XXXVIII. PEACE IS INTRODUCED TO A GAMBLING CLUB…

XXXVIII. PEACE IS INTRODUCED TO A GAMBLING CLUB

Charles Peace as we have already signified, had become sated of the village in which he had led so reputable a life for a no very inconsiderable period; indeed, if we take into consideration the erratic and adventurous nature of the man, it is a matter of no small surprise that he should have continued to be a respectable member of society for so long a time.

But his new sphere of action had many attractions for him.

In the first place, it had the charm of novelty; in the next, he was petted and made much of by the landlord and the parlour customers of the “Carved Lion;” and last, though not least, he had been greatly taken with the girl, Nelly.

A sudden revulsion, however, took place, and our hero determined upon seeking “fresh fields and pastures new.”

He was possessed of a considerable sum of money; for, in addition to the amount he realised by following the business of a frame-maker, and a dealer in works of art, he had the hundred pounds which the earl had sent by his lawyer as a bonus.

He was bent upon seeing something of London life, and therefore hastened at once up to the metropolis.

London has attractions for provincial and country people which perhaps no other city in the United Kingdom possesses, albeit its native population are in a measure heedless of its many attractions.

It is a wonderful city nevertheless, as the following facts uncontestably prove:――

London (with all its suburbs) covers within the fifteen miles radius of Charing-cross nearly seven hundred square miles.

It numbers within its boundaries four million inhabitants.

It contains more country-bred persons than the counties of Devon and Gloucester combined, or 37 per cent. of its entire population.

Every four minutes a birth takes place in the metropolis and every six minutes a death.

Within the circle named there are added to the population two hundred and five persons every day and seventy-five thousand annually.

London has seven thousand miles of streets, and on an average twenty-eight miles of new streets are opened and nine thousand new houses built every year. One thousand vessels and nine thousand sailors are in port every day.

Its crime, unfortunately, is also in proportion to its extent.

Seventy-three thousand persons are annually taken into custody by the police, and more than one-third of all the crime in the country is committed within its borders.

Thirty-eight thousand persons are annually committed for drunkenness by its magistrates.

The metropolis comprises considerably over one hundred thousand foreigners from every part of the habitable globe.

It contains more Roman Catholics than Rome itself, more Jews than the whole of Palestine, more Irish than Belfast, more Scotchmen than Aberdeen, and more Welshmen than Cardiff.

Its beershops and gin-palaces are so numerous that their frontages, if placed side by side, would stretch from Charing-cross to Chichester, a distance of sixty-two miles.

If all the dwellings in London could thus have their frontages placed side by side they would extend beyond the city of York.

London has sufficient paupers to occupy every house in Brighton.

The society which advocates the cessation of Sunday labour will be surprised to learn that sixty miles of shops are open every Sunday.

With regard to churches and chapels, the Bishop of London, examined before the House of Lords in the year 1840, said:――

“If you proceed a mile to the eastward of St. Paul’s you will find yourself in the midst of a population, the most wretched and destitute of mankind, consisting of artificers, labourers, beggars, and thieves, to the amount of from three to four hundred thousand souls. Throughout this entire quarter there is not more than one church for every ten thousand inhabitants, and in two districts there is but one church for forty-five thousand persons.”

Peace, who had but a slender knowledge of the great metropolis, put up at a snug hotel which was frequented by many of his townsmen.

He had at this time no very clear idea as to his movements or future plan of action, and therefore, like Mr. Micawber, thought it best to wait patiently for “something to turn up.”

He had abundance of ready cash for his necessities for some time to come, and when that was gone he was perfectly well assured he would find the way to obtain more.

He was never very long in making new acquaintances.

At the hotel where he was stopping he fell into the company of a young man named Kempshead, with whom he at once fraternised.

Kempshead was rather a go-a-head sort of young gentleman, and was therefore well adapted as a companion to Peace.

He was well acquainted with every phase of London life, was well up in all the cant terms and slang sayings which, unfortunately for the moral tone of society are considered requisite by the young men of the present day to indulge in and make use of.

The word “awful” had not come into fashion at the time of which we are writing, but there were others of an equally objectionable character.

The English language is assuredly sufficiently comprehensive far the expression of thoughts or ideas without being supplemented by slang or Americanisms. We shall have to dilate upon this subject in a future chapter of this work.

“Well, governor,” said Joe Kempshead to Peace, as they were seated at the table in the public room of the hotel, “what’s to be your little game to-day――the exhibition, a morning performance, or what?”

“Haven’t made up my mind, as yet,” returned our hero, putting aside the paper he had been reading. “What are your movements?”

“I am obliged to go into the city――business matters, you know; but in the after part of the day I’m at your service――say about five, or between that hour and six. We can go together somewhere after then, and see what’s to be seen. What say you――shall I meet you here?”

“Yes, I will be here at about six.”

“Let’s have dinner together at that hour, then.”

“Agreed.”

“Then we shall have the evening before us.”

Mr. Kempshead parted with his newly-made acquaintance with this understanding, and proceeded into the city.

Peace bent his steps in the direction of the Kensington Museum.

He had heard a good deal of this place, where he found an almost countless number of objects, which had for him a special interest.

Throughout his life he had always evinced a great fondness for works of art and mechanical appliances, and the exhibition of patent articles in the museum was to him one of its most noticeable and attractive features.

He, therefore, found no difficulty in disposing of his time till the dinner hour. Upon his return to Sanderson’s Hotel he found his friend awaiting his re-appearance.

Dinner was served, which was done ample justice to by both gentlemen. It was washed down by divers and sundry glasses of Rhenish wine.

Our hero had thrown aside the habits of the humble artisan, and went in for an aristocratic course of regimen.

He was not adapted for it――neither did it suit him; but there is an old saying, “When at Rome do as Rome does.” Peace was mindful of this, and gave himself all the airs and graces of a high-born patrician.

An hour or two passed over, during which period Mr. Kempshead lounged on the sofa, puffed his fragrant weed, and partook of a cup of black coffee.

“Now, then, what shall us boys go in for?” he said, addressing himself to Peace.

“I’m in your hands, and leave the matter to your disposal,” returned the latter.

“Very good――so be it. In the first place, old fellow, I want to introduce you to a little drum, which is not far from here. It’s a club I belong to――the members are a jolly lot of fellows. By the by, do you play?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you play――gamble?”

“At present that is not one of my accomplishments.

“Surprised at that. Every fellow does that sort of thing nowadays. Couldn’t get through the world, you know, without doing something in the betting or gambling line. Still, you’ve no occasion to play unless you like. There’s no harm in looking on.”

“Oh, I’ll go,” cried Peace.

“Right you are; we’ll be off at once then.”

The two friends sallied forth from the hotel. The club to which Kempshead alluded was situated in a dingy street at the west end of the town. It was ostensibly a proprietory club――the proprietors thereof drove a tolerably profitable trade.

It had been established as a social club for gentlemen, but its real character was that of a betting crib or gambling house; or “hell” would be the more expressive term.

There are hundreds of such establishments in this great city――betting and gambling is one of the vices of the age. A case which has but recently come before the Lord Chief Justice furnishes us with evidence as to this fact.

A Turkish gentleman instituted proceedings in an action for libel against the proprietor of a well-known newspaper. The paper in question contained an article, in which the plaintiff was denounced as a professional gambler or “black leg.”

It was proved in evidence that both parties had lost and won as much as fifteen hundred pounds in one night. The gambling transactions were not confined to this country, but were practised in France and Germany.

The case will doubtless be fresh in the recollection of most of our readers, and comment thereon would be superfluous.

After arriving at the club, Mr. Kempshead spoke a word or two to the man in the hall, ascended the stairs, and entered a large room on the first floor. He was followed by Peace, who was introduced to several of the members of the club by his friend Kempshead.

The object which first attracted his attention was a long table which ran along the centre of the room, the farther end of which was about the distance of three feet from the opposite wall.

At its end was a fine light gas chandelier; each of the lights had over it a large green shade, which was much of the same character as those used in an ordinary billiard-room.

And under the lights was the apparatus with which the game of roulette is played.

This consists of a mahogany frame about eighteen inches square, and three or four inches in height; on it is fixed on a pivot a horizontal wheel about a foot in diameter, the top of which is divided into thirty-seven alternate red and black squares, each of which is marked with a number.

Surrounding the wheel is a little slanting ledge bounded by a raised edge.

The centre of the wheel is held by a thick brass handle, from which extend four ivory branches.

The whole machine is something like the toy “teetotums” fixed in boxes, which are sold freely in the shops.

From the apparatus described, extended along the table, is a green cloth divided by lines worked in white silk into the large portions.

In the margin on one side of the top division is worked the word “under,” and on the opposite side the word “over.”

The margin of the middle space contains the words, “even” and “odd,” and at the opposite sides of the last section of the green cloth are two squares of cloth, one black and the other red.

The cloth is also divided into thirty-seven equal squares.

The uninitiated reader will by the foregoing description be able to form a tolerably accurate notion of the gambling machinery used in playing the game of roulette.

It must, however, be understood that “rouge et noir,” and other games were played at the club-house into which Peace now found himself for the first time introduced.

Kempshead endeavoured to explain to him the manner in which the game was played.

A short bald-headed gentleman, who wore a military coat, and had a remarkably thick and dark moustache, and who had been introduced to Peace as Captain Draper, now sidled up to Kempshead and said, nodding at Peace――

“Does your friend play?”

“Well, no, I can’t say he does――he’s a novice. Ahem, a young man from the country.”

“Ah, ah! capital――I see,” returned the captain, with a loud military laugh.

Everything he did or said impressed you with being “loud.” Doubtless the reader has met with a man of this description.

It is marvellous what a number of captains are to be found in gambling houses, billiard saloons, and other places of public resort.

If you are in doubt about a man it is quite safe to put him down as a captain or a stockbroker.

But the captains are by far the most numerous, and in many instances the most doubtful.

Captain Draper had, of course, a stentorian voice, which doubtless had been acquired by his constantly giving the word of command to the gallant troop of which he was the head.

“Your friend will not refuse to take a glass of wine with me?” said Draper to Kempshead, in an easy off-hand manner.

“He will be most delighted to do so, I’ve no doubt.”

The three gentlemen moved towards the sideboard.

This was an important feature in the appointments of the room. Upon it rested a goodly array of bottles――and such bottles no one out of the gambling world ever saw in their life.

They were redolent not only of wines and spirits but of wickedness.

No other bottle had so insinuating a shape, so graceful a neck, so smiling a mouth, and such an irresistible-looking cork. As far as their external appearance was concerned they were faultless, so also was the brilliant and seductive-looking sideboard.

The thought arose in Peace’s mind, “Where do these dangerous bottles come from. Are they manufactured for the exclusive use of the members of this highly respectable and aristocratic club, or does some wealthy member make them a present to the establishment for the use of the delectable members thereof?”

This last hypothesis does not seem to be the correct one.

The brands on them are unknown to fame. None but a sporting man could recognise the name of the maker.

Are they supplied by an adventurous gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion, who finds enough supporters in the villainous world to employ spirit importers, manufacturers, bottle makers, and label printers? The aforesaid gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion is, of course, constrained in his multifarious business transactions to lend money at sixty per cent. occasionally――only occasionally――and then it must be to good men and true.

“What will you take?” said the captain. “Shall we have a bottle of sparkling?”

“My friend does not much care for champagne. If I might suggest, he would like some brandy and seltzer.”

“Yes, I should,” remarked Peace.

“Then we’ll have a pint of sparkling between us,” said Draper.

A waiter came forward and attended upon the three gentlemen.

“Ah,” remarked the captain, carrying the glass to his eye. “When I was in India this sort of tipple did go down, I can tell you.”

“No doubt,” said Kempshead.

“‘Give Draper his fizz,’ Lord Gough used to say, ‘and he’ll carry any position.’ And by Jove, sir, he was right. I remember――――”

“’Aw, cap’n, ’aw do you do?” said a young man who had just entered the room. “Want to see you, cap’an.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Ya’as. Most particular business; that fellow’s turning nasty; talks about writing to the guv’nor, and all that sort of thing. He’s a cursed bore.”

“I’ll see to that,” returned Draper. “We’ll talk the matter over by and by.”

“You must see to it, old fellow. ’Pon my soul you must, and no flies.”

“All right; I will.”

The languid swell strolled towards the table.

“What’s up?” inquired Kempshead.

“Oh, the old story――overrunning the constable, that’s all. Wine and women, sir,” said the captain, turning towards Peace, “would double up any man sooner or later.”

The captain, having finished his drink, joined the languid swell and Kempshead, and Peace took stock of the company, which, by this time, was far more numerous than when they first entered the precincts of the unhallowed ground.

Some of the members were seated at the tables, and others stood behind them. The banker took up his position by the roulette.

Before him was a heap of gold, which had been turned out of a cash-box that stood on the table.

In one hand he held a stick, about two feet long, across the top of which was fixed a triangular piece of wood.

This is technically known as the “rake.”

He was not altogether an ordinary-looking individual――such as one meets with in places of public resort. It struck Peace that he was playing a part, and this inference was a tolerably correct one.

He was decidedly clever, or he would not have been chosen for the position he occupied.

There was an engaging manner about him; he was loquacious, and affected to be more of the pigeon than the hawk.

But if anyone arrived at any such conclusion they would make a false estimate of his character.

Still, he was eminently qualified for his position. He spoke broken English at the commencement of the evening, but, strange to say, this wore off as the hours flew by.

He was a thin sallow-faced man, with a shrewd expression, and captivating manners.

He said, addressing those present, “We are all friends here; all know one another, and we are here for amusement, that’s all.”

Several of the members assented by nods to this proposition.

The croupier seemed satisfied.

“He loved play,” he said, and here he shook a pound’s worth of “counters” in his white long-fingered hand.

Gambler, indeed! Not he.

He was no gambler, but he loved play to beguile the tedium of what would be otherwise his lonely hours.

He loved society, and was glad to see so many faces around him with which he had been familiar for years.

He certainly did talk like a father――not to say like a saint――to the members of the club.

The hot feverish players smiled grimly at his eloquence.

He was the only talkative man in the room.

There were many there who were not quite so cheery. They were evidently bent on business, not gossip or badinage, and to judge from their apparel their business did not please them much.

“Only for amusement,” pleaded the little sallow-faced man, “that’s all――only amusement. No stake larger than half-a-crown. We none of us want to be ruined. We play only for amusement. This is a social club. We are all brothers here. We all know that. Only for amusement, gentlemen.”

He kept repeating this sentence, even as the raven in “Barnaby Rudge” was wont to repeat “Never say die.”

Indeed, to say the truth, the little croupier reminded one very much of a raven.

“Would you like to have one turn, and try your luck?” inquired Kempshead of Peace.

“I don’t know anything of the game; but, being here, I must do as others do, I suppose,” answered our hero.

“As I said before, gentlemen, we play only for amusement,” again remarked the croupier. “It’s all fair and aboveboard at this establishment.”

Mr. Kempshead drew to the table, and purchased eight round pieces of ivory, each about the size of a shilling, for which he paid the bland and smiling croupier one sovereign.

Peace handed his friend a sovereign, and requested him to purchase eight pieces for him.

Opposite to the two friends was a bald-headed florid-complexioned man, who, Kempshead informed our hero, was a large merchant in the City. He was supposed to be very wealthy, but was a frequent visitor to the club. As a rule, he preferred rouge et noir to roulette.

Near to the florid-faced man were two young fellows of gentlemanly appearance, speech, and demeanour; but the gambling contagion had seized hold of them, and their whole souls seemed intent upon the whirling of the roulette.

Peace placed a counter upon the red patch of cloth. His companion had already put one on the black patch, which he had forfeited.

The general banker now gave the roulette a twist with the handle, and at the same time a marble shot round the circling edge.

The little ball flew round and round in one direction, and the roulette spun in the opposite, until at length the impetus of the marble was insufficient to keep it upon the slanting surface of the frame, and it sank upon the still twisting roulette and settled into a pocket opposite one of the squares.

The square in question was a red one, and the banker handed Peace another counter, value two shillings and sixpence.

