worth, as an element for a jury to consider, whether an innocent person after having been examined, and hearing evidence such as was given on the last occasion, would have attempted to escape as he did.

The Stipendiary: He was a convict, you know, suffering under sentence of penal servitude for life.

Mr. Pollard: Well, I will not press it.

Mr. Pollard then said that was his case.

Prisoner here exclaimed: “I want my witnesses called. Why don’t you call my witnesses?” and then fell down.

The depositions were now read over, Mrs. Dyson’s being taken first.

Whilst her depositions were being read the prisoner conducted himself in an excited and somewhat insolent manner. Making a faint of jumping from his chair, he fell back suddenly, calling to be taken to his cell. The warders stepped forward, and he then refused to be removed, and called for his counsel, to whom he began to give instructions in an excited fashion. Mr. Clegg took little notice, and soon after Peace put his arms on the table, laid his head between them, and moaned loudly. He next drew the rug over his head, and made such interruptions that the rug was drawn back, and he was asked to be still. He paid little attention to this request, but kept moaning and muttering till the deposition were read over.

Stipendiary (to Peace): Do you hear what is said?

Prisoner (whining): Oh yes, I hear.

The depositions were afterwards read over of Sarah Ann Colgrave, Mary Ann Gregory, George Brassington, Thomas Wilson, Police-constable Ward, Inspector Bradbury, and Police-constable Pearson.

Prisoner: Cannot you call my witnesses? What is the use of my having witnesses if they are not called?

The Stipendiary: Listen to me.

Prisoner: I cannot have them called.

The Stipendiary: Oh, yes, you can, Listen to me. You first of all have to make a statement, and then if there are any witnesses to be called they can be called. Now listen to me. The charge against you is that you wilfully and of malice aforethought did kill and murder one Arthur Dyson, on Oct. 29, 1876. Having heard the evidence, do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge?

Prisoner: Yes; I wish to say that――――

Stipendiary: You are not obliged to say anything in answer to the charge. What you do say will be taken down, and may be given in evidence against you.

Mr. Clegg: If you take my advice you will simply say not guilty.

The Prisoner: I say I am not guilty, and that justice has not been done to me so that I can prove I am not guilty. That is what I want. I want that. I want justice done me. Why don’t they let me call my witnesses, because you are asking me shall my witnesses be called? Why should they not be called here? Why? because I have not the money to pay the expenses.

The Stipendiary: What is it you complain of?

The Prisoner: I want my witnesses called to prove that I have really not done this.

The Stipendiary: Are there any witnesses to be called?

Prisoner: Yes, sir.

The Stipendiary: Are they here?

Prisoner: Yes, sir.

The Stipendiary: Then you must ask your solicitor.

Mr. Robinson (reading): You say, “I say I am not guilty, and I want my witnesses called to prove I am not guilty.”

Prisoner: That is what I said. I have lots of witnessses who can prove that that base, bad, woman has threatened my life, and has threatened her husband’s life; but I can’t talk to you, I am so bad. I feel very bad. But she has threatened to take my life often.

The Stipendiary: Is this what you say?

Prisoner: I say I am not guilty, and I say I have not justice done me to prove I am not guilty, and that I want my witnesses called. (Loudly.) I say I can prove that I have not threatened her life. She has threatened her husband’s, and she has pointed pistols and things at me.

The Stipendiary: Have you any witnesses to-day? You are not taking your trial to-day. This is only a preliminary examination.

Prisoner: I cannot have those witnesses without I pay for them.

Mr. Clegg: I say I don’t intend calling any witnesses to-day.

The Stipendiary: Do you care to sign your statement? Would you like to put your name to the statement?

Prisoner: I will try.

Prisoner (to his warder, in a very rough tone of voice): Let me be. Then, taking up the pen, he said, I cannot see.

Mr. Clegg: Just sign it there.

Prisoner then rested his head on one arm and signed his name very deliberately, the capital “C” and “P” being particularly well flourished.

The Stipendiary: You are committed to take your trial on this charge at the assizes at Leeds.

The Prisoner (with eagerness): When are they?

The Stipendary: They are next week.

Inspector Bradbury was then bound over to prosecute, and the witnesses to appear at the trial.

The Prisoner: Will you let me sit before the fire a bit before I go? I am really very bad.

Mr. Clegg: He complains of being cold.

Prisoner: You can put me in irons if you like, but put me near a fire.

The Chief Constable: The cells are warm enough. It is only in this corridor that there is so much air.

Mr. Clegg: You will be warm enough in the cell.

Prisoner: I want to see you.

Mr. Clegg: Yes, I will see you.

Prisoner was then removed to the cell, groaning and whining, apparently overcome by the result of the day’s proceedings.

Mrs. Dyson laboured under suppressed emotion, but bore the ordeal well. The utmost precautions were taken to keep down excitement in the town, but popular feeling ran very high.

We have during the progress of this work had occasion to refer in more than instance to the latitude allowed to counsel on police examinations. A striking instance of this was made manifest on the several examinations of the prisoner Webster for the Richmond murder, and before then, in a lesser degree, perhaps, a similar instance occurred in the examination of the witnesses brought forward to give their testimony upon the Bannercross murder.

Peace was a daring and reckless burglar. An adept at disguising himself in a style that eluded the scrutiny of the police, he set small value on the vigilance of professional detectives.

The comparative immunity with which he had escaped the consequences of his iniquity induced him to wax bold in transgression.

Even to the last there seemed an idea that he might still be able to baffle justice. Everything a wicked ingenuity could do was done to discredit the testimony on which he was convicted; but the utmost license of counsel was unavailing.

We are not disposed to say anything severe about a barrister struggling with the difficulties Mr. Lockwood was called to combat. In such circumstances the old adage of “No case――abuse the plaintiff’s attorney,” is a sufficient explanation of what might otherwise appear unseemly.