Meanwhile the vivacious croupier kept the ball rolling, and continued the game, with many quaint and curious sayings, which seemed to be especially diverting to most of the members and visitors present.

He hospitably invited Peace to drink, enumerating a long list of refreshments for him to choose from; but our hero politely declined. He was bent upon keeping himself as sober as possible――indeed, drinking was not one of his vices; neither was gambling――he had enough bad qualities, in all conscience, without adding either of these to the list.

Peace varied the proceedings by placing another counter upon the margin marked “even.”

The ball spun on, and the roulette turned, and ultimately his half-crown was raked up by the banker, as an odd number had been marked by the little marble.

Varying fate attended his efforts, but in the end he left off a loser of about fifteen shillings. Kempshead, on the contrary, was a winner.

“I suppose you’ve had enough of it for one evening?” said the latter to Peace, who answered in the affirmative.

“Very good; we’ll be for making tracks, then.”

“What is the name of your club?” inquired Peace; when they had gained the street.

“It is called the ‘Tumblers’.”

“What a singular name! How came it to be christened that?”

“I don’t know. The idea is, I believe, that if the members tumble down they know how to pick themselves up again.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

XXXIX. THE TWO PERILS――LONDON BY NIGHT

Anyone at all acquainted with metropolitan life cannot fail to have been struck with the number of objects which seem, by some mysterious agency, to fade away and disappear altogether.

Years ago, when the disappearance of Mr. Speke (not the “great discoverer,” but the great discovered) attracted so much attention, the papers were full of stories of similar mysterious absences of some people who had gone out some day, “in their usual health and spirits,” and never came back again, nor been heard of, dead or alive, since.

It is impossible they could have been all murdered.

It is astonishing the number of persons who are missing annually, and who are never heard of more.

Take city life in prosperous times――what lots of new undertakings are daily set on foot, which utterly fail and languish in bad years.

What becomes of the “runners” who, in times of commercial infliction, are so well known in every office?

Individuals who are agents for the sale of all manner of speculative securities, who invite you to realise a swift and easy fortune by purchasing a lead mine in the antipodes, or a coal field at the North Pole, or by taking shares in a projected company for journeying in balloons to the moon.

At seasons of commercial depression these individuals disappear as completely as the summer grasshoppers vanish at the approach of winter.

Places disappear in an equal degree――the old landmarks are passing rapidly away from London. Holborn-hill has gone, Temple-bar has vanished――or the last remains of it will in a few days――Vauxhall-gardens, Cremorne, are things of the past, and the once famous Argyll-rooms have received a knock-down blow.

It is to this last-named place that Peace and his friend are about to pay a visit.

After leaving the “Tumblers” Mr. Kempshead, who was what is called a late bird, proposed that they should drop into the Argyll-rooms. Peace gave his assent to the proposition, and the two companions paid the entrance fee and entered the inner penetralia of that establishment.

They found the place thronged with persons of both sexes――the female, if anything, predominating. A few hired professionals were dancing mechanically and languidly to a very indifferent band.

People did not go to the Argyll to dance; they went to see and be seen. It was a recognised meeting place――for ladies and gentlemen shall we say? Perhaps males and females would be the more correct term.

If any one went there for the entertainment they were sure to be miserably disappointed.

The same remark will apply with equal force to the Mabille in Paris, which is dull and depressing to the last degree.

Not so, however, with the Argyll in its halcyon days. There was always a certain amount of life about it, and albeit they were many of them “frail,” some of the most beautiful women in the world were wont to display themselves at this celebrated establishment.

Peace, who was always an admirer of the fair sex, was perfectly charmed with the array of beauty which met his gaze.

He and Kempshead strolled through the place, observing as they did so its most noticeable features.

“I never would have believed it unless I had seen it with my own eyes,” he exclaimed.

“Believed what?”

“Why that such immense throngs of persons should visit these rooms――then the women! I wouldn’t have missed seeing this on any account.”

A fair Cyprian now came to the front, and asked them to treat her with something to drink.

She had evidently some little knowledge of Kempshead, whom she addressed in a familiar manner.

There was, however, nothing remarkable in this, since most of the ladies who were in the habit of paying nocturnal visits to the Argyll were generally pretty familiar with most persons, whether strangers or otherwise.

“My friend is of a retiring disposition,” said Kempshead.

“Indeed! I’m sorry for him, poor fellow,” returned the girl; “but let the gentleman speak for himself.”

Peace drew towards one of the refreshment counters, and asked the lady what she would have.

She elected to have a glass of port wine.

This was ordered, with seltzers and brandies for the two gentlemen.

“Your friend is from the country; is he not?” said the lady.

“Yes: he’s the celebrated ‘young man from the country,’ about whom you have heard so much.”

“I thought so. Going to stop long in London, sir?”

“Not very long,” said Peace, eyeing the questioner.

“Have you got a sweetheart here?”

“Where?”

“In London.”

“I haven’t been here more than two or three days.”

“Then perhaps you want one. Shall I be your sweetheart?”

“You are a deal too pretty, my dear. This is a lovely girl, isn’t she,” said our hero, chucking her under the chin, and turning towards his friend.

“Oh, dear yes; a most charming creature!”

Then all three laughed as if something clever had been said.

“Here’s to our better acquaintance, darling,” said the young lady, raising the glass to her lips. “I hope you’ll come and see me before you leave London.”

“Come and see you! I don’t know where you live.”

“I live at Brompton.”

“With your parents?”

“No――with an elder sister. I shall be delighted to make your acquaintance. My place is not half-an-hour’s ride from here. Let’s have a cab and I’ll show you where it is.”

“No, not to-night, my dear, I am otherwise engaged; but on some other occasion I shall be most delighted.”

“Yes, on some other occasion,” chimed in Kempshead, putting his arm in that of his friend, and sauntering towards the door of the establishment.

“It’s too bad to take him off like that,” said the girl, pouting. “One would think you were his keeper. Ha, ha!” She laughed what was meant to be a merry laugh, but it was forced, hollow, and unreal.

Peace and Kempshead passed into Windmill-street, and in a few seconds were at the corner of the Haymarket.

The throngs of persons who were assembled here and in the adjacent streets seemed to Peace to be almost incredible. It appeared as if all the women in London had, by common consent, assembled in this quarter of the town.

It is not possible to convey to the minds of those of our readers who never witnessed the night scenes in this locality, some twenty or five-and-twenty years ago, the appearance it presented.

Women dressed in the height of fashion, many of them being possessed of a rare order of beauty; languid swells, sporting and betting men, together with others of a still less reputable character, congregated together in one heterogeneous throng.

Anyone seeing these assemblies for the first time would naturally come to the conclusion that the metropolis was a city devoted to nothing but pleasure.

Peace was astounded――as well he might be. He had heard of these gatherings, had seen a good deal of provincial life, but the reality far exceeded any description that had been given him.

“My word!” said he to Kempshead, “London is a place. What on earth brings all these people here?”

His companion shrugged his shoulders.

“It is always like this, every night the same, that’s all I know. It’s a promenade――a sort of carnival; but let us go down the Haymarket.”

The two companions threaded their way through the throng of people. At about half-way down the street a still denser crowd was collected. From this proceeded at intervals cheers and loud peals of laughter.

The young men elbowed their way in the crowd, and then discovered the cause of the merriment.

A gentleman in a tourist’s suit was standing on his head in the middle of the cab rank. He was cheered and encouraged by some of his boon companions, as well as the cab-drivers.

“Did you ever see such a consummate donkey――the fool?” ejaculated Kempshead. “He calls himself a gentleman, I suppose?”

“Bravo――bravo, well done!” shouted several of the throng.

The crowd grew denser and denser, and in a short time the pathway became blocked up.

A tall policeman came forward and addressed the simpleton who was making himself so ridiculous.

“Now, then, enough of this,” cried the constable. “Do you hear? Give over and move on.”

“All right, old man, I’m not hurting you or any one. Mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine.”

[Sidenote: No. 18.]

“Give over, I tell you,” said the policeman. “You are causing an obstruction, and I shall have to take you into custody.”

“He’s not doing any harm, Mr. Policeman,” said one of his pals; “he’s only doing it for a wager――let him alone.”

“Don’t mind what the bobby says,” called out a voice from the crowd; “he daren’t do anything. A gentleman has a right to amuse himself after his own fashion.”

The constable stooped down, caught the offending party round the shoulders, and lifted him on his legs.

“Now, you make the best of your way home. If you don’t it will be all the worse for you.”

“I’m a gentleman, and shall do as I like, you impudent fellow,” cried the young man in the tourist suit. “Don’t you lay hands on me.”

He was not particularly sober, but he knew what he was about――but he was larkish――determined upon having what he called a spree, and appeared to be mischievously disposed.

The policeman was resolute, and told him if he endeavoured to repeat the offence he would lock him up.

His friends had the prudence to draw him forcibly away.

“Did you ever see such a little fool――who on earth is he?” said Peace.

“Oh, he’s a gentleman bred and born,” answered one of the bystanders.

“There cannot be a moment’s question about that.”

“Then he ought to know better.”

“He’s eccentric――a little eccentric, playful.”

“Ah.”

The crowd began to disperse, at the stern demand of the police-officer.

In ten minutes after this the little gentleman in the tourist’s suit was again at his mad pranks.

He was standing again on his head, near to the corner of Panton-street, and as a natural consequence, another crowd assembled to witness his vagaries.

The same policeman again came forward――he had by this time lost all patience with the offender.

“Now then,” he cried in an angry tone, “you know what I told you.”

“What! may’n’t I amuse myself here then?” argued the young man, perfectly unmoved.

“We’ve had enough of this,” answered the constable. “Since you are determined to get yourself into trouble, don’t blame me.”

He lifted up the obstinate little fool, collared him, and dragged him along towards the station-house. As he did so a crowd of persons followed and abused him. Another constable came up, and the prisoner was locked up.

In the morning he was taken before the magistrate at Marlborough-street, and fined.

This little incident is one of the many scenes enacted by brainless fellows with more money than wits. It is an actual fact, and was reported in the papers of the period, in addition to which it came under the writer’s own observation.

“There are a good many fools in the world, and that fellow is one of them,” said Kempshead; “but I’ve another little place I want you to visit. Come this way.”

The speaker turned down Jermyn-street. He was followed by Peace. The two arrived in front of a house on the left side of the street in question, which to all appearance was a coffee-shop. It was a great unobtrusive-looking establishment, with ground-glass windows in its front, on which were inscribed the words “Coffee Room.”

“This little drum is worth seeing,” said Kempshead. “No one but the initiated would dream that such a place existed.”

The two went down a narrow passage, and reached a pair of small folding doors. Peace’s companion opened one of them, and said to a man inside, “All right, Sam.”

The man touched his hat, and they then passed in. To all appearance it was a coffee-shop. There were compartments, seats, and side tables, such as are seen in ordinary houses of that description; but these were filled with magnificently attired women and aristocratic looking gentlemen, who were quiet, well-behaved, and reserved in their manner.

It was said by Peace’s chaperon that more than one titled person was present. At the end of the room was the bar, in which was seated a mahogany-faced gentleman, with an aquiline nose, who was evidently an Israelite.

He came forward from this inner penetralia, and shook Kempshead warmly by the hand. He was introduced by that gentleman to Mr. Charles Peace.

“What shall we have?” said Kempshead. “A cup of green tea?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Two cups of green tea, Isaacson, if you please.”

These were brought by a waiter and paid for by Kempshead.

Peace discovered that the so-called “green tea” was cold brandy and water, and he was informed by his friend that black tea, with sugar, was warm brandy and water, but in both cases the grog was brought in an elegantly-shaped cup and saucer.

Other refreshments were served in this delectable establishment, which was kept open, in defiance of the law, during the greater portion of the night.

It was a quiet snug retreat for ladies and gentlemen who did not want to be seen in places of more public resort, such as the Argyll and the Holborn.

The writer of this work was taken there from his club some years ago, between one and two on Sunday morning, by one of the most renowned of London theatrical managers, in company with an actor of celebrity.

The place was not interfered with for years, the reason being that it was patronised by many of the upper ten thousand. The Jew who conducted it carried on the concern, small as it was, sufficiently long to amass a large fortune.

He was unmolested by the police authorities, and, although he had no spirit licence, he contrived to serve brandy and other liquors in the guise of cups of tea and coffee.

It has been with truth often said that “one man may steal a horse, while a less favoured one must not look over the hedge.”

While Peace and his companion were seated at one of the tables, taking stock of the company, a private soldier suddenly entered the sacred precincts of this hallowed establishment.

The porter told him to leave――that he could not be served with anything.

The soldier was “half seas over,” and, striking a defiant attitude, declared his money was as good as anybody else’s, and that he would be served.

The landlord came from behind the bar, and informed this valiant son of Mars that he was in a club-house, and none but members could be served.

This did not satisfy the soldier, who was disposed to be troublesome, for he was too powerful a man to be forcibly ejected, and of course everyone present dreaded a row.

A tall gentlemanly-looking man with the greatest composure rose from one of the tables, and, walking up to the side of the soldier, whispered something in his ear.

The effect of this was perfectly magical.

From a lion the soldier became a lamb; he slid through the folding doors, and disappeared like a sprite in a pantomime.

“You possess a potent power,” said Kempshead to the gentleman. “How did you contrive to tame the wild animal?”

“I merely mentioned the name of his commanding officer,” replied the other.

“Wonderful. It shows what discipline does.”

The company assembled in the coffee-room took no notice of Peace or Kempshead, whom they doubtless looked upon as beneath them, and as there was nothing more to be seen they arose and took their departure.

They had not gone very far before they were brought to a sudden halt.

A fashionably dressed woman, who was walking behind them, touched Peace on the shoulder――he turned round and stared her full in the face.

“Well,” said he, “what do you want with me?”

“Don’t you know me?” cried the female.”

“No, I can’t say that I do, but your voice is familiar to me.”

“Don’t you remember Laura Stanbridge, Charlie?”

“Why of course, mercy on us, it is a long time since I set eyes upon you. Laura, dear me, yes, I know you well enough. I haven’t seen you for ever so long――not since you left Sheffield.”

“No, not since I left Sheffield.”

“I’ll take my hook,” said Kempshead to Peace. “You can follow me on to the hotel. I suppose you have met with an old acquaintance?”

“I shan’t be long after you,” murmured Peace.

“Right you are,” returned Mr. Kempshead, walking rapidly away.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

Chapter XL

PEACE PAYS A VISIT TO THE HOUSE OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE――THE BOY BIRDS-NEST SELLER.

For a minute or two after his friend’s departure Charles Peace stood gazing at the features of the young woman before him. She presented altogether such a different appearance to the girl he had known at Sheffield that he stood wonder-struck, thoughtful, and irresolute.

“You’ve become such a fine London lady that it is not surprising I failed to recognise you when we first met,” he said, after a pause.

“No, I’m a good deal changed, I’ve no doubt, although perhaps I do not see it myself; but you will remember, Charlie, that I was but a slip of a girl when we were in the habit of meeting.”

Her companion nodded.

“And I’ve gone through a good deal since then,” she said in continuation.

“Ah, no doubt. What are you doing now, and where do you live?”

“Not many minutes’ walk from here. See me home, and we can talk over old times.”

See you home?”

“Yes, I will show you where I live, and you will then be able to give me a call when you have an hour or two to spare.”

The girl put her arm in his, and the two walked on together till they reached a street in close proximity to Regent Circus.

She stopped at one of the houses in the street, and gave a gentle rap at the door, which was opened by a neat, modest-looking, maid servant.

Laura Stanbridge conducted her visitor upstairs, when the two entered a large and elegantly furnished apartment on the first floor.

“Now then,” she said, “make yourself at home, Charlie. We are no strangers to each other, and I’ve got a lot to say to you.”

Peace sat down, while his companion went into an adjoining room to take off her bonnet and mantle.

“She’s a mysterious party,” he murmured. What can she be up to now, I wonder? Seems to be in pretty good feather anyhow.”

The girl returned, and sat herself down opposite to her male companion.

“Well, in the first place you are surprised to see me, and in the next you are not able to reckon me up,” said she, laughing. “That’s it――isn’t it?”

“Ah, as to that, Laura, I think most of us reckoned you up when you were at Sheffield; but what you are doing now, of course, I’m unable to say.”

“I’m creeping――creeping along.”

“We have not met for ever so long a time,” said the girl, “and now you have come I’m not going to part with you without first of all having a talk about old times.”

“Umph!” muttered Peace; “you seem to be flourishing, my lady――everything very comfortable, and all that sort of thing, eh. I wonder how it’s done?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, you’ve got a snug place, and seem to be doing it up pretty brown. Are you living here all alone?”

“No. I have a friend, a female companion, who shares the expenses with me.”

“Ah, that’s all right. I suppose a personal friend?”

“Yes; we work together.”

“What at, if it’s not an impertinent question?”

The girl burst out in a merry mocking peal of laughter.

“I see――I understand, the same old game, I suppose,” remarked Peace.

She nodded.

“I might have guessed as much, ‘What’s bred in the bone,’ &c. You knew the old adage.”

“Now, don’t you be quite so cheeky, Master Charlie,” returned his companion. “What is a lone, unprotected female to do in a great city like this? Tell me that.”

“You know more of the great city than I do, and as to what a lone female is to do, my charmer, why that all depends.”

“I’ve not seen you since I left Sheffield. Tell me, does any of our old pals ever mention my name?”

“Not one that I ever heard――not since you slipped away so cleverly. No one seems to have troubled their heads about you.”

“Ah, people are soon forgotten in this world. You know my mother is dead?”

“Yes, I knew that long ago. My word, you had a narrow escape, my lady――were as near as possible being nabbed and quodded.”

Peace had known Laura Stanbridge from her earliest childhood. She was a native of the same town as himself, and like him she was a lawless character. When but little more than a child she began to steal. Her mother had encouraged her acts of petty larceny.

When a little girl she had worked at one of the factories in Sheffield, and while thus employed she robbed her employer, who himself forbore from prosecuting her on account of her youth.

She was, however, discharged without a character; bad training, bad companionship did the rest, and she became an habitual thief, but somehow or other was fortunate enough to escape the meshes of the law.

Her last robbery in the town was of an extensive nature; it was carried out under the direction of a gang of thieves. Her companions in guilt were tried, convicted, and sentenced to various terms of imprisonment.

Laura Stanbridge managed to escape by leaving the town in a clandestine manner.

She hastened up to London, where all trace of her was lost.

Since then but little was known of her, but without doubt she had been carrying on her lawless practice to a considerable extent in the metropolis and its suburbs.

The contemplation and description of such characters as this woman is not perhaps a pleasant theme to discourse upon, but we should remember that she is only one out of many offenders of a similar description. Their name is legion, even in the days in which we are writing.

We have more than once hinted that a correct history of crime and criminals has long been a desideratum, because much of the history of the times is involved in the prevalence of particular crimes and in the career of criminals.

In every age and country, since the foundation of society, events have been occurring of which, though too minute and fugitive for the rapid page of history, it must be regretted that no record has been preserved.

Few that have written on crime and criminals have kept in view anything but the crime or criminal, and the holding up of both to the execration of mankind.

They have seldom sought for those proximate or remote causes which may have led to the commission of crimes by individuals, and occasioned whole classes of hardened offenders.

Investigation by comparison is the surest road to knowledge; the whole system of daily intercourse throughout the world is carried on by it.

The most exact of the sciences obtains its positive results by no other means.

The passing over all the circumstances connected with the exciting causes to the commission of crime is the result of a motion of very general prevalene.

It is thought that by allowing crimes to be palliated by circumstances we lessen the effects of public examples; but whenever it is proper to publish accounts of persons and events it is always desirable that the truth should be spoken.

And although the task of chronicling the career of such a blot upon the face of society as Laura Stanbridge may be in a measure repulsive, it is nevertheless true to nature.

She had been so early trained in the committal of unlawful acts that she could never go right afterwards.

It is a sad thing to reflect upon that there are in this country thousands of women who are, morally speaking, of much the same type as the woman Stanbridge.

She forms, in point of fact, a companion picture to that of the hero of this work, and it will be our duty, us impartial historians, to shadow forth her life and actions in all their native and hideous depravity.

“Yes, Charlie, I had a narrow escape,” observed the girl, in a tone of exultation; “but it is not the only narrow escape I’ve had――not by a good many; but you know, old fellow, we’ve all our trials and troubles in this world. You’ve had yours.”

Here she winked at her companion in a manner that was not in any way agreeable to him.

“But tell me, old boy, all about my old pals in Sheffield. What has become of them? As the song says, ‘Where are my playmates gone?’”

“Some are dead; some married, and others are serving her Majesty in places where they haven’t much chance of deserting, seeing that they are so well guarded and looked after with such care.”

“I understand. Poor devils!” cried Laura, with another laugh, which was so loud and discordant that it jarred upon the ears of her companions.

“You make merry over the misfortunes of your friends,” he observed, deprecatingly.

“Friends!” she exclaimed, in a sneering tone. “How many have I in this world, I should like to know? Friends, indeed! where can you find them? There are many who may call themselves your friends, but who would nevertheless sell you without pity or remorse if they could profit by the bargain.”

“You speak with bitterness, my lady. I have never sold or betrayed you.”

“Pardon me, Charlie, I was not alluding to you. Dismiss any such idea from your mind. We were always pals――let us continue to be so.”

She drew her chair close to his, and took one of his hands within her own. She had the cunning of the serpent, for in some respects she had much of the fascinating powers which that reptile is supposed to possess; but Peace was not likely to be made a dupe of, as he knew pretty well the character of the woman who was so demonstrative.

“You don’t forget your old companion. You don’t forget the time when we were boy and girl together?”

“No, I don’t forget, Laura.”

“Then why this coldness?” she remarked, looking into his face with her soft seductive eyes.

“Look here, old girl, I hope you have not brought me into this crib to make love to me. If you have, it’s a bit of a sell, that’s all I have to say. We know one another pretty well. We ought to do so by this time. I wish you well, and am glad to find that you are in so comfortable a position. I shan’t lose sight of you――shall drop in occasionally to see how you are getting along, for, as I said before, I wish you well.”

The woman comprehended his meaning, and at once altered her tactics. She withdrew her hand from his, went to a cheffonier, and placed on the table a decanter of wine and glasses.

“We’ll have a glass together before you leave,” she said, in a careless manner.

“I have had quite enough already――indeed, more than enough,” he returned.

“Ah, that’s it――is it?”

“Yes, that’s it. You see, old girl, I’ve been knocking about with a young spark for some hours, and feel that I’ve had quite enough. However, I won’t refuse to take one glass――just to show that there’s no animosity.”

Two glasses were filled, and the companions drank by way of good fellowship.

Peace remained for some time after this, giving the woman a short but succinct account of their old associates at Sheffield.

It had arrived at the small hours of the morning when he took his departure, and returned to Sanderson’s Hotel.

* * * * * * *

Many days have passed over since our hero’s visit to Laura Stanbridge.

Our scene shifts, and other characters appear on the stage.

It was evening in London.

A drizzling rain was coming steadily down; the pavement shone under the glittering gaslights as if it had been smeared with oil.

The streets were slush and mud, which a band of men in tarpaulin hats and coarse blue jackets were scraping to a heap, and piling in a cart with huge wooden instruments, half spade and half rake.

It has been said that London is paved with gold; few of us, however, have been fortunate enough to pick up a nugget, or even a few grains of that precious metal.

Nevertheless it is quite true that, by the refuse of the streets, large sums are realised.

Although the weather was so cheerless the streets were thronged with men and women, whose rapid movements and anxious looks explained that it was business, that patron saint of the great city, which had called them from their comfortable domiciles, their families, and their friends.

There was one, however, in the public thoroughfare who had no comfortable home, no family, and but few friends.

This was a wretched-looking boy.

He was standing opposite the Charing-cross railway station, not very far from the entrance to the Lowther Arcade.

The arcade itself was, as is usually the case in wet weather, crowded with loiterers, who looked at the tempting articles on the stalls, but did not purchase. They had, in fact, only sought shelter till the rain gave over.

Ever and anon an individual would emerge from the precincts of the arcade and hail a passing omnibus, which was of course full inside. The Metropolitan Railway had not at this time extended as far as Charing-cross, and the omnibuses had it pretty much their own way.

The boy, who was so heedless of the falling rain, had long fair hair, which fell down upon his shoulders in clustering curls; his features were well moulded, and denoted a superior organisation to what one expects to see on those of the London street Arabs, who, as a rule, are common and coarse enough――indeed, they might have been esteemed handsome had they been fuller and less dejected.

His eyes were clear and grey, and were now fixed upon the pavement or upon what he was holding in his hands.

His attire was by no means becoming――he had on a dirty smock frock, which fell below his knees, as if to hide the corduroy trousers which hung down in rags, which were splashed and encrusted with mud.

He held in his hands a large basket filled with birds’ nests and thin speckled eggs.

The boy was Alf Purvis, who had run away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and had been brought to London by the Whitechapel bird-catcher.

Alf’s experience of London life up to the present time had been anything but satisfactory. His patron, the birdcatcher, during the period he remained with him, had been kind enough, but it happened, unfortunately for poor Alf, that the honest and industrious snarer of feathered songsters had a wife――and such a wife!

She was a termagant of the worst description. In addition to her many other accomplishments she drank, and led her husband such a life that penal servitude was luxury in comparison to it.

The birdcatcher caught a severe cold, and fell sick; he sought refuge in the hospital.

After his departure the wrath of his better-half fell upon the ill-fated Alf, who, in self-defence, was constrained to give the shrew as good as she sent. The consequence was that he was turned out of the house, which he was told never to enter again. Before this climax had arrived he had been scratched and beaten most unmercifully by his mistress.

In fact, he had been a source of incessant wrangling before the birdcatcher sought refuge in the hospital.

He had to shift for himself, and strove to earn a living by selling birds’ nests and eggs in the street.

But, poor lad, he had a hard time of it. It was not, however, so much the hardships he had to pass through as the associates he was constrained to mix with that formed the foundation of his erratic and criminal life.

Had he remained with Mr. Jamblin he might have turned out a respectable member of society.

He was, as the farmer said, naturally “wiciously” disposed; but, by good training and careful culture, he might probably have been led into the right path.

He displayed a great amount of patience and endurance in waiting for customers on this particular evening.

Presently a gentleman in a mackintosh, with a brown silk umbrella over his head, stopped before the young ornithologist, and said――

“What have you got there, my lad――are they for sale?”

Alf started from his reverie, and his countenance became irradiated with a smile.

A gentleman had been attracted by his wares, and perhaps he might be a customer.

The boy made a most respectful obeisance, and said――“Yes, sir; they are all for sale. Do buy of a poor lad, who’s been waiting for hours for a customer.”

“Umph. I don’t know that any of them will suit me, youngster. What might these be?” he inquired, pointing to one of the nests.

“I’ll tell you, sir. Those you pointed to are dishwasher wagtails; some call ’em so, ’cos their tails are always twiddling like a woman’s tongue.”

He thought of the birdcatcher’s wife when he made this observation.

The gentleman laughed.

“Upon my word, you are quite a cynic,” he remarked. “Well, and how about the others?”

“Do you want to know ’bout ’em all, sir?”

“Yes, certainly, make me as wise as yourself. You’re a sharp lad, it would seem.”

“These dishwashers, sir, are three pence each,” said the boy.

“These,” pointing to another set, “are butcher birds, or hedge murderers; they’re pretty eggs――aint they, sir?”

“Yes, they are very pretty.”

“But the birds themselves, them as lays these eggs, are cruel brutes.”

“Indeed, how so?”

“They’ll ketch little birds, and spike ’em on a thorn just as an insect-collector sticks a pin through a butterfly, and then they take to stripping the feathers off on ’em, and eat ’em up morsel by morsel.

“These be house sparrers, and their eggs vary in colour most of all birds. Some are quite white, though not often, and others are almost black. They’re twopence.”

“Ah, they are common enough,” remarked the gentleman.

“Yes, sir, they are common, but look at these. This is a golden-crested wren’s nest, with nine eggs; they are not at all common.”

“I suppose not.”

“They are very rare indeed, sir, and the eggs are so tiny and brittle it’s the hardest work in the world to blow ’em without breaking ’em; it’s the smallest bird in Europe, so I’ve b’en told――the very smallest, and it’s sixpence, being choice and rare.”

“Humph! you’ve got some of all sorts, it seems.”

“This is a cuckoo’s egg, and it is quite a curiosity, not often got hold on. I’ll let it go cheap, as I want money. I’ll take fourpence for it.”

“The cuckoo’s a shy bird, isn’t it?”

“Ah, very shy. Don’t often catch sight on it, though you hear it pretty often at certain seasons of the year. It makes no nest of its own, but lays its eggs in the hedge-sparrer’s nest, and the sparrow sits on it, and warms it, and hatches it along with its own eggs; so the young cuckoo is brought up with the young sparrers, and when he gets strong and hungry he gets spiteful, too, and hoists all the t’others out of the nest, and so gets all the food hisself. It ain’t fair, but there’s a good many things done in this ’ere world that ain’t quite the thing.”

“By men as well as birds, my lad,” remarked the gentleman.

“You’re right, sir, by men and women too,” returned the lad, who was still mindful of his shrew of a mistress.

“You are really quite an oracle.”

“Well, sir, which will you buy?” said Alf, who by this time had come to the conclusion that he had wasted a sufficient number of words without any purport. “Which would you like best? The hedge chaffinch is the prettiest, but the golden-crested wren and the cuckoos are the rarest.”

“Oh, yes, they are both very pretty, but I am afraid I cannot be a customer to-day. You are an intelligent lad. Some other time when I’m passing this way. I can’t take them home in this rain.”

“I’ll take ’em wherever you like. I don’t mind the wet, I’ll take ’em home for you.”

“No, not to-day. Some other time; but you’re an intelligent lad.”

And with these words he walked away.

“There’s for you, the humbug!” cried Alf, as a cloud came over his face. “I might have known he was not one of the buying sort; he only stopped to amuse himself. An intelligent lad. I’m glad he said that, it’s so consoling when you’ve got empty pockets and are a shiverin’ with cold. Well, it made me forget my troubles for awhile.”

He tried to sing to keep his spirits up, but his efforts in that way were not crowned with success.

Presently a tear rolled down his cheek as he thought of the comfortable farmhouse which he had left to seek his fortune in a city where the poor may die on a doorstep unheeded and uncared for.

“I don’t think much of the London people as far as I have seen of ’em at present; I ain’t altogether in love with ’em. A poor devil like myself stands a deal better chance in the country. Nobody as I’ve met with here will offer a hungry lad bite nor sup not to save his life, and I am as hungry as Jowles’ dog――that is certain.”

He walked on to the entrance of the Lowther Arcade, in which a dense throng of persons had collected.

Two ladies were waiting for a Hammersmith omnibus. Their attention was directed towards the young birds’-nest seller. Ah!” exclaimed one, “do look at that miserable-looking boy――he’s drenched with rain, Anna Maria dear; how thankful you ought to be that you are not in his position, poor fellow!”

“He does look wretched,” said Anna Maria, who was the younger, and by far the best looking of the two, “let’s ask him what keeps him out in the rain.”

“He’s got birds’ nests to sell; don’t you see?”

“Ah, so he has.”

The speaker beckoned to Alf, who made his usual obeisance, for privation had taught him to be patient and polite to all.

He had been taught by experience that ladies seldom bought eggs or nests――not unless they had children with them, which neither of the two in question seemed to have.

Still he was not disposed to throw a chance away――perhaps these might be an exception to the rule――there was no telling.

He drew nearer, and stood close by them.

“How wet and cold you must feel, my poor lad!” Said Anna Maria.

“Yes, marm; but I’m used to be out in all sorts of weathers.”

“You are from the country, I suppose,” said the elder of the two.

“Yes marm, country bred. I was a farmer’s boy till a couple of months ago, when a bird-catcher brought me up to London to seek my fortune, though I can’t see as how I’ve bettered myself as yet.”

“No, I should assume not. Dear me, and is this your trade?” inquired the elder lady.