On the present occasion, however, it was not the attorney, but the press that got abused. In the recent trial of the directors of the City of Glasgow Bank, a similar policy was pursued by a prominent and really able advocate.

But the barrister to whom the defence of Charles Peace was committed passed beyond the duty of counsel in the denunciation of newspapers.

It was thus that Mr. Lockwood delivered himself:

“Never in the course of my experience has there been such a cry raised on the part of those who ought to be most careful of all others in preserving the liberties of their fellow-men and the independence of the tribunals of justice. I say that in this respect these parties have proved false to the great duties entrusted to them, and have not hesitated to raise a merciless cry for blood for the sake of the paltry pennies which they have been able to extract from the public, whom they have tried to gull.”

This charge against the press is false. There had really been no attempt to stimulate public antipathy against the Bannercross culprit. In point of fact, a judicious critic might with some show of reason insinuate that the details of the life of Peace had been placed before the public in aspects more attractive than just.

The convict was not at all averse to the notoriety which he had recently achieved. But when his life is carefully scanned from the day that he first enlisted in the “Devil’s Regiment of the Line” until sentence of death was passed upon him, it is abundantly evident that the way of the transgressor was hard.

Charles Peace commenced his criminal career before he was fourteen. He was not yet fifty, but already there was unambiguous evidence that premature old age was stealing over him.

Though devoted to crime, Peace never consorted with criminals. This peculiarity in his career constituted his safety. It is mainly because the haunts and habits of criminals are known that they are detected.

The impunity with which, for a very considerable period, Peace was enabled to commit the Blackheath burglaries arose from the air of mystery with which he was surrounded.

It must not, however, be assumed that there was anything heroic in the kind of housebreaking with which he was identified.

Houses in the district that formed the scene of his depredations afford every facility to the “cracksman.” But the good fortune which had so often favoured Peace in this region at length deserted him.

A constable whom a revolver could not scare mastered the burglar.

When he was condemned to penal servitude, it was discovered that the culprit had been guilty of a more serious crime. “Information received” enabled the authorities to connect the Blackheath burglar with the Bannercross murder.

That crime was fast fading from the memory of even those amongst whom it had been committed, and every hope of arresting the murderer had been abandoned.

Mr. Dyson’s widow was in America, and Peace, who knew this, thought himself safe.

But, if “justice steals along with woollen feet, it strikes with iron hands.”

Mrs. Dyson was brought back from the United States to avenge in the witness-box the brutality of her tormentor.

Her evidence as to all that transpired on the eventful night that her husband fell was too minute and circumstantial to be shaken by even the severest cross-examination.

The line of evidence which counsel was instructed to take only deepened the infamy of the accused.

Even had it been possible to prove an improper intimacy between Peace and Mrs. Dyson, that would have done nothing to mitigate the atrocity of Mr. Dyson’s murder.

A most persistent effort was made by Mr. Lockwood to show that, previous to the firing of the shot from which Mr. Dyson fell, there had been a struggle between the murderer and his victim.

On this point, however, the widow’s evidence was decisive. There was indeed no necessity that Mr. Dyson should close with the culprit.

Moreover, inoffensive people are not usually anxious to fight ruffians who are armed with “six-shooters.”

When Peace was in a difficulty or in a passion, recourse to firearms seemed perfectly natural. Society was his legitimate prey, and in presence of unarmed antagonists the burglar waxed valorous. Rarely has a more wanton murder been perpetrated than that of Mr. Dyson.

The only offence of which that unfortunate man appeared guilty was his abhorrence of the attentions of Peace. To escape them, he removed from the neighbourhood in which the convict dwelt.

The scamp, however, followed the Dysons with a fiendish malignity. When threatening to blow out Mrs. Dyson’s brains, Peace had the effrontery to ask a bystander to “bear him witness that she had struck him with a life-preserver.” This idea was a pure myth.

The preserver existed only in the foul imagination of the criminal, and the struggle with Mr. Dyson on the 29th November, 1876, a still bolder fiction. It is possible that the crime was unpremeditated, and that annoyance rather than murder was intended. But a man who makes a revolver the instrument of annoyance cannot guard against the most dreaded contingencies.

Mr. Campbell Foster was justly enough precluded from making any reference to Peace’s attempted escape from the railway train. But it is not difficult to understand the motives under which the desperate leap was taken.

If Peace had possessed any confidence in his ability to support the plea set up in his behalf, there would have been no attempt to escape. But he was awnre of what awaited him.

He knew enough of Mrs. Dyson to fear that her testimony was not likely to be shaken. Every incidence in her career, so far as it was known to counsel, was reproduced for the purpose of disconcerting and discrediting her. Nevertheless, she left the witness-box with her evidence unshaken.

Thus has Charles Peace been condemned. Hunted down while not yet fifty, there is in every feature of his forbidding face evidence that such a career is as unprofitable as it is criminal.

It is difficult to conceive what this malefactor might have been under other and brighter auspices. But, dedicated to crime from his youth upward, as years passed away, conscience, which in his case was never tender, became “seared as with a hot iron.”

When the final stage in his trial was reached, and Peace was asked if he had anything to say, he whimpered out, “Is there any use of saying anything now?”

But in his cell the convict collapses, and his courage proves melodramatic.

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

CLVIII. PRISONERS AND THEIR CUSTODIANS

One of the most remarkable and daring exploits of our time, and one which more than any other of his adventures awakened the public mind to the desperate and reckless nature of the man was his attempt to escape while in the charge of his warders in the railway carriage. This might be considered the culminating point of his lawless life, and had he been without handcuffs, and possessed of his favourite weapon――a six-chambered revolver――we would not have given much for the lives of his two custodians. It was indeed fortunate for them that the wild beast under their care was safely manacled, and, indeed, the great body of the people had no idea of the risks run by the servants of the law in dealing with ruffians of Peace’s type. We subjoin an interesting account given by an officer, and printed in Chambers’s Journal of

A PERILOUS RIDE WITH A CONVICT.