“Yes, marm; when I first come up I was pretty comfortable, but the birdcatcher caught a cold, was took ill, and went to the hospital; then my troubles commenced.”

“Was he kind to you?”

“Yes, as kind as could be. I should have been all right if he hadn’t been took ill――that’s what’s driven me to this. I have to do business on my own hook, and it aint always as good as it might be.”

“Dear me, only to think of that, now,” said the old lady, turning to her companion. “A lad like this, too; extraordinary――most extraordinary.”

Then, turning towards Alf, she inquired where he got the eggs from.

“They come from all parts. Mostly from Witham and Chelmsford, mum,” answered Alf. “Chelmsford is about thirty miles from Westminster-bridge, Witham eight miles further. I go out of town for ’em three times a week. I start generally about dusk, and walk all night. I like that better than walking in the sun; besides, one can’t rest in the night time.”

“Dear me, how astonishing!”

“When I get there,” said Alf, in continuation, “I skipper it under a hedge, and get a couple of hours’ sleep. After this I set to work in earnest. It’s uncertain about meeting with what I want, but one must take the chance of that. I go on until I do succeed. Sometimes I climb tree after tree, and find no eggs in the nests, or else young birds, which are no use to me. But this aint all. When I’ve been away two nights and a day, and worked hard, and got a lot of eggs, I have a hard job to sell ’em.”

“But, my good boy, don’t you know that it’s very cruel to take away the eggs of the poor birds?” cried the elderly female. “You ought to consider that.”

“I s’pose it is, marm; but other people do the same. There’s lots of nesters besides me, and they are a deal more lucky; for some in our trade have what they call a connection, and a goodish many get their orders beforehand, and so they know what they can make sure of, whilst I have to take my chance. I’ve been about the streets for the whole of this blessed day, and have scarcely sold anything at all.”

“How do you account for that?”

“Well, you see, marm, it’s been so wet, and there aint been many young gentlemen about, that’s the reason. Young gentlemen are my best customers, and if I don’t sell anything to-night, I’m sure I don’t know what I shall do.”

“Are you so badly off, then?”

“I haven’t had anything to eat the whole of the day.”

“I am very sorry for you――extremely sorry.”

“I don’t so much mind going without my grub, but unless I get some money I shall have to sleep in one of those dreadful lodging-houses. My regular place is Whitechapel, but I am too tired to walk there. I generally give up trading long afore this, but I’ve gone on late to-night in the hope of selling a nest or some eggs.”

“Ah! all this is very sad; I’m quite troubled to think that you should be so unfortunate,” murmured the lady.

The other lady had gone a pace or two from them. She was anxiously looking down the Strand in the direction of the City.

“But how will you get on in the winter time of the year?”

“Winter!” exclaimed Alf; “I never thought of that. I don’t know what I shall do then. Beg or starve, I suppose.”

The lady bent her head at that moment, her companion gave a scream, and waved her umbrella in the air.

“Please give me a trifle for a night’s lodging, ma’am,” said the boy, addressing himself to the younger of the two ladies.

“Yes, certainly,” she said. “Aunt, you’ve got my purse in your bag; I want it for a moment.”

“Want it――what for? Here’s a Hammersmith omnibus waiting.”

“Don’t go away without giving me something,” cried Alf, in piteous accents.

“Anna Maria, what can you be thinking about? We shall lose the omnibus if you don’t leave off chattering to that dirty little fellow.”

“Let me have the purse.”

“I can’t get at it without wetting myself through. Give him something another time. It doesn’t do to place any reliance upon what boys of his sort say. Do come, or we shall be left behind. Come, Anna Maria.”

“Now, ma’am, look sharp, please,” bawled the conductor. “Jump in, ladies, if you’re going.”

The door of the omnibus was held impatiently open.

The ladies ascended the steps and took their seats in the vehicle, which was driven rapidly down the Strand.

The poor birds’ nest seller was again disappointed this time. He had hoped to extract a small sum from his female questioner.

“Ah!” he ejaculated, “I’m very unfortunate, that’s what I am, I have been so the whole of this blessed day.”

It was still raining, and he was drenched to the skin. His feet were sore with walking, and every bone in his body ached.

He was sick at heart――felt fairly worn out. It was no use his waiting any longer in the streets――there was no one to buy, and nobody seemed disposed to give him alms.

Hunger was gnawing at his very vitals. He was supremely wretched――more miserable than he ever remembered to have been.

He walked slowly and sadly on towards Trafalgar-square. As he went along he counted the flagstones by way of amusement, if such a term could with propriety be applied to him under the present circumstances.

He arrived at the corner of Parliament-street. He knew that there were several low lodging-houses in the back slums of Westminster. He dreaded, as well he might, having to pass the night surrounded with the very dregs of society.

But there was no help for it. He knew that he must sleep, or try to sleep, or he would faint under his next day’s work.

It is true he might go to the casual ward of the workhouse, but of this he had an instinctive horror. He had never been in one, but he had listened to the vivid descriptions of those who had.

He stood at the corner of Parliament-street, irresolute and chapfallen.

A man looked curiously into his face.

The boy raised his head, and saw two gentlemen standing by the side of him.

One of these was Charles Peace; the other, the friend he had picked up at Sanderson’s hotel.

“Birds’ nests――eh, youngster?” cried Peace.

“Yes, sir. Do, for mercy’s sake, buy some, either eggs or nests.”

“I’m going to the theatre, my lad, and can’t be bothered with things of that sort.”

“Won’t you buy?”

“No, certainly not. Where do you hail from?”

“Broxbridge.”

“I thought so. Well, here’s something to keep the devil out of your pocket.”

Peace presented the boy with a shilling. At the sight of this he was in perfect ecstasies.

“Oh! thank you, sir――thank you,” he ejaculated. “May Heaven reward you!”

“Shut up; that ’ill do,” cried Peace, with a deprecating gesture――then he put his arm in that of his friend’s, and the two walked away.

“He’s a rare good sort――a stunner,” cried Alf. “No nonsense or collywabbling about him; he outs with a shiner at once.”

He passed down Parliament-street and bent his steps in the direction of Westminster.

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XLI. THE LODGING-HOUSE IN WESTMINSTER

Alf Purvis had waited patiently, like Mr. Micawber, till something turned up――the good Samaritan, who had relieved him in the hour of his despair, being, as we have already seen, our hero Charles Peace. There was good reason for this.

Peace had been attracted by the boy, whose features were familiar to him.

Upon a closer inspection he discovered that he was the lad whom he remembered having seen about the neighbourhood of Broxbridge during his sojourn in that locality, and hence it was that he had presented Alf with the shilling.

Peace did not care to make any enquiries as to why the lad was in London, as he had his newly-formed friend with him, and, therefore, contented himself by giving the much-prized coin.

Had he been alone he would have questioned Alf, but, under existing circumstances, prudence directed that he should refrain from doing so.

Peace at this time was passing himself off as a gentleman of independent means: to make use of a common phrase he was “cutting a dash.”

How long his means would last, or how long the character would suit him, time would show.

He did the grand at this time to his heart’s content, and half persuaded himself that the life of a gentleman was his proper and legitimate sphere of action.

Alf Purvis wended his way down Parliament-street towards Westminster. He was ravenously hungry, and upon his reaching Tothill-street his attention was directed to an eating-house on the opposite side of the way.

In the window of this the savoury steam from the joints proved to be too much for him; he crossed over and gazed wistfully at the dainties displayed so temptingly in the shop.

He entered and ordered a plate of meat and vegetables; these he devoured, as may be imagined, with infinite relish. He was still hungry, so he finished his repast with a slice of pudding, or “plum duff,” as it is termed.

After he had paid the reckoning he had but fourpence left out of the shilling Peace had given him.

He confessed to himself that he had been reckless and extravagant, but had enough left to pay for a bed.

He now directed his steps in the direction of a well-known lodging-house situated in one of the streets leading out of the one in which he had regaled himself so sumptuously.

Upon his arriving at the establishment in question he found that externally it did not present a very inviting appearance.

It was a low large building, which he at once boldly entered. At the side of the passage there was a glass window drawn up, and a kind of ledger or counter, on which were two piles of small round tickets. Behind the counter was a small room just large enough to hold a deformed old man, and a brawny forbidding-looking woman――some such woman as Eugene Sue describes in the “Mysteries of Paris” as the “Ogress.” The title would apply with equal force to the Westminster landlady.

“Now then, young shaver,” cried the man, “what’s your pleasure, fourpenny or twopenny, eh? Twopenny, I suppose,” he added, glancing at the lad.

“No, guv’nor,” returned the latter, “I want a fourpenny.”

“Oh, you’re one of the haristocratic customers――are you?” said the man, in a jocular tone.

“You’d better make him fork out. I should like to see his money first,” cried the woman, folding her arms across her breast like an Amazon.

“Now then, boy, down with the dust,” said the man.

Alf fumbled in his pocket; he wanted to keep a penny in his pocket for a loaf in the morning. He drew forth threepence.

“That won’t do, you fool,” said the landlord; “why here’s only three browns.”

“He hasn’t got another, I’ll take my davy of that,” observed the woman; “it’s just as I expected.”

“Well, it’s only a matter of a penny,” implored Alf, in his most persuasive tones; “don’t be hard upon a cove. I’ve had a bad day of it ’cos of the wet. Trust me for this once. I will pay you to-morrow――indeed I will.”

“To-morrow be blowed,” exclaimed the man; “that game won’t do here. You know our prices, you know our rules; we don’t give credit. If we did we should be in the union in quick sticks.”

“Well, that’s right enough, master, I daresay, but look here,” said Alf, showing his basket, “this is how I make my living. Will you take some of these and keep them till I pay you the penny back again?”

“Umph, well I don’t know――they are not ugly,” said the housekeeper, looking at them curiously and turning them over in his hands; “you’re a country lad, eh? Who’d have thought of seeing birds’ eggs in a back slum in Westminster? Well, London is a place, surely.”

“It’s hard lines to be walking about all day in the wet without even so much as one customer,” said the boy. “You can take the cuckoos if you like――that’s the best one――or you can take any of the others, whichever you please.”

“I used to go arter them myself years and years ago, when I was a kinchin. Ah, it puts me in mind of brighter and happier days. They minds me of my old mother, and how she used to scold me, because it was so cruel, she said――bless her dear heart.”

“Don’t get sentimental, you old fool,” cried the woman, in a tone of disgust. “Them days are past wi’ both of us.”

“Right you are, missus――long since past,” returned the man. “Well, hand us over an egg, and here’s the ticket for a fourpenny room.”

“Nonsense, Joe,” said the woman. “What do you want with a trumpery egg? Give the boy a penny back and a twopenny ticket.”

“Well, it’s hardly worth wrangling about,” returned the landlord. “A penny won’t hurt us much either way.”

As they were talking a man came in, and, drawing a large piece of bacon from his pocket, flung it on the counter.

“How much do you want for it?” said the lodging-house keeper.

“Sixpence.”

“Sixpence for a bit of sawney! (stolen bacon). Can’t give more than a joey for it.”

“Hand it over then, you mean ravenous old land shark.”

The money was laid on the counter and collared by the new comer.

Two children came in. One of them paid for his bed and supper with fish got from the gate (stolen from Billingsgate), and the other with flesh found at Leadenhall (meat stolen from the butchers’ stalls in that market).

“That’s the way to get your grub and your shake-down,” said the woman, addressing herself to Alf.

“So it appears, marm.”

“Some bring a Moses (second-hand wearing apparel), some prigs tea from the docks, and there’s many as brings hens and chickens.”

These are the cant terms for publicans’ larger and smaller pewter measures, which go to the furnace and melting pot instead of to the fire and the dripping pan.

“Give me back a penny and I’ll have a twopenny ticket,” cried Alf, who did not care to argue the question further.

Before going upstairs he went into the kitchen of the lodging-house.

This was a long quaint room, its walls covered with disgusting figures; the floor was covered with dirt, and a wooden seat projected from the wall all round the room.

In front of this was ranged a series of tables on which lolled men and boys.

A number of inmates were grouped round the fire, some kneeling, washing herrings――of which the place smelt strongly――others without shirts seated on the ground, and others drying the ends of cigars they had picked up in the streets. As for the assembly, it was of the most heterogeneous description.

Some were, like Alf, in dirty smock frocks; others in old red plush waistcoats, with long sleeves. One was dressed in an old shooting jacket, with large wooden buttons; a second in a blue flannel sailor’s shirt; and a third, a mere boy, wore a long camlet cloak reaching to his heels, and both the ends of the sleeves hanging over his hands.

[Sidenote: No. 19.]

The features of the lodgers were of every kind of expression. Alf Purvis was certainly the best-looking of all present, even disguised as he was in his wretched attire.

Here the thieves and cadgers who frequented the place enjoyed their supper before going to bed, and here they might be seen employed in a dozen various occupations.

One was frying bacon, another mending an umbrella, a third washing his shirt in a hand-basin, while the majority were smoking short pipes and conversing in whispers.

Alf Purvis, who had gone to the fire to dry his things, was pushed on one side by a hulking fellow with a red herring on a fork.

Unfortunately for the lad, his smock frock came in contact with the handle of the frying-pan, which was jerked from the fire, its contents falling in the hearth.

The owner of the bacon was a strapping lad. With a horrible oath he sprang forward, and struck Alf a terrific blow on the jaw, which sent him reeling.

“It wasn’t the yokel’s fault,” cried one of the men at a side table. “At him ag’in, young un.”

To be thus assailed for an offence which was committed, in reality, by the herring toaster, was not to be borne.

The bacon frier was half a head taller and a deal bigger than the birds’-nest seller; but the latter had pluck. He rushed at his assailant and gave him a straightforward blow on the mouth, which astonished the young bully.

“Well done. Bravo, little ’un!” cried a dozen voices. “Give it him right from the shoulder.”

A ring was formed, and the two lads went to work in real earnest.

Alf Purvis received several ugly knocks; but he was so agile and rapid in his movements that in a few minutes his antagonist’s face bore unmistakable marks of the other’s blows.

At length the young bird’s nest seller rushed in and gave the bacon frier a floorer.

“We’ve had enough of this,” cried a man, in a velveteen jacket. “Stop it――stow it, I say. If you don’t, blow me if I don’t give the pair of you a thrashing.”

The combatants were separated, and peace was proclaimed. Alf was declared victor.

Two women were seated in one corner of the room; their dress and demeanour denoted that they were merely visitors, who had been attracted to the spot by curiosity or some other motive.

One of them was quite young and extremely good-looking, the other was elderly.

They had both been witnesses of the short but decisive battle between the two boys.

They were whispering to each other.

“I could see at a glance that he was no common boy,” murmured the younger female. He’s a brave little fellow――that’s quite evident.”

“Oh! clearly so,” returned the other; “but what of that?”

“I tell you he comes from a good stock――I’m sure of it. I’ll wager my existence that his father was a gentleman. Look at his hands, how small and delicate they are; look at his beautifully-formed features. Perhaps you can see no further than his smock frock.”

“Perhaps I am not able to understand these matters as well as you,” answered the elder female, looking abstractedly on the dirt-begrimed floor of the apartment. “We haven’t all the same powers of observation.”

“I dont think I am mistaken in my estimate of the lad. I don’t believe he is a low fellow, like the rest of the lawless young ruffians we see around us. We are all of us liable to mistakes; but that is the impression I have formed of him.”

“I don’t say you are mistaken. Have your way. Speak to him, if you will.”

“I am determined to do so,” said the youngest of the two women. “You may think me self-willed――that you have often said――but what of that?”

Alf Purvis had been looking curiously at the speaker during the foregoing conversation. When he had first entered the kitchen he had not been aware of their presence; but now his attention was attracted towards them, and his eyes were rivetted on their faces.

The younger of the two women beckoned to the young birds’-nest seller.

He drew towards them, having already guessed that their discourse related to himself. In this he was not mistaken.

As he approached, an extraordinary thing happened. The old woman and the boy started at the same moment, and each gazed earnestly into each other’s eyes, which were lighted up with a mingled expression of curiosity and surprise.

The effect was most remarkable. They both stood for one moment as if rendered motionless by some sudden thought, and petrified into stone.