One of my journeys called me away to a town in Suffolk, where I was ordered to take charge of a prisoner to be discharged the next day from one of the local gaols, in which he had been undergoing a year’s imprisonment for a criminal assault.

The man had been let out on a ticket-of-leave from the “Defence” hulk at Woolwich, and had speedily, as it appeared, got into trouble down in the country.

As he was merely “wanted” to complete his original sentence――having broken his ticket-of-leave――there could be no bother about apprehending him inside the prison, and using such precautions for his safe keeping as seemed best to my judgment.

Just as I was about to leave the office in Bow-street, one of my comrades with whom I was rather intimate came in, having finished a journey such as I was myself about to set off on.

“Going out, Tom?” he asked; and on my telling him where I was bound for, he continued――“Better have this ‘barker,’ Tom――you may find it useful.”

At the same time he produced a small pocket pistol, which he held out for my acceptance.

“I have not got any powder,” he added; but here are some caps and bullets.”

It seemed needless to remark that this was before the days of revolvers and patent cartridges; we had then to load in the old fashion, and had merely got as far as the introduction of the percussion cap.

I had never before carried anything more deadly by way of protection than a life-preserver, but as my friend seemed to mean a kindness, I made no ado about accepting his offer; and having “capped” it there and then, I consigned it to the side pocket of a pilot coat, which I wore buttoned over my uniform.

My journey down to Suffolk calls for no particular notice. In due time the railway deposited me at my destination, and left me with plenty of leisure to call upon the governor of the prison over night, with a view to my carrying off my charge the next morning. I asked what sort of a customer I would have to deal with, and must confess that I did not feel much encouraged with the reply,

“He is what I would call a nasty customer,” was the answer. “He has given us a deal of trouble while we have had charge of him; continually breaking prison rules, and more than once he has tried to commit suicide in the most determined manner by tearing open the veins in his arms with his finger-nails.”

This account of matters was not, as may well be supposed, at all enlivening; and when the governor added that the man was a perfect giant, and had been a “navvy” before he fell into evil courses, I began to fear that my work was cut out for me. However, there was no help for it.

The inn where I had taken up my quarters stood right opposite the gaol entrance, and as the street was somewhat of the narrowest, the most complete view of all comers and goers could be commanded from the front of my temporary residence.

Next morning found me seated at a very comfortable breakfast, and the weather being fine, the window of the private parlour was open, affording a perfect view of all that might take place at the prison door opposite.

While I was absorbed in the good cheer before me, I was startled by an exclamation from both the landlady and her daughter, which caused me to look up and instinctively to glance across the street.

“Did you ever see such a big, coarse, and clumsy-looking woman?” exclaimed the younger of my entertainers.

“Or is it a woman at all?” added her mother.

My attention was at once riveted upon the new comer, whom I somehow could not avoid connecting with the criminal it would so soon become my duty to apprehend.

Without saying a word to the two ladies, I carefully and closely watched every movement of the party opposite during the remainder of my morning meal. More than once I caught myself mentally repeating my landlady’s query: “Is it a woman, after all?”

The “it” must be excused, as the point was so entirely doubtful. For a woman, the individual was very considerably above the average height, and her whole physique indicated far more than the average strength of womankind.

There was a swagger in her walk, too, most unlike the carriage of a female. I was fairly puzzled, and none the less so that I had twice noticed her ringing the prison bell, and that I knew there was but one individual to be discharged that morning, and that it was close upon my time to go and look after him.

I had barely finished my last cup of coffee, when one of the prison warders came across to say that the wife of my prisoner was waiting outside, and had twice made a demand to see him; but that the governor did not care to accede to the request without first consulting me.

After casting the matter over in my own mind for a minute, I told the warder that I did not mind the woman being admitted, but that the two ought to be very closely watched during the interview.

The man re-entered the prison, and within a few minutes I observed that the woman was called in.

Punctual to my time, I crossed over to the prison, and found my charge waiting for me, his wife being still with him, and no one in the room but the governor.

Contrary to my expectations, the prisoner held up his wrists and submitted to be handcuffed with the most lamb-like docility.

When we got out into the street, I suggested, as there was time to spare, that the stalwart pair should have a bit of breakfast at my expense before starting on the journey for town.

I thought the woman seemed a little taken aback at my invitation; however, it was acceded to; and we entered the inn parlour, where I requested the landlady to produce a plentiful supply of ham and eggs; and as the pair preferred ale to tea or coffee, I ordered them a pint apiece.

I had of course to unlock one hand in the order to allow my prisoner the free use of his knife and fork; and, after what I had heard the night before, I thought it was rather risky thing for me to do, as though he might not attempt to do me any mischief, it was just possible he might try to inflict some serious mischief on himself.

All, however, passed off safely, and when breakfast was finished, I told him he must bid his wife good-bye, as I did not want to attract any attention at the railway station. A kiss was accordingly exchanged, the bracelets were again attached to the wrists, and we set off at a brisk pace.

When we got to the station, I learned that the next “up” train was an express, and that I would have to look sharp, as it might be expected immediately, and made but a brief stoppage.

The train, in fact, came in almost to a minute after the information was communicated to me; and I hurried across the platform, got my man into a second-class carriage――the compartment I had only just time to notice was empty.

The whistle sounded, and the train was beginning to move, when the door was flung violently open, and in jumped the prisoner’s wife, taking her seat right opposite me.

There was but time for the porter to slam the door, when we were off. It need not be said that I was very far from being satisfied with the look of things, and that I had made up my mind to be carefully on my guard.

I said nothing, being fully determined not to show any uneasiness, though it must be owned I felt much. Before we had gone any great way my prisoner turned sideways to me and said: “Master, my missus and me have some small matters of our own we would like to talk over; and as they don’t concern you in the least, p’raps you wouldn’t mind looking out of winder for a minute or two while we have our talk.”

“That I could not possibly do,” was my immediate answer. My duty is to keep you always under my eye and control; and besides, as you have just said, your domestic arrangements can be a matter of no concern to me, so you can discuss them as freely as you please without minding my presence.”

This answer seemed to disconcert both of them; but as if by way of compromise, I at the same moment leant towards the window of the carriage for a moment, and glanced outside.

My hearing is sharp enough now, but at the time I speak as was even more acute. Just as I turned my head, I heard, or thought I heard the man whisper the words: “Both together.” Instantly the suspicion flashed across my mind that these words related to myself, and I turned round and faced the couple in a moment.

What I saw in the expression of each of them seemed to warrant my acting with immediate decision. I seized the man between his manacled wrists so that he could not raise his hands.

With an instinctive thought I plunged my right hand into the pocket of my pilot coat, pulled out the pistol my mate had handed to me, cocked it with my thumb, and holding it within a few inches of the face of the woman opposite, I looked steadily into her eyes, and said with emphasis, “If you attempt to stir before we reach the next station you will certainly be a dead woman!”

It was something fearful to notice the immediate change on that woman’s countenance. She became of a pallid whiteness, and her lips had the purple-bluish tinge that indicate so unmistakably an access of deadly fear. In the highly-dramatic positions I have just described we sped on until the next stopping station was reached, and that occupied fully more than twenty minutes.

The moment the train came to a stop I thus addressed the woman, keeping her “covered” with the muzzle of my pistol: “Leave the carriage; and, if you value your liberty, make what speed you can to get into hiding.”

She disappeared instanter; and I felt a heavy load of anxiety lifted off my mind as she left us, for of all the encounters I most hate, an encounter with a woman is to be classed foremost.

Not a word passed between my prisoner aad me during the remainder of the journey to London, which we were no great while in reaching, and where I duly delivered him into safe keeping at Bow-street police-office.

Next morning I had to conduct my prisoner to Woolwich, there to deliver him to the authorities of the hulks, from whom he had obtained his ticket-of-leave. He seemed to have recovered from his scare of the day before, and on our journey spoke freely enough, and with an earnestness that left no doubt of the truth of his communication.

“Master,” said he, “I am main glad you kept your head yesterday, and did not lean out of the winder. Had you done so, missus and I meant to have pitched you out, and taken our chance afterwards of getting off.

“I was not very likely to be so easily put off my guard,” was the laconic answer.

“Aye, but master, your danger was not over then for missus and I had made it up that she was to pin your arms――and she could a done it easy――while I was to smash your head with the ‘darbies.’ We should then a took a key, got off the bracelets, and heaved you out of a winder, afore you could come to yourself. That pistol fairly put us out, for it cowed missus, and she isn’t easily cowed, I tell ye.”

“But the pistol was not loaded,” said I――“nothing but a cap and an empty barrel.”

“All the same, master, I’m main glad we failed. Now I’ve thought it over, I know I could not have escaped. It was known I left in your charge, and that missus joined us. When your body was found, we’d a been spotted at once, and most likely both on us would a swung for it. I’m main glad, I tell you, that you got out o’ the mess, and I don’t bear you no ill-will for having done your dooty as a man and a hofficer.”

Never before, to my knowledge, had I been in such deadly peril, and truly thankful did I inwardly feel for the providential escape I learned I had just made. I was glad to hand my murderous-minded charge over to the care of the officers of the “Defence;” and I am thankful to add that I never heard more of him, or wished to do so.

Among the many persons who had been present at the examination of Charles Peace was an old acquaintance――Shearman, the American detective, of loquacious and anecdotal proclivities. After the prisoner’s committal he adjourned to an adjoining house where good entertainment was provided for man and beast. In the company of the English detectives engaged in the case, police-sergeants, and inspectors, Mr. Shearman was quite at home. A long, rambling discussion took place, the leading subject being the merits, or rather demerits, of our hero. Incidents in detective life became the order of the day, and, as far as this was concerned, Mr. Shearman, as usual, “went ahead.” He told a capital story, which, as this is the last time we shall have to take notice of him, we give in his own words:――

TRACKING A FUGITIVE OVER THE OCEAN.

I am not Pollaky or Paddington Green, neither am I Inspector Webb, nor Detective Bull of the City force, said Mr. Shearman. My status in society is that of a banker’s clerk. I hold an appointment in a Midland Counties firm, which I entered upon five-and-twenty years ago.

I had reached what is termed the “ripe middle age,” when some months since the even current of my life was interrupted by the following event:――

The establishment with which I have been so long associated is well known, and has gained a reputation by the quiet, respectable character of its business transactions.

It does not indulge in speculative ventures, and hence has escaped many of the misfortunes and missed no little of the agitation which some banking firms have had to encounter.

Occasionally we have been startled by the presentation of a bad note, a forged cheque, and other cunningly-devised schemes of well-practiced swindlers to impose on our simplicity and credulity, which circumstances have forced us into the excitement of judicial investigations.

Thus, from time to time, I was brought into contact with some of the most celebrated detectives of the day. I still remember the feelings of admiration with which I witnessed the skill and sagacity of such men as John Forrister, Leadbeater, the Bow-street officer, Inspector Wicher, and other police officers, in tracking and detecting a swindler.

At that period I little dreamt that my quiet life would be disturbed by an eventful episode, such as I am about to relate.

On the morning of the 28th of September, 186-, I was at my post as usual, when a message from the bank manager summoned me to his presence. I saw at a glance, on entering the room, that something had happened.

My chief informed me that a customer of the bank, whom, for obvious reasons, I will call Mr. Hooker, had absconded.