This feeling, however, was but a transient one, and soon passed away. The woman turned impatiently on one side, as if to crush and smother the weakness which appeared reasonless because it was intuitive.

But she could not conceal from herself that some mysterious and overpowering influence had been plainly manifested for a brief period. What it was she was at a loss to discover.

There is always a reason for these magnetic impulses, which, instead of welcoming and cherishing, men and women but too often drive by main force from their hearts.

Alf Purvis stood motionless before the females.

“You’re a brave little fellow,” said the younger one. “What is your name, my lad?”

“Alfred Purvis, marm.”

“Ah, just so, and your trade?”

“I’ve been brought up to the farming business, but am now on my own hook. I’m a birds’-nest seller――that is when I can get any customers.”

“And do you like the calling?”

“Pretty well.”

“Oh, not very well――eh?”

“I should like it better if I could see my way towards something for the winter. It’s hard lines sometimes in the summer, but I don’t know how I shall get on in the cold weather. The birds don’t have no families when the snow is on the ground; they’ve enough to do to pick up enough for themselves at that time.”

“Quite true, boy.” Then, turning towards her companion, she said in an under tone, “You see the poor lad is no fool, as I said, and he has pluck at heart for all his poor thin body and pale face.”

The elder woman nodded, but said nothing.

“I was right!” exclaimed her companion; then turning towards Alf, she said, “I suppose you have run away from home, or something of that sort――eh?”

“I wasn’t used well, and I did leave of my own accord. I half wish I hadn’t now; but it goes against the grain to return to Stoke Ferry Farm.”

“Ah, that’s where you came from?”

“Yes, marm. Do you know the place?” cried Alf, in a tone of evident anxiety.

“Not I, indeed, never heard of it before you mentioned the name. You street boys are a funny lot. After running about you cannot bear to be kept indoors, or be under any sort of control. It is natural it should be so, I suppose. Do you know how to read and write?”

“Ah, yes, marm, I can write pretty well, and as to reading I’m never tired of it; nothing pleases me better than an interesting book.”

“Indeed――I should have hardly thought you could have much time for reading.”

“I have not since I’ve been in London, but before I left the farmhouse I had lots of time every evening.”

“And what kind of books do you like best?”

“Those that have lots of shipwrecks or battles in them,” said Alf, quickly. “I love battles, and tales of pirates――those are my sort.”

The girl gave a murmur of assent or pleasure. It was like the purring of a tigress.

“And travellers who fight with lions, tigers, and all sorts of wild animals,” said the boy, in continuation. “And big knights, with polished armour, who kill dragons and rescue ladies. Oh, I can read anything of that sort. I like any book as makes me feel venturesome, but I hate them as keeps on talking and talking over nothing.”

The girl burst out in a loud laugh.

“Well, my brave young fellow, I think I may be able to do something for you. Will you call upon me to-morrow if I give you my address?”

“Yes, marm, I will be sure to do so.”

She wrote something down on a card, which she handed to Alf.

As she gave him this she slipped a shilling in his hand, and then she and the old woman rose and left the kitchen.

Alf Purvis was in a state of wonderment and delight. He changed his ticket for a fourpenny one, and proceeded upstairs to his luxurious sleeping apartment.

The reader must not suppose that we have presented to him the horrors of low lodgings, however, in the brief sketch given of the one in which Alf Purvis sought shelter. At this period those places were foul blots upon a civilised city. They were the nurseries for young thieves and lawless characters of every conceivable description. Personal narratives are given in “London Labour and the London Poor” by persons who have frequented these dens.

“Nothing can be worse than the health of these places,” says one witness.

Without ventilation, cleanliness, or decency, and with forty person’s breaths perhaps mingling together, they are the ready resort of thieves and all bad characters, and the keepers will hide them, if they can, from the police, or facilitate any criminal’s escape.

I never knew the keepers give any offender up, even when rewards were offered. If they did they might shut up shop.

These houses are but receptacles, with very few exceptions, for beggars, thieves, and prostitutes. The exceptions are those who must lodge at the lowest possible cost.

Fights, and fierce fights too, are frequent in them, and I have often been afraid murder would be done.

I never saw a clergyman of any denomination in any one of these places either in town or country.

In London the keepers know very well that stolen property is brought into their house. In some cases they will buy――in others it is disposed of to some of the other inmates.

The influence of the lodging-house society on boys who have run away from home and have got thither, either separately or in company with lads who have joined them in the streets, is this――boys there, after paying for their lodgings, may exercise the same freedom from every restraint as they see persons of maturer years enjoy.

This is often pleasant to a boy, especially if he has been severely treated by his parents or his master. He apes and often outdoes men’s ways, both in swearing and loud talk, and so he gets a relish for that sort of life.

After he has resorted to such places――the sharper boys for three and the duller boys for six months――they are adepts at any thieving or vice.

In the same work the statement of a young girl of sixteen years of age is given.

The narrative is that of a fallen female who was accustomed to sleep in the low lodging-houses where boys and girls were promiscuously huddled together. The account given disclosed a system of depravity, atrocity, and enormity, which certainly could not be paralleled in any nation, however barbarous, nor in any age, however dark.

The facts detailed are gross enough to make us all blush for the land in which such scenes could be daily perpetrated.

Happily for the morality of the lower classes, legislation has done much to abate the evil; the low lodging houses of the present day are under the surpervision of the police, who have done much to abate the evil which was so justly complained of. Nevertheless, the scenes which take place in lodging houses in the courts and alleys of London are, even at the present time, a scandal and disgrace to a Christian land.

The indiscriminate mixing of the sexes, the crowding of large families in one miserable room, does more to demoralise the youth of this country than those unacquainted with the subject can possibly imagine.

The language made use of by children of tender years is something shocking. The writer of this work has heard words fall from the lips of girls who were little more than children that were of too horrible a nature for him to repeat under any circumstances whatever.

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XLII. AT BROXBRIDGE HALL――THE TEMPTER AND THE TEMPTED

We left Aveline Gatliffe at the door of Earl Ethalwood’s seat, known as Broxbridge Hall. The engineer’s wife and child were conducted into the presence of the proud old lord, who was anxiously awaiting their appearance.

Mr. Chicknell introduced the visitors, and at first there was an air of restraint and timidity upon the part of Aveline, and a certain amount of hauteur in the manner of the earl. This, however, soon wore off.

“I think, my lord,” observed the lawyer, with something like triumph in his tone, “that there cannot be much mistake in the matter. If any doubts did exist in the mind of your lordship they are now dispelled.”

The earl nodded.

“It is Aveline, Aveline risen from the dead――my own Avaline.”

“You hear what his lordship says?” cried the lawyer, addressing himself to the lady.

“I do, sir,” she answered. “I am so wonderstruck that I hardly know how to comport myself, or to thank you sufficiently for the interest you have taken in the welfare of one who was to you a perfect stranger.”

“I have had a duty to perform which I have endeavoured to carry out to the best of my ability,” answered Mr. Chicknell. “I may observe that it was a difficult and delicate task, but it is at all times a pleasure to me to meet with the approval of my client and yourself.”

While these few remarks were being made the earl had been gazing intently on the young woman, and he nearly lost his self-possession as his eyes fell upon her beautiful face.

Aveline, who did not know very well what to say or do, observed, quietly, to the earl――

“I am sure you will love me for my dear mother’s sake.”

She had all the Ethalwood grace of manner and movement.

The earl was touched, for she had crept up to him and laid her hand gently on his arm.

He kissed her on the forehead; he looked at the violet eyes, with their golden light; he laid his hand on the shining masses of waving hair.

Then he sighed.

He was thinking of other and earlier days in his troubled life.

His memory conjured up the image of the wife who had proved so false to him, who fled with her paramour, and died in a foreign land unheeded and uncared for.

How about the young creature before him?

Was she to be trusted?

Time will show.

“I shall learn,” said he, in answer to her question, “to love you best for your own sake, and no other.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Aveline, a little disconcerted, “for my own sake?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I think you good and true――nay, I am sure of it. Is this little fellow your son? You seem to me to look so very young that I can hardly believe you are a mother, or that I am a great grandfather,” he added, with a smile.

“You mustn’t tell people that, my lord,” observed Mr. Chicknell, in a bantering tone.

“They’ll find it out without any one telling them,” answered the earl, taking the boy in his arms, and, placing him on his knee, looking at him with evident interest.

“He has something of the Ethalwood face,” he said, musingly.

“Ah! most undoubtedly. I saw that from the very first,” cried the lawyer. “Indeed, to say the truth, he resembles your lordship in a most remarkable degree.”

You think so?”

“Certainly. It is plain and palpable enough to the most obtuse observer. Quite the Ethalwood cast of feature.”

Aveline proved, to her grandfather’s delight, that she too had some of the old Ethalwood spirit and pride. Although the magnificence of the interior of Broxbridge Hall was enough to startle and surprise one brought up in a humble sphere of life she did not express surprise, but was perfectly self-possessed.

There was an air of refinement about her which went far towards propitiating the proud old nobleman, who, if he disliked any one thing more in this world than another it was vulgarity, or even anything that bordered on it.

In this respect he had no reason to complain of his grand-daughter, whose natural grace of manner won upon him the more he became acquainted with her.

He was, in short, delighted with her; she seemed to bridge over a wide gulf which separated the present from the past.

The long, long, solitary years he had passed had made him something of a misanthrope, now a new light broke in upon his gloomy path which seemed all of a sudden to be irradiated with sunshine.

If he could only have this young and fair creature all to himself, make her his darling, how happy would he be! But then there was a husband in the way. This last-named he would not countenance nor receive, not under any circumstances.

These thoughts rushed rapidly through his mind as he sat nursing and fondling the little boy.

“You will be my guest for a short time. You will do me the pleasure of remaining at Broxbridge,” said he, suddenly, “so that we become better acquainted.”

Aveline turned towards Mr. Chicknell and said, “It was understood, was it not, that I was to remain for a short time?”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” returned the lawyer. “I told Mr. Gatliff so; that’s a distinct understanding.”

The earl’s countenance darkened.

“I have no desire to coerce or control you in any way; indeed I have no right to do so, but still as a favour――”

“There is no favour in the matter, my lord,” cried Aveline, “I will remain with you for the present.”

“Spoken like a scion of the house of Ethalwood,” exclaimed the earl, in evident delight.

The wife of the young engineer was taken by the housekeeper of Broxbridge into a superb suite of rooms, which had already been prepared for her. She was wise enough not to give expression to the surprise she felt at the grandeur of the apartments.

There was a day and night nursery for the boy, and there was a neat smiling maid to attend to him.

A suite of four rooms had been set apart for the sole use of Aveline herself. These were magnificent and luxurious as though they had been for a queen. They consisted of a boudoir with rose silk hangings, rare pictures, fragrant flowers, exquisite statuary, and furniture of the most modern beautiful design; a sleeping chamber, all white and gold; a dressing-room, filled up with every luxury that the proudest lady in the land could not fail to be satisfied with; and a small library, where she could read, write, or study at will.

As a matter of course, she was treated with the greatest deference by all the servants at Broxbridge.

“I hope you will find all you desire in these apartments,” said the housekeeper, “but should you require anything else your orders will be attended to without a moment’s delay.”

“These are intended for me, then?” returned Aveline, looking round at the beautifully furnished rooms.

The housekeeper answered in the affirmative.

A pleasant-looking maid now entered, and, after smiling and dropping a curtsey, she said that Lord Ethalwood had deputed her to attend upon his grand-daughter.

Aveline took this for granted, and did not appear at all astonished.

The wardrobe doors were opened by the obsequious maid-servant, and an extensive assortment of costumes were displayed.

Aveline saw wondrous treasures of satin, silk, and lace dresses that had been sent from Paris; Cashmere shawls and mantles of the richest velvet. There was also provided everything necessary in the way of gloves, fans, slippers, &c. Nothing had been forgotten.

Aveline’s face grew pale with wonder as she gazed.

“Shall I help you, madame, to dress for dinner?” inquired the maid, and Aveline, with some little trepidation, consented.

The girl had selected a demi-toilet, a dress of rich blue velvet trimmed with white lace. She arranged the wavy masses of light brown hair so as to show its silky abundance, she placed a white camelia in it, and then she opened a jewel ease that lay on the table. It contained a suite of pearls, a beautiful necklace, bracelet, and ear-rings.

When her toilette was complete and the last finishing touch had been given by her attentive hand-maiden, Avoline looked at herself in one of the survey glasses which reflected on its face the whole of the figure, and She was perfectly dazzled at her resplendent appearance.

Could it be possible that the lovely, radiant, magnificently dressed woman was the wife of Tom Gatliffe, a poor working man?

The white graceful neck and exquisitely moulded shoulders were fair as the soft gleaming pearls――the rounded arms were perfect in shape as the small white hands.

She smiled to herself.

It seemed hardly possible that she could have been so transformed.

It has been said that beauty unadorned is adorned the most, but it would be in vain to conceal that the most beautiful woman is not enhanced by the aid of elegant attire and rendered still more radiant by glittering jewels.

“I wish poor Tom could see me now,” she murmured, “he would hardly recognise me. Indeed, to say the truth, I hardly know myself.”

She went down to the drawing-room where the Earl and Mr. Chicknell awaited her.

They both looked up in wonder as the magnificently-attired girl entered the room.

The old lord was profuse in his compliments. He was evidently proud of his grand-daughter’s aristocratic appearance.

“She is an ornament to the old walls of Broxbridge,” cried the lawyer, “and I congratulate you, my lord, in possessing such a charming companion, whose presence here imparts so much happiness.”

Aveline blushed. She was not accustomed as yet to the compliments which fall so glibly from lips of men of good breeding.

She went through the ordeal of dinner with great calmness and self-control.

But there were many things which, in some measure, made her feel uneasy. She had never partaken of a meal of such an elaborate description. The number of courses seemed to bewilder her.

The banquet was served with the greatest care. The services of gold and silver plate, the rare wines, the exotics, and the luxury which seemed to abound everywhere, half startled her.

She took the initiative from her grandfather――she watched what he did, and imitated him.

“She is clever, and can be easily taught. Three months under the careful tuition of some accomplished high-bred woman,” murmured the earl to himself, “and she will be fit for any society.”

“I hope and trust you will find yourself so comfortable here,” said Mr. Chicknell, addressing himself to the young lady, “that you will not object to remain for a very long time.”

“Ahem! I cannot be made more comfortable. My only fear is that I shall be spoilt,” answered Aveline; “and besides, I must not forget my husband.”

The earl held up his hand deprecatingly.

“I must entreat of you not to mention his name,” he said, quickly. “Pray do not.”

Her face flushed with anger; she was about to make some sharp retort, but had the prudence to smother her rising anger, and forbore from making any reply.

Mr. Chicknell adroitly turned the conversation with the tact and address of an accomplished courtier. He engaged the earl’s attention upon one or two topics which were favourite ones with him.

The cloud passed over, and the earl took his protegée to the picture gallery. He talked pleasantly to her, and allowed her to see how greatly she was admired by him.

Without ostentation, without boasting, he gave her some faint idea of the glories of the house of Ethalwood. He was well up in the history of his ancestors. He showed her ancient armour that had been worn by the heroes and warriors of his race.

He showed her the pictured faces of men whose voice had ruled the land. He showed her the portraits of ladies whose names had been proverbial for beauty and grace.

“I point out these things to you, my child,” said the earl, “so that when I am gathered to my fathers you may keep the remembrance of our ancestors green in your memory; for it has pleased heaven to make known to me that there is yet a living descendant of our long and honourable line, who will, let me hope, wear with credit the honours which, in good time, will be his.”

“To whom do you allude, my lord?” said Aveline.

“I cannot refer to any other than your son.”

The young girl by his side smiled wanly, but her heart was too full to make any reply.

“We shall have to discourse on this subject on some future day,” said he, still in the same measured and melancholy tone and manner he was wont to assume when referring to family matters. “Yes, some other day,” he repeated.

She bowed her head, and clung closer to him.

Something struck her just then that he was a strange weird kind of man, who seemed to have the power of drawing her closer and closer towards him, until he held her in perfect subjection.

This was but a fugitive thought, but as it passed through her brain she became more reserved in her manner.

“I doubt not but we shall understand each other pretty well,” said he; “and I am sure you will do your best to meet my views. I am old, and old age is exacting.”

“I will not hear you say so,” cried Aveline.

He stooped down, drew her towards him, and kissed her on the cheek.

She passed upstairs to her own suite of rooms, and he returned to the banqueting hall.

Aveline, upon reaching her own rooms, sat down and wrote a long letter to her husband.

In this she described all that had taken place during the day; she informed him also that a grand future was in store for their son, and furthermore that she durst not offend the earl, who had requested her to remain for a short period as his guest, and, under the circumstances it was impossible for her to refuse, and so he must make himself as comfortable as possible during her temporary but unavoidable absence.

Gatliffe, as may be readily imagined, felt lonely during the absence of his wife, for he was not a young man who had at any time sought companionship in the society of those who were frequenters of a public-house.

However, as there did not appear any help for it, he took refuge in the house of Mrs. Maitland, his mother-in-law.

In a few days after her introduction Aveline Gatliffe began to feel more at home at Broxbridge. She became accustomed to its splendours, to its many charms, to the new and beautiful life that opened to her.

She had always yearned for rank and power, and felt assured that sooner or later she would find herself in a higher sphere. In this, as we have seen, she was not mistaken.

Whether the allurements and follies of fashionable life were destined to bring with them unalloyed happiness she had yet to find out. At present she was well satisfied.

She looked back with wonder at the time she had passed at Sheffield, at Rotherham, and lastly at Wood Green.

How had she borne the quiet seclusion of these places and everything she now valued most? She began to look with contempt upon her past career. Nevertheless she was not disposed to discard her husband, but who, to say the truth, appeared at this time a sort of blot on the landscape.

Lord Ethalwood was most careful and adroit in his treatment of her.

He studiously avoided saying anything that she could openly resent, but at the same time he lost no opportunity at sneering at low-bred persons, and in a pointed manner made frequent allusions to men and women of quality, who were so far removed from the commoners.

Class distinctions he believed in like some old feudal lord. He endeavoured to imbue Aveline with the same notions as himself, and it must be admitted that to a considerable extent he succeeded.

The time soon came when, so far from feeling annoyed with him when he was riding his favourite hobby, she coincided with him in his views.

Mr. Chicknell did not attempt to interfere. He saw pretty clearly his client’s course of action, and let him carry it out after his own fashion.

“My grandchild will not leave me, Chicknell,” said the earl to his lawyer. “I feel assured of that.”

“Not leave you? Not return to her husband, my lord?”

“Well, not at present.”

“Ah, that’s another matter. Not at present perhaps, but what causes you to arrive at such a conclusion?”

“I will tell you; her master passion is vanity. She is good in every sense of the word as far as I can judge, but she has more vanity than affection.”

“My lord, I trust not.”

“Do you? then I think you will be disappointed. I have known women――women of our own race too――who would have laughed all wealth to scorn, who would have sacrificed anything, given up their lives, for their love――women of noble nature who would have trampled all the allurements of wealth under foot, but Aveline is of a lighter nature. I have made a study of her character. Her master passion is vanity.”

“I shouldn’t have supposed so.”

“But it is, Chicknell. She will stay with me because I can administer to her vanity, and her husband cannot. Now do you understand?”

“If it be so I am sorry for it, my lord. But assuming it is――I will assume you are better informed on the subject than myself――assuming it is, that is no reason for her being so tempted, no reason for her to be estranged from the husband she loves, or did love, I suppose.”

“Yes, I believe she did and, indeed, does.”

“Well, then, it seems an act of injustice, not to say cruelty, to separate man and wife by any such means.”

“There is one thing you and I can’t agree upon, Chicknell.”

“What is that, my lord?”

“You are a radical, and are a self-elected champion of the lower orders. I am not. I have no sympathy with people of that order. You have, I suppose.”

“I have sympathy with every class, high and low, if they be honest and good members of their class.”

“Enough of this!” exclaimed the old nobleman, angrily.

I have done, my lord,” exclaimed the lawyer. “You sent for me. I presume it was in reference to business matters.”

“It was.”

“I am at your service.”

“It is essential to my happiness――my peace of mind――that this young creature should remain with me――be my adopted. I have not many more years to live; but I cannot part with Aveline. You will say I am selfish, perhaps――that does not much concern me; but you will admit, with all your radical notions, that it is not seemly――not consistent with the ordinary usages of society――that a scion of the house of Ethalwood should be mated to a common, low-bred workman. It is, in point of fact, most intolerable.”

“It is unfortunate, I admit,” said the man of parchment; “but the contract took place before you were even acquainted with your grand-daughter, and I do not see very well how it can be rescinded.”

“It can be rescinded, and must be!” exclaimed the earl, with sudden vehemence.

“Mr. Chicknell, you know what I want.”

“Ah――a divorce!”

“That’s my meaning. Now you are talking like a sensible man. A divorce――how is it to be effected?”

The lawyer shook his head.

“There is no possible plea for such a course of action. Can’t be done.”

“It can’t?”

“No.”

“You must manage it by some means; I will accede to any terms. See this workman; propose a legal separation to him. Offer him what you like; fellows of his nature are always to be had for money. Every man has his price; put the question home to him――say I will agree to settle upon him a large yearly stipend for the remainder of his life, that furthermore his son will be heir to the title and estates of Ethalwood, that his wife will be mistress of Broxbridge Hall, and move in the best society. All this to be done upon one condition――that he consents to a divorce, and does not trouble us any further.”

“Ah! this is as you would wish it to be. There is, however, I fear, one insurmountable difficulty in the way. The young engineer loves his wife too much to part with her.”

The earl bounced up from his seat in a perfect fury.

“Pshaw!” he ejaculated. “Are you mad, Chicknell? Do you suppose that men of his stamp have any fine feelings? Do you imagine that they would let them――assuming they had such――stand in the way of their own advancement? But that we have to see. All I want you to do is to try. Make the proposition to him. You can do that, I suppose?”

“I can do it of course; but it is early yet. Besides, what about your grand-daughter? If she objects, there is an end of the matter.”

“True. Yes, that is true enough. But she won’t object after I have made known my wishes.”

“Possibly not; but it would not be wise to move in the matter for the present. When the matter is a little more advanced, and you have ascertained that your grand-daughter will offer no obstacle, then I will see what I can do with her husband. If he consents to resign her, he is not the man I take him to be; and I must tell you frankly that I do not like the task, which, however, I will perform to the best of my ability.”

“She will have to give up her husband, or give up all claims upon me,” said Lord Ethalwood. “Understand that most clearly.”

“I understand, my lord,” returned Mr. Chicknell.

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XLIII. THE THIEF AND THE THIEF CATCHER

Charles Peace, who still remained an inmate of Sanderson’s Hotel, and enjoyed, if we may so term it, the society of Kempshead, upon returning one evening was a little surprised at beholding, through the glass window of the door which led into the landlady’s private room behind the bar, a face which was familiar to him. Mr. Wrench, the astute detective, was in close converse with Mrs. Sanderson. He, however, did not observe our hero, who passed on into one of the public rooms.

Peace thought it a little singular, but said nothing about it to anybody.

However, a similar circumstance took place on the following night. As he and Kempshead were passing through the bar Peace saw the back of Mr. Wrench, who, as on the preceding night, was talking to the landlady.

He and Kempshead exchanged significant glances as they went up stairs.

“Did you see that chap in the bar parlour?” inquired the latter of Peace.

“I can’t make out his little game――is he sticking up to the widow?”

“It is not possible to say, but I should think not,” returned Peace.

John Sanderson, the proprietor of the hotel bearing his name, had been dead for some three years, and the business was carried on by his widow, who, to say the truth, had been the presiding genius of the place during her husband’s lifetime.

Of late Mr. Wrench had paid such frequent visits to the establishment that many others besides Peace and his friend were under the impression that the detective was paying court to the amiable and comely widow.

In this, however, they were mistaken, as will very shortly be demonstrated.

Mr. Wrench only attended professionally, if we may make use of such a term.

For a period of many months’ duration――for more than a year――a systematic course of robbery had been carried on at the hotel.

Money was missed from the till, and the cash-box, silver plate, spirits, wines, table linen――in short, almost every description of portable articles disappeared in a most mysterious and unaccountable manner.

The servants were suspected; one after the other had been discharged; a fresh set of assistants were engaged, still every now and then articles, money, and other property was missing, and, taken in the aggregate, the losses by robbery represented a very enormous sum.

Mrs. Sanderson was advised to place the matter in the hands of the police.

Mr. Wrench was deputed to clear up the mystery, and, if possible, to trace out the offending party or parties.

He waited upon Mrs. Sanderson, who made him acquainted with all the facts connected with the case.

Mr. Wrench considered the matter over, examined the premises, listened to the voluble landlady’s account of the matter, after which he arrived at one conclusion――it was this, that the robbery was not committed by anyone engaged in the establishment, but by a thief, who, by some means only known to himself and his confederates, effected an entrance into the premises after the household had retired to bed.

Mrs. Sanderson said she could not believe that possible, as all the locks were exactly in the same state in the morning as they were when the household retired for the night.

Mr. Wrench smiled and said――

“Is the outer door bolted when you close?”

“No, it is never bolted,” returned the widow; “and for this reason. My regular customers, those who are likely to be late, are supplied with keys with which they can let themselves in. It is only those who have used the house for a number of years, and who are well known to me, that I entrust with keys, and then it is only on special occasions.”

“And these are gentlemen you have full confidence in?”

“Oh, dear me, yes. They are of the highest respectability.”

“Ahem――yes――I dare say,” observed the detective. “Knavery is not confined to a class, Mrs. Sanderson.”

“My dear sir, you would not for a moment suspect――――”

“I do not suspect or accuse anybody,” interrupted the detective. “Some person enters the house at night――of that I feel convinced.”

“You think so?”

“I do. The question is, how are we to find out the guilty party?”

“That I must leave to you.”

This conversation took place in the little room at the back of the bar.

Mr. Wrench rose from his seat and cast his eyes around, then he walked into the bar itself and glanced at an article of furniture which in shape and size very much resembled a large wardrobe.

“What is that, Mrs. Sanderson?” he inquired, pointing to the article in question.

“Oh, that is a large press, or cabinet, which my husband had made for the purpose of stowing away plate, linen, and other articles.”

“Ah! I see; it has folding-doors. Can I open them?”

“Yes, if you like; here is the key.”

The detective opened the doors, and found that the cabinet had three large shelves, which ran from side to side.

“We must remove these,” he said, turning towards the landlady; “then there will be room enough.”

“For what?”

“For me to take up my position for the night. I shall want a small stool to sit upon, and a few holes bored at the top for the admission of air.”

“Take up your position there, Mr. Wrench!――what for?”

“To watch and wait patiently till my gentleman arrives,” returned the detective, with the utmost composure.

The widow was astonished.

“But you’ll be stifled,” cried she.

“I hope not,” he observed, with a laugh; “as in that case my man will have it all his own way. Now, you must not, upon any consideration, say a word to anyone about my plan of action; secrecy, in matters of this sort, is the very first consideration. The shelves must be removed, and holes bored at the top. This will have to be done by a man in our employ.”

The widow nodded.

On the following morning a workman was sent by Mr. Wrench, who removed the shelves and made all the other necessary preparations.

In the evening, the detective crept into the press, and found it sufficiently commodious for his accommodation. He was a little cramped, it is true, or would be so, after a sojourn therein of some hours’ duration; but this inconvenience he felt bound to submit to in the exercise of his vocation.

A small stool was placed inside the cabinet, the doors of which were then closed and locked by Wrench.

So far matters were satisfactorily arranged.

The reader should be apprised that what we are about to describe is a narrative of an actual occurrence, which is, in every way, true, even to the minutest detail.

On the succeeding night the thief-catcher was prepared to take up his station in his narrow prison-house. He remained conversing with the landlady in her little bar parlour till all the household had retired to bed.

As a natural consequence the impression now became pretty general that he was an accepted suitor of the widow, and neither he nor the lady took the trouble to contradict it.

When the house was quiet, and no one any longer visible, Mr. Wrench unlocked the folding doors, and, like the Davenport brothers, entered his cabinet, taking care at the same time to lock himself therein.

The gas was turned off, and Mrs. Sanderson retired to bed.

Mr. Wrench kept watch and ward.

In one of the doors in front of him two narrow slits had been made. These were sufficiently large for him to observe the actions of any one behind the bar, while at the same time they were so constructed as not to admit of anyone seeing him.

In fact he was in Cimmerian darkness which no human eye could pierce.

The hours wore slowly on with our detective. His situation was by no means an enviable one. His position was cramped, and his small prison-house was cheerless and lonely; but detectives have to submit to every kind of inconvenience, and Mr. Wrench did not murmur.

The night wore on――as it waned the hall clock of the establishment struck hour after hour, but no burglar or robber disturbed the unbroken stillness of the hostelry.

Before any of the household was astir Mr. Wrench crept out of his cabinet, opened the front door of the house with the key the landlady had given him, and made the best of his way to his own residence, where he snatched a few hours of welcome and refreshing sleep.

His first night’s purgatory had been attended with no good result.

He had been prepared for this. Possibly there would be no attempt at robbery for a week or more. It was impossible to tell.

On the following night he waited again on the widow, and told her of his non-success.

“I do not like you to submit to all this annoyance,” cried she. “Perhaps it would be as well to give it up and try some other means.”

Mr. Wrench shook his head.

“No my dear lady,” he said. “We don’t give a case up so easily. If I have to keep sentinel over your establishment for a month or more I shall not be disheartened. I shall make sure of my man sooner or later――that is unless he has been warned by some one.”

“I have not mentioned the subject to a living soul,” cried Mrs. Sanderson. “It is not likely I should do so after the caution I received from you.”

“I am well assured of that, madam; these matters generally require time and patience. We shall succeed eventually, I’ve no doubt.”

Again, as on the previous night, Mr. Wrench betook himself to his sentry-box, where he again passed many cheerless hours, with no better result.

He left at daybreak, and made his appearance at the hotel a little before closing time.

“He is a most devoted and punctual lover,” said one of the chambermaids to the cook. “I call him a model man.”

“An’ aint he good-looking? He’s a little too good for missus. What’s his business?”

“Something in the City, I believe.” This answer was given at random――something in the City is such an indefinite term.

Mr. Wrench again took up his position.

For eight consecutive nights he went through the same formula.

He was getting a little tired of the painful monotony of his task, which, up to the present time, had been a thankless and fruitless one.

On the ninth night, about half-past two o’clock in the morning, which, to say the truth, sounds a good deal like a bull, for how can it be night if it is morning? But, of course, the reader will understand we are speaking figuratively.

About half-past two, or it might be a little later, Mr. Wrench pricked up his ears. He heard the sound of a key turning the lock of what he supposed to be the outer door. He was assured of this upon hearing the door gently closed.

Then soft footsteps were audible in the passage, and the little flap of the counter was thrown back. A man passed through and came behind the bar, then all was silent for the space of a few seconds.

Mr. Wrench was on the tiptoe of expectation.

The bird was coming into the net.

The striking of a lucifer was the next thing he heard. One gas-burner was ignited; it burnt very feebly as the strange visitor had only partially turned it on, nevertheless there was sufficient light for Mr. Wrench to observe the actions of his man through the slits of his sentry box, for he felt perfectly assured that it was his man.

The detective was too practised a hand to emerge from his place of temporary concealment. He must make sure before he pounced upon his prey.

The man drew from his pocket a bunch of keys. With one of these he opened the till, and, gathering up its contents, he slid the loose coins, gold and silver mingled together, into a canvas bag; this he placed in a small carpet bag which he had already deposited on the counter.

After this he went to the plate basket and abstracted therefrom several spoons and forks. He seemed to have a perfect knowledge of the place, and evidently understood where everything was kept.

He laid hold of a bottle of the best French brandy, and regaled himself with a couple of glasses from the same; this done, he put the bottle with two others in his carpet bag, having previously wrapped the bottles in some napkins he found in a drawer.

He now proceeded to open the cash box. In this were several Bank of England notes; these, like the other articles, were thrust into the carpet bag.