I was aware, not only that he was under an engagement to liquidate a considerable claim we had against him, but that he had recently fixed a day for the fulfilment of his promise, assuring us that he should be in the immediate receipt of a large sum of money, which would enable him to pay his debt, and leave a balance to his credit in our hands.

The statement of his expected funds was no fiction――he duly received them――but instead of appropriating his newly-acquired wealth to the honest discharge of our claim, he clandestinely left his home, and before the intelligence of his departure had reached us, he was half-way to Canada.

The manager’s indignation at the fradulent conduct of an individual whom he had believed to be an honourable man, and had trusted as such, did not surprise me. Neither was I astonished when he told me he would do all in his power to punish the absconding debtor, if means could be adopted to discover and arrest him in his flight.

It was a matter for serious deliberation. Ultimately, acting on an impulse I could not control, I proffered my services to go in pursuit of the defaulter. They were accepted.

The same evening, in company with one of our directors, I left by the mail train for Liverpool, reaching that place some little time after midnight. The object of this journey was to endeavour to ascertain, through the Liverpool detectives, when and by what ship Mr. Hooker had sailed, as well as his destination, in order that we might arrive at a conclusion as to the propriety of my crossing the Atlantic in pursuit.

Early the following morning we were at the headquarters of the detective police. We related the nature of our mission, and the services of one of their most efficient officers were placed at our disposal.

He was evidently well known at all the shipping offices. In less than an hour he furnished us with every information we could obtain in Liverpool. He ascertained that Hooker had sailed for Quebec seven days previously in the Canada mail packet ship “Belgian,” and had booked through to Montreal; and he added the still more important facts that the delinquent had with him his wife, sister-in-law, and two children, and further, that he was in possession of a roll of bank notes at the time he secured the berths.

Had he gone alone I doubt whether I should have had the courage to proceed farther; but the fact of his being encumbered with the ladies, the children, and a large quantity of baggage was a set-off against his seven days’ start, and considerably altered my views.

With such a drag on his movements, I felt there was a hope of success, and at once accepted the responsibility of following him.

A berth was secured on board the “China,” of the Cunard line, and on Saturday, the 30th of September, 4.30 p.m., I found myself afloat, and the docks of Liverpool becoming fainter and fainter.

Fortunately the weather was extremely fine; and as we steamed down the Mersey the scene and the event was one of unusual interest to me.

The interior of a first-class mail packet just starting on her voyage, and its animated appearance, have often been described. I need only say there were over two hundred passengers on board, and that my [Sidenote: No. 90.] immediate companions were a French gentleman, a Spaniard and his wife, a Scotch physician (who was in a state of complete prostration three-fourths of the voyage), a ship-builder from St. John’s, N.B., and his two daughters, the chaplain of the ship and his wife, and Mr. Tucker, an intelligent man from Philadelphia, who, during the voyage, gave me such valuable information, and introduced me to some Canadian merchants on board. These gentlemen subsequently rendered me great assistance in the prosecution of the object I had in view.

One of the most agreeable interludes of our voyage occurred during our detention at Queenstown for the mail bags.

A delay of the mail train enabled us to pay a visit to the lovely Cove of Cork. We landed at the pleasant quay, ascended Lookout Hill, and partook of the hospitality of the Queen’s Hotel.

The jaunting cars, negro minstrels, mendicants, men-of-war’s men, yachtsmen, and hawkers occupied the foreground, while the cove itself was studded with vessels, among which some of our ironclads and gunboats were conspicuous.

The view was bounded by the islands of Spike and Haulbowline, and the famous lighthouse that marks the entrance to the harbour.

It was about half-past four on the following day week when I was aroused from sleep by the report of a cannon close to our saloon. The first idea that I had on awakening was, that we had struck upon a rock, but my neighbour informed me it was a salute we were firing on entering Halifax harbour.

We had made one of the quickest passages on record; for before five o’clock a.m. on Monday, the 9th of October, we arrived at Halifax, being only seven days and twelve hours from the time of our departure from Queenstown.

I proceeded to Boston, where I remained one day. I left that city for Montreal. I reached the St. Lawrence Hall Hotel in that place at ten a.m. on Thursday, the 12th of October.

I confess that the three hundred miles of night travelling, following so closely on the voyage out, caused me great bodily fatigue, and I suffered much from mental depression.

As I sat alone that morning, some three thousand miles away from home, and as far distant from any friend, I began to reflect whether I had not undertaken a task of too great magnitude.

I was weak enough to regret having left the shores of England upon what now appeared so Quixotic an undertaking. It was too late for regret, and I immediately dispelled my doubts by action.

My first step was to collect my credentials and call upon the solicitors whose advice was to guide my future proceedings. Messrs Roberts & Roe are one of the most eminent firms of avocats in Montreal.

On making the acquaintance of the senior partner I felt that I stood in the presence of a gentleman of no ordinary ability――one whose verdict would go far to decide whether my mission would be stamped with “success” or endorsed with “failure.”

I related to him as briefly as possible the circumstances which brought me to him; I handed him the power of attorney, and, being desirous of securing his unlimited confidence, I also exhibited to him my letter of credit and introduction to the eminent Canadian house, Messrs. Gillespie, Moffat, & Co.

When I had finished my recital, Mr. Roberts took a few moments for reflection. I watched him narrowly, and I fancied I read distinctly in his countenance that his honest conviction was adverse to my cause.

I found that such was the fact; for, addressing me very deliberately, he said, “I fear your case is hopeless, and that your journey will be a fruitless one.”

He explained to me the law of Canada in reference to such cases, and pointed out, that even if I found Hooker, which was in his opinion, doubtful, I could only treat him as a debtor; I could not touch either his person or his goods; that I might bring an action against him for a common debt, with the consolatory thought that after I had spent some weeks in litigation and obtained judgment, Mr. Hooker would run across to the United States and snap his fingers at me and my judgment.