Mr. Wrench, with his hand on the key in the lock of his folding doors, was watching the robber with intense interest.

He was preparing to make a sudden spring, but as the robber was engaged in unlocking drawer after drawer for the purpose of obtaining further booty, the detective thought it would be just as well to let him have his full swing.

[Sidenote: No. 20.]

On one of the shelves was a box of cigars; the thief took a couple of handfuls of these, and which he pocketed.

After this had been done he turned round and took hold of one of the decanters containing wine. He poured out a glass of this, and while he was conveying it to his lips the doors of the cabinet were suddenly thrown open.

Mr. Wrench rushed forth, and, with one panther-like bound, grasped him by the throat with both hands.

The swiftness and suddenness of the attack was perfectly electrical.

The robber trembled like an aspen bow shaken by the blast. His knees gave way, and he would most certainly have fallen had he not been held up by Mr. Wrench.

His countenance was of an ashen hue.

“So, my man,” cried the detective, “you’re caught at last. I’ve been watching for you for a long time.”

“Let me go!” cried the burglar, endeavouring to release himself.

“Look here,” said Wrench, “it’s no use your endeavouring to get away, or make any row. You are my prisoner.”

“I aint got the strength of a blessed hinfant!” cried the robber. “I’m done as dead as a hammer, but don’t put the darbeys on a cove.”

“I certainly shall,” returned the detective, slipping on the handcuffs with admirable adroitness.

“S’help my tater I am done brown this time, and no mistake.”

The detective turned up the gas and rang the bell violently. Mrs. Sanderson was aroused from her slumbers. She hurried on her things, and hastened to the scene of action.

“We’ve caught him, madam; I knew we should,” said Wrench, when the landlady made her appearance. “You had better go to Marlborough-street with me, and charge him.”

“Oh! you scoundrel!” exclaimed Mrs. Sanderson, addressing herself to the prisoner. “It’s you, eh?”

“Do you know him?” inquired the officer.

“Yes; he was boots here for a short time――about two years ago. Oh! the base, infamous man!”

“Lay it all on me,” cried the prisoner. “In course, when a cove’s down kick him. Oh! lay it all on me, but I aint so much to blame. Let me off, missus, and I’ll tell ye all about it.”

“Don’t have anything to say to him, madam,” said the detective, “but follow us to Marlborough-street as soon as possible.”

Peace, who had heard the commotion, emerged from his bedroom half-dressed, and looked over the banister.

He was met by Mrs. Sanderson, who was returning to her room to put on her bonnet and shawl.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Peace of the landlady.

“We’ve caught a burglar, and I have to go and prefer the charge against him,” answered his hostess, as she passed into her sleeping apartment.

Our hero’s curiosity was aroused. He had another look over the banisters, and beheld Mr. Wrench, whom he knew well enough, in charge of a handcuffed man, who was his prisoner.

Peace drew back. “Cooney!” he ejaculated. “Well, this is most astonishing!”

It was true enough. The robber was indeed “Cooney,” whom doubtless the reader will remember as being concerned with Peace and the Bristol Badger in the burglary at Oakfield farmhouse, described in the opening chapters of this work.

Peace deemed it advisable to retire to his own apartment. He did not care to claim acquaintance with the robber. As it was, he had escaped recognition by the merest accident.

“I shall have to fight shy in this case. Cooney is nabbed, and will have to take his chance,” he mused, when he had gained his own room.

The burglar was marched off to Marlborough-street. Soon after his arrival there Mrs. Sanderson presented herself.

It was impossible for any case to be clearer. The particulars were entered into the charge-sheet, and the prosecutrix was told by the inspector to be at Marlborough-street in the forenoon.

Mr. Wrench had safely bagged his bird.

When the case came before the magistrate it transpired that Cooney had a confederate.

A man who had held a situation as head waiter at the hotel had planned and contrived the series of artful robberies which had been so successfully carried out, during the period of a little more than a year.

He had provided himself with duplicate keys of all the locks in the house, the interior of which he was very well acquainted with.

Cooney, who had throughout his life always taken a subordinate part in the various depredations in which he had been engaged, had consented to become the tool of the head waiter.

He entered the hotel with the keys provided by his principal, and laid his hands on the most portable and valuable articles within reach, while the waiter waited outside the hotel, and generally contrived to take the lion’s share of the plunder.

He guessed what was up when he beheld Cooney handcuffed, pass out of the hostelry in company with Mr. Wrench. He did not stop to inquire, but made off without a moment’s hesitation, leaving the unfortunate Cooney to his fate.

The case against the prisoner was as clear as it well could be.

Mr. Wrench’s evidence was more than enough to ensure a conviction.

So convinced was the robber of this that he pleaded guilty, and threw himself upon the mercy of the court.

He was told by the detectives that if he chose to give up the names of his accomplices, he would be dealt with more leniently and receive a lighter sentence.

He said that he had but one accomplice, this being the head waiter whom he named.

In the course of a few days the latter was hunted down and taken into custody. He was convicted, and sentenced to five years’ penal servitude, for a considerable portion of the property previously stolen from the hotel was found in his possession.

Cooney was let off cheap; he had one year’s imprisonment, with hard labour. And so ended the robbery at Sanderson’s Hotel.

Many hundreds of similar robberies are committed in the metropolis, every year, and in many cases the culprits manage to escape justice for very long periods.

It is perfectly astounding the amount of thievery going on daily in the metropolis. And it is not confined to a class, but permeates through every section of society.

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XLIV. PEACE PURSUES HIS LAWLESS CAREER――THE BURGLARY AT HIGHGATE

Our hero, as we have already seen, had been leading for a long time past a reputable sort of life――indeed, the company into which he had fallen at Broxbridge had caused him to turn his thoughts in another direction. Had he remained there it is just possible that he might have abstained from the pursuit of dishonest courses.

But now the spell was broken.

His funds were at a low ebb, and he did not feel disposed to leave London empty handed. He must levy black mail on the inhabitants of so wealthy a city.

He reasoned with himself in a self-satisfactory way, never for a moment acknowledging that he was in any way a wrong-doer.

Indeed, the sophistry and hypocrisy of Peace was one of his most marked characteristics, and the examination of the character of such a man is a curious study.

It is not only the tissue of audacious crimes of which he is known or suspected to have been guilty, which provoked the eager interest of the community. There is some curiosity to know the mental and moral whereabouts of a man who stands all by himself.

There have been men who have gradually grown up to be practical and dexterous criminals.

Natural qualifications and acquired capabilities have conspired to make them hardened and practical offenders.

Others have leapt up at one bound into daring and accomplished law breakers.

Under the stress of some urgent necessity, or powerful temptation, they have done a deed fit to make men’s blood curdle in their veins.

Peace does not, however, come into either of these two classes.

Practical he was to a certain extent, but his habituation to crime was voluntary and wilful.

He chose his walk in life, and determined not to stop short of the most distinguished excellence.

His daring dexterity and self-possession would have made for him a splendid career in any walk of life where his “imperial” customs could have been legitimated by authority.

Then, after robbing and murdering half the world, he might have grasped the highest honours of a peerage, and died in the perfect odour of sanctity.

Peace had just that laxity of moral nature which would have made him a thoroughly unscrupulous instrument in the hands of a lawless power.

But he lacked the golden opportunity, and became instead a desperate criminal.

The arrest, trial, and conviction of Cooney and his confederate had no other effect upon Peace than causing him to give up all idea of remaining longer in “Sanderson’s Hotel.”

He had narrowly escaped recognition. At present he stood well with Mr. Wrench, and naturally enough he had no desire for the astute detective to be enlightened as to his antecedents or real character.

It was therefore necessary for him to be cautious.

He had a large amount of material connected with his business, consisting chiefly of frames, prints and tools, which had been packed up, and were still at the goods department at the London station, and he had still many commissions to execute.

He took two unfurnished rooms in the neighbourhood of Leather-lane, Holborn, and had his stock-in-trade removed to his new lodgings.

One room he proposed using as a workshop, the other he could make occasional rise of as a dormitory.

His newly found friend, Kempshead, had left London upon a tour to some of the leading towns in the capacity of a commercial traveller; he had, therefore nothing to regret in leaving Sanderson’s, so he paid his bill, and moved to his new quarters.

He had thoughts of returning to his native town, Sheffield, but as yet London had many allurements for him, and he was loth to leave it.

He set to work in his new quarters, and sent some frames and prints to some of his customers at Broxbridge, but the spirit of adventure which had lain so long dormant now asserted its sway, and he began to make nocturnal excursions, and returned with the booty to his bare and gaunt-looking apartments, which were, however, in a short space of time pretty well stocked with the proceeds of his various robberies.

Having recommenced this dishonest career of life, he carried on his depredations with the greatest assiduity.

The burglaries he had carried out so successfully were chiefly confined to the north side of London.

He had noticed during his excursions a large red brick mansion at Highgate, standing back from the road with an avenue of gigantic trees in its front.

It was a fine specimen of an old manorial edifice, and had in all probability been originally built by some nobleman or rich commoner.

It was too large and not sufficiently modern to suit the taste of a citizen of the period, but from its commodiousness and the healthiness of its situation it was eminently qualified for a school.

It had been repaired and beautified, and was now known by circulars and advertisements as “Miss Chickleberry’s Finishing Academy for Young Ladies.”

Peace thought it worthy of a visit――so one moonlight night he bent his steps in the direction of Highgate.

At this time there were not many pedestrians or equestrians passing along the road even in broad daylight. At night there were none, and the burglar therefore felt assured that he should have it pretty well his own way.

Two large wrought-iron gates guarded the entrance to the broad gravel walk which led to the vestibule of the house.

Not a light of any description was discernible at the windows of the habitation.

Peace scaled the wall, and then found himself in the front garden or shrubbery.

He crept silently along until he reached the side of the mansion; passing along this he arrived at the garden in its rear.

It was at the back of Miss Chickleberry’s residence that he proposed effecting an entrance, for beyond the garden itself were a number of fields used for grazing purposes.

A death-like silence reigned around, which was only broken occasionally by the mournful sighing of the branches of the trees as they were agitated by a passing breeze.

He concluded that all the inmates were fast asleep――at any rate he hoped they were.

He had provided himself with a capacious bag, as he had been given to understand that there was a considerable amount of silver plate, which he concluded it would be his pleasing duty to remove.

Two men-servants slept in the rooms over some stables which were about a hundred and fifty yards from the house, which, with the exception of a boy who acted as page, was occupied by females only.

But, Peace being a ladies’ man, this did not much matter.

The most serious matter for consideration was how to effect an entrance without disturbing the sleeping garrison.

Our hero had turned his attention to this long before the night of the proposed burglary.

The schoolroom appeared to be the weakest point of attack.

It jutted out from the house itself, and was fastened most insecurely――doubtless it had been originally a ball-room in the days when the habitation boasted of liberal occupants. Anyhow it was most alluring to the eyes of our burglar.

At its end was a bay window with lozenge-shaped panes set in lead.

Peace found but little difficulty in removing one of these; but the room was secured by shutters, which were, however, old and rickety; but, nevertheless, they were not so easily opened as he had at first supposed. They resisted all his efforts.

There was no other way left but to bore some holes with his centre-bit, and then to remove a portion of the panel.

This he proceeded to do without further delay, of course performing the operation as noiselessly as possible.

In a short time a portion of the panel was removed. He then put his hand through the aperture and lifted up the bar of the shutter.

He then unfastened the window and gained an entrance into the schoolroom.

All this had been done without anyone being aroused.

The burglar then paused for a brief space of time, and bethought him of his next proceedings.

He had coloured his face, and otherwise disfigured himself, in accordance with his custom when engaged in marauding expeditions of this nature.

He slid over his boots a pair of list slippers, and crept noiselessly into the passage. At the end of this was the reception-room, where the parents of the young ladies were shown into the presence of the mistress of the establishment.

On the table of the reception-room several pieces of plate were ostentatiously displayed, which had been from time to time presented to Miss Chickleberry, either by the parents of her scholars or by the pupils themselves.

They of course had a most imposing appearance, and did not escape the eye of the burglar, who at once transferred them to his bag.

In addition to these he possessed himself of an ormolu clock and several other articles of value.

He could have now returned from the scene of his depredations with a large booty, without running any further risk, but he was not a man so easily satisfied.

He was bent upon going into the other rooms of the house, and it would appear the greater the risk the greater was the charm to him.

Placing his half-filled bag on one of the desks in the schoolroom, he crept softly upstairs.

Not a sound, save from his own movements, broke the stillness of the night.

He entered one of the upstair rooms. This was a prodigiously large apartment. In it were a number of beds, which were occupied by Miss Chickleberry’s scholars.

Peace was quite enraptured with the galaxy of sleeping beauties which suddenly met his view.

Young ladies, ranging from the ages of twelve to sixteen, were peacefully slumbering in the grand old bedchamber. Some of them were of a rare order of beauty, but all looked so calm, so gentle, and so innocent, that even the callous heart of the burglar was touched.

Here lay a girl whose glossy, raven tresses fell over a polished shoulder as if in sport――the sleeper was a brunette; in the next bed to her was a blonde, with light brown hair and an alabaster skin; beyond these were fair young creatures of different types, some with thin regular features, which were almost statuesque in their outline, others with full, round faces, in which sat the rosy hue of health.

Our hero was an admirer of beauty, especially when it referred to the opposite sex to his own; but it would not do to fall into a reverie over the display of fascinating creatures before him.

He observed several gold watches on the little tables beside the beds, and to gather these up was the first consideration.

He went to the first table, took the watch from its stand, and slid it into his pocket.

Then he crept on to the next and possessed himself of that, and so on till he had ten or a dozen watches in his pocket.

Having effected this he turned round and made for the door. Just as he was about reaching this he was astounded at beholding the large round eyes of a young girl, of about eleven or twelve, gazing full into his own.

She did not utter a word or even attempt to move. As he passed her bed she murmured “oh,” in almost a whisper.

Peace concluded, naturally enough, that she was paralysed by fear.

That she was awake be knew perfectly well, for her eyes were fixed intently on him.

He went to the side of her bed, and said, in a whisper――

“My girl, if you stir or move, or endeavour to give the slightest alarm, your life will be forfeited. Do you understand?”

He drew forth his revolver, and pointed significantly to the barrel.

“Say nothing, keep quiet, and you are safe.”

The girl nodded, but made no other answer.

“Remember!” whispered Peace, as he passed through the door, “as you value your life, keep silent.”

He passed into the passage, closing the door of the young ladies’ dormitory gently as he did so.

At the further end of the passage or landing was a door. This was suddenly opened, and a tall, angular, severe-looking lady presented herself.

This was Miss Chickleberry herself.

The moment she caught sight of the burglar she gave utterance to a piercing scream. She flew back into her bedroom, still screaming and calling loudly for assistance.

“Silence, woman!” exclaimed our hero, entering her bedchamber without ceremony. “Are you mad, to make all this row and clatter for nothing?”

“For nothing!” cried Miss Chickleberry. “Oh! you monster! Help! Murder! Robbers!”

“Will you hold your cursed tongue?” exclaimed Peace, now seriously alarmed. “If you don’t――――”

He produced his revolver.

At this the schoolmistress became perfectly frantic, It was in vain that he pointed the muzzle of the pistol to her temple, and threatened to take her life.

She would not be pacified.

He had no desire to shoot her, but she must be silenced. He placed his hand over her mouth to stifle her cries.

She struggled desperately, and was very nearly releasing herself from his grasp.

He lost his temper, and struck her on the head with his clenched fist.

“She’ll arouse the whole neighbourhood,” he murmured. “There never was such a dragon.”

He caught sight of a cake of glycerine soap on the washstand.

He thrust this into her mouth, then tied her hands behind her with a handkerchief.

His impression was that after this she fainted, but he did not stop to ascertain. Taking the key out of the lock of her door, he locked her in from the outside.

A chorus of screams now proceeded from the young ladies’ dormitory.

Several by this time had rushed out into the passage in their nightdresses, with naked feet, on the cold floor of the landing.

“Back――back into your rooms, girls!” cried Peace, in an authoritative tone. “You’ve no occasion to be alarmed. No harm is intended.”