Mr. Roberts was kind enough to say he could not but admire the spirit which had been evinced by our bank, in taking such prompt and energetic action in the matter, and expressed a desire that other large mercantile firms in England would adopt a similar line of conduct, which would prevent Canada, and more particularly Montreal (from its proximity to the United States), becoming the resort of so many swindlers to the mother country.

Naturally I felt for the moment cast down by the revelation of the “hopelessness of my case,” and for an instant I contemplated relinquishing all further proceedings; but happily, in a few minutes, this feeling vanished, and I became, as it were, fortified with unusual strength and energy.

I was enabled calmly to reflect upon the formidable difficulty I had to encounter, and instead of abandoning my mission, I resolved to prosecute it to the utmost.

I told the legal adviser that my first step must be to discover the fugitive, and next to give him into “pretty safe” custody, until I could come to a satisfactory settlement with him――disregarding for the time all the terrors of the Canadian law on the question of false imprisonment.

At this period I was introduced to the junior partner of the firm, who subsequently undertook the management of the affair, and by his advice I shut myself up in my hotel, in case Hooker should see me and abscond whilst the avocat undertook to send during the day to all the hotels to examine the books of arrivals.

After a wretched time of inactivity I again sought my solicitors to ascertain the result of the search.

It was altogether unsuccessful. I subsequently found that had the official to whom the duty had been intrusted exercised an ordinary amount of vigilance, he would have been able to have furnished me with most welcome intelligence.

His search, however, had been a very superficial one, and I was consequently compelled to return to my hotel sadly disappointed, and wearied both in body and mind.

The following morning I was introduced to the Chief of the Montreal detective police, Mr. O’Leary, a remarkably acute and intelligent Irishman.

He regretted that for a day or two he could not give me much personal assistance, as he was engaged in several important criminal cases at the assizes, which were then being held in Montreal.

I briefly put him in possession of the facts of my mission, and he consoled me with the assurance that, if Hooker were there or in the neighbourhood, he should have no difficulty in finding him.

As I was deprived of the detective’s active assistance, I resolved to take a line of action of my own.

I suggested to Mr. Roe that we should make inquiries at the offices of the Canadian Mail Steam Packet Company, in one of whose ships (the Belgian) Hooker and his family had sailed from England.

Mr. Roe acceded to my suggestion, and accompanied me at once to the office, where I was introduced by him to Mr. Allan, the principal partner in the firm.

My object was to ascertain whether, from the official list of the passengers of the Belgian, they could furnish me with any information as to the arrival of the fugitive either in Quebec or Montreal. Mr. Allan at once communicated with the officials at Quebec, where the passengers had landed.

I was employed during Friday in visiting my solicitors and the detective’s officers, as well as in making inquiries at banks, post-office, and smaller hotels, but without acquiring the least information likely to prove serviceable.

At an early hour the next morning I started out with a conviction that if Hookor were in Canada I should obtain some clue of his whereabouts before night.

This presentiment did not mislead me, for before three o’clock I effected his “capture,” and had him closeted in my solicitor’s office in Little St. James street, with O’Leary and a brother-detective in close attendance.

I will record the events as they occurred that day, which was one of much anxiety and excitement.

When I reached Mr. Allan’s office I was informed by the head clerk that a letter had been received from their establishment at Quebec, in reply to their inquiries, containing some important and satisfactory information.

It is true they had lost all traces of the fugitive on his landing at Quebec, and consequently could not have rendered any assistance but for a singular coincidence which occurred a few days previously at Toronto.

The purser of the Belgian had occasion to visit the City of the Lakes, and whilst there he saw and had recognized Hooker as one of the passengers.

The latter believed himself to be perfectly safe, and, not having the slightest idea that any one was in pursuit of him, he invited the purser to take some refreshment, and then voluntarily entered into conversation about himself and family, mentioning, among other things, that his wife, sister-in-law, and children were at the Montreal Hotel, in Montreal, where he intended shortly to join them.

The purser returned to Quebec, and, fortunately for me, was at the office when the letter of inquiry from Montreal was opened. He immediately communicated the above facts to Mr. Allan.

I hastened with the welcome intelligence to my solicitors. It was difficult to decide upon the best course to adopt.

If any direct inquiry were made, Mrs. Hooker would probably communicate with her husband and prevent his return; after a short consultation we decided to leave the matter in the hands of O’Leary, the detective.

I went for him at once, and fortunately found him at the chief office of police. As I have previously stated, he was a sharp-witted Irishman, of gentlemanly bearing.

After deliberately reading the letter which had been intrusted to me by Mr. Allan’s clerk, he took my hand in his own, and, grasping it warmly, he said in his native accent, “My dear sirr-h――it’s all right――lave it to me.”

On our way to Montreal House he informed me that he knew, and had the greatest confidence in, the landlord, from whom he could obtain every information without exciting suspicion.

We entered the house by the public bar, and of course were at once the object of that curiosity which is invariably manifested when a detective officer appears in company with a stranger in a public place of that description.

The character of O’Leary was too well known for any one to venture upon a remark beyond an inquiry as to the state of his health, and “what would he drink?”

One cadaverous-looking Yankee put the latter question to me, but, as I was a stranger to him; I politely declined to take anything.

I soon discovered that I had committed rather a grave sin, for the Yankee appeared much irritated at my refusal, and advised me if I were going to New York, never to decline such an offer if it were made to me in that city, or, said he, “I guess it will be worse for you.”

On returning to O’Leary, I found him carelessly glancing at the names in the arrival book of the hotel.

Suddenly he closed the book, took it in his hand, and gave me a sign to follow him into an inner office.

When the door was closed he opened the book, and putting his finger on Hooker’s signature, inquired if that was the man. I replied in the affirmative.

The landlord was then admitted into our council, and a cautiously whispered conference took place.

The landlord informed us that Hooker’s wife and children were up stairs in the apartment above us, and that he had stowed large quantities of baggage in an adjoining room.

At that moment Mrs. Hooker was expecting her husband by the first train from Toronto, after which they intended leaving, but where they intended to go he had no idea.

O’Leary advised me to change my quarters from St. Lawrence Hall Hotel to the Montreal House, and keep a watchful eye on the movements of the family, so as to be ready to confront the husband on his arrival.

I hastened to the hotel, removed all traces of my address and railway tickets from my luggage, and entered my name on the arrival book of the Montreal Hotel as Mr. V. Robinson, from Boston.

I lounged about the place with a view to picking up any stray piece of information I could. I heard, among other things, that Hooker had lodged his money in the Merchants’ Bank.

I thought this of sufficient importance to communicate to my solicitor at once.

On my return I was somewhat startled by the announcement that Hooker, who had just arrived, was then sitting down to dinner in the public room.

There was evidently no time to be lost, as he had ordered his bill, and would leave in half an hour.

I knew my only chance consisted in playing a bold game.

With the “hopelessness of my case” ringing in my ears, I had not the courage to confront him myself, and yet in half an hour he would be gone.

It was just a question of finding O’Leary and bringing him on the scene of action in those thirty minutes. There was no vehicle at hand.

I ran hastily to the head office of the police, and found to my dismay that O’Leary was not there, nor was there anyone who knew where he could be found.

I retained the services of the chief officer present, secured a cab, and went at full gallop to O’Leary’s private residence, where we were fortunate enough to find him.

He immediately entered the cab and we returned to Montreal House, whilst I related to him all that had occurred since I last saw him.

As I told him we should probably find our man quietly taking dinner, his face lighted up with pleasure, and he exclaimed, “It’s one of the most beautiful little affairs I have been engaged in for sometime past!”

I feared that his zeal might get the better of his discretion.

I again explained to him the full nature of the case, that I could not legally give him into custody, and my only chance of recovering any portion of the money with which he had absconded from England, was to frighten him into some concession before he could procure legal advice.

O’Leary appeared delighted with the prospect of his game, and requesting me to “lave it entoirely in his hands,” assured me that in case he were obstinate he would terrify him out of his life.

Ere we reached the hotel I was wrought up to a high pitch of excitement; the time for decisive action had arrived.

Preceded by the landlord, and in company with the two detectives, I ascended the principal staircase, at the top of which was the entrance to the dining-saloon.

The door was open, thus affording us a view of some twenty of the guests, and, among them, of the man in search of whom I had crossed the Atlantic.

He was sitting with his back to us, his wife and sister-in-law being on each side of him.

He appeared in high spirits, and was chatting with the various guests at the table, little dreaming who was standing at the open door, prepared to denounce him, if necessary, as a fugitive swindler from England.

I pointed him out to O’Leary, who calmly remarked, “That’s enough,” and then, as a second thought struck him, he added, with a spice of Irish humour, “but we’ll let him finish his dinner first, for he seems to be enjoying it so much.”

In accordance with so odd a request we allowed him a minute’s grace. He was then touched on the shoulder by the head waiter and informed that a gentleman was waiting to see him.

Still unsuspecting he arose from his seat and came towards us with a smiling countenance.

O’Leary met him, and with a slight inclination of the head, said, “Mr. Hooker, from England, I believe.”

“Yes,” was the apparent firm reply.

I thought I could discover an anxious nervous twitching in his face, betraying an under current of guilty consciousness, and a fear that he had not escaped pursuit, as perhaps only a few minutes previously he was flattering himself he had.

I was standing a little in the rear of O’Leary, and thus was partially hidden from observation.

Stepping on one side, and extending his hand towards me, O’Leary said, “Allow me, Mr. Hooker, to introduce you to a gentleman from England, with whom I believe you are well acquainted.”

Making an effort to appear calm and unconscious of danger, the swindler deliberately disowned all knowledge of me.

Looking at me, and then turning to O’Leary, he replied, “I do not know the gentleman. He is a perfect stranger to me.”

I was unprepared for such a barefaced disavowal from a man with whom I had so often and so lately transacted business.

For a moment I felt staggered by this fresh evidence of guilt.

At length I stepped forward and said, “Mr. Hooker, you know the ―――― Bank, and you know me as the cashier of that establishment, and you know, too, perfectly well the nature of the business which has brought me to Canada in search of you.”

These words, uttered with all the menace and determination I could throw into them, had a marked and striking effect on the conscience-stricken man to whom they were addressed.

His courage instantly forsook him. He trembled as stricken with ague.

Uttering all sorts of miserable excuses for his conduct, he requested that we should retire to a private room, with a view to an explanation and settlement.

I readily acceded to this, and now felt somewhat hopeful of bringing the business to a satisfactory conclusion.

I soon discovered that in this I was fated to be disappointed; for, shortly after we were closeted, he again assumed a bold appearance, and seemed disposed to justify his conduct rather than make any reparation for what he had done.

His principal anxiety appeared to be to avoid exposure before the inmates of the hotel.

This afforded me an opportunity for suggesting a movement I was anxious to effect――viz., an adjournment to the office of my legal advisers.

Taking his arm in mine, and requesting the detectives to follow closely, we left the hotel.

After we reached Mr. Roe’s office, nearly two hours were expended in vain attempts to induce the delinquent to accede to some equitable terms of settlement.

He at first appeared very penitent, and, in the midst of his tears, declared that it was his intention, as far as lay in his power, to act honourably to everyone; he begged again and again to be allowed to return to his wife, who, being ignorant of the state of affairs, would be suffering great anxiety from his prolonged absence.

He seemed so sincere in his protestations, that Mr. Roe suggested that I should accede to his request.

This was a moment of great difficulty to me. I did not wish to be unnecessarily severe; neither did I wish to act in opposition to the advice given me by Mr. Roe.

Still I felt sure that I should be losing some of the vantage ground I had gained through the day, if I released him whilst matters were in their present position.

At last I said, “I have a duty to perform, and I cannot shrink one step therefrom.

“You absconded from England, and having incurred expense in finding you, I cannot and will not release you until you have given me some material guarantee that the funds which you have deposited in the Merchants’ Bank in this city, shall not be touched until you have made a satisfactory settlement with me.”

My determination had the effect of again making him change his tactics. He upbraided me for bringing two detectives to his hotel, threatened vengeance against me for having been given into their custody, and asked me indignantly what I required.

An idea flashed across my mind. I confess it was a piece of strategy, and, conceived as it was in a minute, I could hardly hope that my prisoner would fall into the trap I wished to lay for him.

I replied――

“You are anxious to get back to your family, and I am equally anxious to terminate this painful interview. I will release you on the following conditionss:――You shall draw a checque for the funds (with the exception of a few pounds for your immediate use), which you have placed in the Merchants’ Bank, payable to your order and my order jointly, and deposit the same with my solicitor. As a man of business,” I continued, carelessly, “you are aware that I shall not be able to touch this money without your endorsement to the check.”

I confess I did not draw his particular attention to the fact that he would be equally helpless without my signature.

Neither could he have given one moment’s consideration to this feature in the transaction, or he certainly would not have so readily acceded to my terms. He appeared lost to every idea but that of his present escape; he immediately drew up the cheque, which he signed and handed to Mr. Roe.

I was now as anxious to get rid of him as I had been a few hours previously to effect his capture.

It was necessary to have the cheque “initialed” at the bank, which would place such an embargo on his funds as would prevent the possibility of his tampering with them by other means.

It was Saturday afternoon, and a half-holiday. Hurrying away as quickly as we could, we proceeded to the Merchants’ Bank. It was closed.

After some little delay we gained admission by the private door. The clerks were leaving, but informed us that no further business could be transacted until Monday.

Monday would be too late; the full nature of my compromise with Hooker would be laid before him by a legal authority, and, perhaps, was at that moment being divulged to him.

Steps might be taken to remove his funds from my grasp. He, too, would be told of the “hopelessness of my case,” and would, doubtless, set me at defiance.

I felt that if we failed now I should never recover one shilling of the money; that I should have to return to England beaten and disappointed, with a heavy bill of costs to add to the amount of which my firm had already been swindled.

With desperation I urged my solicitor forward, and we soon found ourselves in the interior of an inner office, where one of the chief tellers and junior still remained.

Fortunately for me and those whom I represented, the principal was a friend of my solicitor.

The cashier had his hat on, the junior was in the act of placing the last huge ledger in the iron safe, when he was stopped by Mr. Roe.

“One minute,” he exclaimed to his friend the cashier; “I will not detain you long, but in that ledger you will find an account opened, within the last few days, by a Mr. Hooker from England. He has just given me a cheque for nearly the whole amount, payable to the joint order of himself and this gentleman,” pointing to me. “We do not require the cash, but simply to have the cheque accepted by the bank.”

The cashier, anxious to oblige his friend, opened the ledger, turned to the account, attached his initials to the cheque, and returned it to us.

The thanks we tendered him were neither few nor cold; and, as we hastily left the bank, Mr. Roe warmly congratulated me on the success of my plot.

I was too overpowered to say much myself.

Begging him to take especial care of the cheque, and under no circumstances to part with it without my authority, I left him, promising to see him on Monday morning.

I wandered down Notre Dame-street, in a state of complete abstraction and bewilderment.

I was overjoyed at the result of the day’s proceedings, the exciting events of which had passed so rapidly in succession that I could scarcely realise the agreeable change which during the last few hours had taken place in the aspect of my Canadian affairs.

Of one circumstance I have a vivid recollection. I sat down to dinner that evening with a heart full of thankfulness; and, for the first time since I landed in America, I really and truly enjoyed the viands which were placed before me.

Although I had virtually brought Mr. Hooker to a strait which would compel him to accede to my own terms of settlement, still he evinced at times, more obstinacy than ever; and it was not until after a week that I finally closed with him.

It was early on the morning of Saturday, the 21st of October, that I sought an interview with Mr. South, the solicitor who had been consulted by Hooker.

Fortunately for me he was a highly respectable man. He had, on one or two occasions, intimated his contempt for his client, and that he was heartily sick of the transaction.

I told him that I had fully made up my mind to leave Montreal that night by the mail-train for Quebec, and to take passage in the North American, which would sail from the latter place on the following morning for England.

“If,” I said to him, “your client does not accept my terms, I will take his cheque back with me, and make a bankrupt of him――his assignees shall endorse the cheque per procuration, and the whole of the funds will then be sent to England for the benefit of his estate.”

The reply was satisfactory.

“I admit,” he said, “that the terms you propose are such as my client ought to accede to. He will be here shortly. I will inform him of your ultimatum; and if he still remains obstinate, I shall decline to have anything further to do with him. Will you call on me again at twelve o’clock?”

I kept the appointment punctually. The guilty man was there too, and quite crestfallen. Under the heavy pressure that had been brought to bear upon him he had at length given way. He accepted my terms, indorsed the cheque; and in a few hours, with a draft for the “salvage” money drawn by the City Bank of Montreal on Messrs. Glyn and Co., of London, safe in my possession, I was steaming rapidly towards Quebec.

I landed in England on Thursday, the 3rd of November.

Notwithstanding the hopelessness of my case, I had effected my “capture in Canada,” and was enabled to report the same personally at headquarters in less than five weeks from the date of my departure.

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