“But Miss Chickleberry. What of her?” cried one of the pupils.

“She’s all right, quite right,” answered Peace, flying down the stairs with headlong speed.

Upon reaching the schoolroom he snatched up his bag and fled from the house.

He jumped over the back garden wall, gained the meadow beyond, and made for a wood which was at no very great distance.

In endeavouring to reach this he ran into the arms of a policeman.

“Unhand me, fellow,” he ejaculated. “If you don’t it will be the worse for you. Leave go, I say.”

“You are my prisoner,” said the constable.

“Prisoner be hanged! What for? I haven’t done anything. Nobody has charged me. You are exceeding your duty.”

“And I will, I’ll take my chance of that.”

Peace made a desperate effort to slip from the constable’s grasp, and a struggle ensued, in which both fell.

But the officer, who was bent upon doing his duty, still retained hold of the robber, who kicked and fought like a madman.

He was unable to draw out his revolver; had he been able to do so the chances were that he would have shot the policeman without pity or remorse. He managed to regain his feet to be again thrown down by the constable, who placed his knee on his chest and endeavoured to slip on the handcuffs.

Peace, however, managed to frustrate this attempt, whereupon his antagonist drew his staff, and said he would make use of it if he offered further opposition.

Our hero now felt that he was at the mercy of his captor, and ground his teeth in rage and despair.

“Take your knee from off me, and I will do as you wish, and go with you quietly,” cried Peace, who though it best to temporise, and see if any other chance of escape presented itself.

He was perfectly astounded in another moment at hearing a voice exclaim――

“Let the man alone, you brute!”

A terrible blow was delivered from behind, with some weapon, on the head of the policeman, who was laid prostrate.

His helmet had fallen off in the struggle with Peace, and the blow, therefore, was more effective.

The policeman was evidently partially, if not wholly, stunned.

“Fly――fly! This way!” exclaimed the same voice as he had heard before. “The bobby is knocked out of time――follow me.”

The speaker led the way into the wood, and Peace followed, bag in hand.

“Now old man, sharp’s the word,” cried the same voice. “There’ll be a rare hue and cry presently. Keep along this beaten pathway; that’s it.”

They passed through the wood, and arrived at a narrow lane full of ruts.

In this was a horse and cart.

“Jump in, old man,” cried the stranger.

Peace jumped into the cart――his companion did the same and drove off at a sharp trot.

“Well, hang me if I’m not knocked silly,” cried our hero, “why if it aint Bandy-legged Bill.”

“Right you are, my child,” returned the gipsy, “one good turn deserves another. You let me off the ‘Carved Lion’ business; I’ve just come up in time to return the compliment.”

“How came you on the spot?”

“How came I? Why I heard the scream, and thought murder was being committed, so I dropped out of the trap and made for the old red house. Then I seed you and the bobby a strugglin’; so I ups and gives him one for himself, and the best thing for both on us to do now is to take a circumbendibus route to London――not but what I think we shall be able to dodge ’em. I’ve got as pretty a little tit in this ere cart as any man need wish to drive.”

“Hang it, but you are a jovial fellow, Bill, after all,” said Peace, “and I shall never forget this kindness.”

“Well, ye see it’s a poor tale if we can’t help one another on a pinch like that. But where do you hang out? You seem to me to be like a will o’ the wisp――here, there, and every where.”

“I’ve been stopping in London for a little time, but shall soon return to Sheffield or some other place. Gad, it is fortunate that you came up as you did.”

They had by this time emerged from the narrow lane and were proceeding along one of the high roads.

A mounted patrol who was coming in the opposite direction regarded them with an inquiring and suspicious look.

The gipsy, who was driving, slackened his speed and wished the officer “good night.”

The greeting was returned, not in a very cordial manner, however.

“I thought he meant mischief,” said the gipsy. “It was quite a toss up whether he overhauled us or not.”

“What have you got in that bag?”

“Something I shall be very glad to get rid of. Silver plate, with names and dates engraved on it.”

“Oh, scissors, that’s awkward! We should be done brown if any of the bobbies did overhaul us.”

“If you have any fears don’t hesitate for a moment. Drop me, and I’ll take my chance.”

The gipsy laughed.

“No, no, old man!” he cried. “In for a penny in for a pound, is an old saying. We’ll take our chance. I aint a going to desert a pal, or turn tail like a cur.”

He drove on at a sharp trot, and reached London in safety; dropping Peace at the corner of Leather-lane, he promised to give him a call in a day or two, then wishing him good night he drove off.

Our hero let himself in with his latch key, and after washing the colour off his face, and attending to other business matters, he turned in for the night, and slept soundly till the morning.

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XLV. A VISIT TO THE CRYSTAL PALACE――THE UNEXPECTED MEETING

As may be imagined, there was a rare hue and cry, both at Highgate and the adjacent neighbourhood, for some days after the burglary at Miss Chickleberry’s establishment for young ladies, and as a natural consequence the facts of the case lost nothing in the hands of the gossips who recounted the terrible outrage.

The schoolmistress herself was said to be at death’s door, in consequence of the brutal treatment she had received at the hands of the ruffian who had so mercilessly attacked her.

The valiant policeman was also seriously injured, and the amount of property stolen was of course enormous.

Notices were sent to the several metropolitan police stations, and all that could possibly be done to trace the robber was at once set on foot.

Meanwhile Peace was quietly working at his trade in Leather-lane.

He had, on the following day, disposed of the plate to a Jew fence in Whitechapel; the watches he secreted in the premises he occupied.

He had effected so complete a change in his personal appearance that it was hardly possible for anyone to recognise him as the man who had carried out so daring a robbery; indeed, the policeman into whose arms he ran when making off from the premises had but a transcient glance at him; his impression was that he was a mulatto, and he was so described in the “Hue and Cry.”

This in itself would have been sufficient to put the detectives on the wrong scent, and thereby to defeat the ends of justice.

Peace did not stir out from his workshop, save in its own immediate neighbourhood, for some days; and no one for a moment suspected that the quiet, mild-spoken, industrious artisan of Leather-lane was the real culprit.

A week or two passed over, and the burglary at Highgate became a thing of the past; at the expiration of which time, Peace committed some more burglaries in a different neighbourhood. These were on a minor scale, but he contrived to escape detection.

By these, together with the Highgate robbery, he managed to amass a considerable sum.

About this time crowds of persons were flocking to the Crystal Palace to witness the performances of the renowned Blondin, the hero of Niagara, as he was termed in the posters and advertisements.

There never was a greater furore displayed by sightseers of the metropolis and elsewhere than on this occasion.

Blondin was the “lion” of the day, now he is a very lamb――equally as clever, it must be admitted, as when he first came in our midst, but the novelty has worn off, as the novelty wore off some years before with Van Ambrugh.

Peace, who was a lover of daring deeds and adventure, perhaps more than anyone else, could not leave London without seeing the prince of rope performers. He, therefore, determined upon paying a visit to the palace at Sydenham.

He was not a man easily moved to terror, but it has been said, and it would be useless to attempt to gainsay it, that somewhere deep down in the human heart there is a corner devoted to the instinct of horror.

This fact has been evidenced at all times and in all ages, and although the world is said to have grown more civilised since the days of gladiatorial exhibitions in ancient Rome, when gaily dressed ladies placidly witnessed a man being devoured by wild beasts, the love of the horrible still remains.

Blondin, when he first came into this country, revived in the British breast the old feeling of the Romans in the circus.

His daring deeds on the high rope, which, to say the truth, were appalling to witness, drew a greater concourse of people to the Crystal Palace than any other has done either before or since.

He was the rage. Tens of thousands of wondering eyes were rivetted on him as he performed such dexterous feats on the rope. People were fascinated as they watched the acrobat play with the chance of death at such a dizzy height.

We are a Christian people, much given to church and chapel going, and it would be rank heresy therefore to say that our natures would revolt at the sight of a martyr bound to a stake.

Happily the days are over for such an exhibition. The days are past also for bull baiting, badger baiting, cock fighting, and even for fistic contests.

Nevertheless, we expect human nature is much the same as it was hundreds of years ago.

It is true we stick a silk hat upon our heads, and put an eye glass on one of our orbits, and disguise the ladies of our family in pull back gowns and high heels; the love of the horrible is not even scotched, much less killed.

A Christian company sit and stand about the floor and galleries of some great building ostensibly devoted to the arts, to see the wonderful Zazel flirt with the King of Terrors.

They watch the graceful creature shot from a cannon, holding their breath as she flies through the air and alights safely in the net.

Then the poor girl, carrying her life in her hand, in obedience to the bond of service with her worthy master, walks along a wire as high from the earth as a low cloud in a hilly country, in peril of imminent death.

We do not pay to see the clever manner in which Zazel balances herself, because, if the feat were performed at a lower and safer altitude, there would be few, if any, spectators.

And this will apply with equal force to Blondin. His performances on the low rope were much more graceful and difficult, but they were not so popular as his high-rope feats.

It is the element of danger and the probability of an accident which gives piquancy to the exhibition.

It has been said that a gentleman of independent means attended for years Van Ambrugh’s exhibition of wild beasts, in the full expectation of seeing him one day devoured by one of the savage animals.

Some years ago, when a travelling blacksmith murdered six persons at a lonely habitation at Denham, the lane leading to the scene of the tragedy was thronged with the carriages of the nobility, the occupants of which offered large sums to the policeman in charge of the house for permission to see the dead bodies as they had fallen when struck down by the hands of their murderer.

The gate post at the entrance was probably cut away by persons who possessed themselves of a piece of the same as a trophy or memento of the tragical event.

In fact, the hitherto unfrequented lane leading to the house presented the appearance of Rotten-row on a summer afternoon, so thronged was it with carriages and equestrians.

Who therefore will deny that the instinct of horror does not still exist?

If this were not so, what would become of our acrobats, our sword swallowers, fire-eaters, and fire kings?

Peace, before setting out from Leather-lane, made as great an alteration in his personal appearance as possible.

He had cultivated a moustache and imperial; he dressed himself in a long black coat of the clerical type, put on a white tie also of the clerical pattern, and stuck on his head a felt hat.

An eye-glass completed his transformation, which was so perfect as to defy recognition.

Taking his ticket at Blackfriars, he was whirled down to the palace with all convenient speed.

He found the place thronged with gaily dressed people; it appeared as if all London had turned out, as by common consent to do homage to the hero of Niagera.

Most of us know what the Crystal Palace was at this time.

If you desired to meet with a few of your friends, people you had missed sight of for a given space of time, you had only to go there; somebody would be sure to recognise you and claim your acquaintance.

Peace, who now paid a visit to the palace for the first time, was delighted with the attractive nature of its most noticeable and leading features. Apart from the world-renowned Blondin, he found numberless objects of interest to engage his individual attention.

He passed from court to court, examining objects displayed therein with an eye of a connoisseur.

He always found great pleasure in contemplating works of art, whether ancient or modern; and, although but little versed in history, he would linger lovingly over any choice or rare specimen of art workmanship of a bygone age.

This, indeed, was one of the many strange contrarieties of his character, which would lead us to the conclusion that he was destined by nature to cut a more respectable figure in the world than that which is but too plainly evidenced by his lawless career.

While in the Pompeian Court somebody addressed him by name.

He looked up and beheld Brickett, the landlord of the “Old Carved Lion.”

“Ye be looking at the wonders of this grand place all by yourself,” said Brickett, clapping his friend on the shoulder.

“Well, who would have thought of seeing you?” returned Peace. “I thought you never moved half a league’s distance from the old inn.”

“Neither do I as a rule, but I’ve been obliged to come up to London about a little matter, so I thought as how I’d just see this wonderful rope-dancing chap; but I go back agen to-night.”

“Ah, well, I’m jolly glad to see you, Brickett.”

“The same as regards yourself,” returned the landlord; “but I s’pose you haven’t cut us entirely. There’s lots of people inquiring after you, and good people, too, who want to know when you are coming back. There’s plenty of work for you, mind that, when you do return.”

“All right; we’ll see about it in good time. How does his lordship get on with his newly-found relative?”

“So well, I hear, that he’s not disposed to part with her――not upon any consideration. She’s tumbled into a good thing, and no mistake; but, lord, she is a sweet creature――a loveable creature.”

Peace sighed.

“Yes,” he answered, sadly, “she is, so I’ve been told.”

“And let us hope she’ll be a comfort to the old man――indeed, I’m sure she will.”

“No doubt.”

“And she ought to be thankful to you――so I’ve heard.”

Peace made no reply.

“So I’ve heard,” replied the landlord. “It’s only what I’ve heard.”

“May be she has,” returned Peace, carelessly. “People in this world soon forget those who have rendered them a service; but let that pass. She’s the earl’s grand-daughter, I suppose, and it is not at all likely she’d care to remember or recognise me.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Brickett, looking hard at his companion, “I suppose not.”

There was a murmur from many voices and a shuffling of feet.

Blondin was about to go through his performance on the high rope.

Peace and Brickett left the Pompeian-court and took up the best position they could to witness the hero of Niagara go through his marvellous feats.

The worthy host of the “Carved Lion” stood spellbound with astonishment.

He declared he “had never seen anything like it in his life, and that it quite surpassed his expectation.”

Peace was of the same opinion.

When Blondin had finished the two made their way to one of the refreshment-bars, and had some cold meat and ale, which Brickett would insist on paying for, after which he bade our hero a hasty adieu, saying that he had to catch the train which was to take him down to Broxbridge.

Before parting he was very profuse in his protestations of friendship, and then he extorted a promise from Peace that he would very shortly pay another visit to the “Carved Lion.”

“He’s a rare good sort,” murmured our hero, after Brickett had taken his departure; “one of the best and most cheery of landlords I ever met with.”

Having given expression to this sentiment, Peace sat down at one of the side tables in front of the refreshment bar, and was for some time apparently lost in thought.

People passed to and fro, but he was so abstracted as to be heedless of all that was passing around.

It was singular, but it was nevertheless true that the very name of the village of Broxbridge or the remembrance of its associates seemed to have a depressing effect upon him.

He liked Brickett, and to a certain extent liked also many of those who frequented the parlour of the “Lion,” and he had been fortunate and prosperous while in the village, but despite all this perhaps the very last thing he would think of would be paying it another visit.

Peace was of a jealous disposition. He could not bear to think of his treatment at the hands of the girl Nelly.

In addition to this another, and a higher order of female, had in an earlier day treated him with scorn.

Aveline Maitland, to whom he had made honourable proposals at Sheffield, had cast him on one side to become the wife of his old schoolfellow, Tom Gatliffe.

By an exceeding strange concurrence of circumstances, had been attached to the village in which Nelly dwelt, and indeed where she had been born and brought up.

This was the reason for his hating the very name of Broxbridge, and at the bottom of his heart sat despair and humiliation.

He bitterly regretted ever having given the information which led to the recognition of Aveline as a descendant of the Earl of Ethalwood.

But it was useless to repine, now that the past could not be recalled.

Bad man as Peace was, these circumstances were active agents in hurrying him on in his lawless career. In a great measure they rendered him callous and reckless.

He took a jaundiced view of life, and became the hardened and unscrupulous criminal, whose daring exploits have so astounded his fellow-countrymen.

We do not offer these observations in palliation of his guilt, for to say the truth there was never much good in the man.

But at the same time it is a fact which is incontrovertible, that circumstances in a great measure create criminals, even as they do heroes.

After ruminating for awhile Peace rose from his seat and strolled into the grounds attached to the palace. He saw many things there which were of sufficient interest to dispel the gloomy thoughts which a few moments before had taken possession of him.

He met at the ornamental gardens one or two persons with whom he was acquainted. The society of these afforded him some relief, as the current of his thoughts were directed in a different direction.

He became all of a sudden gay and festive, and again had recourse to one of the refreshment bars.

It may have been observed by the reader that the Crystal Palace is a thirsty place, or rather a place which creates thirst. Anyway, a very fair amount of liquids of various sorts are consumed therein.

But a surprise which was perfectly overwhelming awaited our hero, who, after parting with his companions, sauntered about in a most desultory manner.

All of a sudden his eyes were attracted to one of the first-class refreshment rooms.

He could hardly credit his senses.

At one of the tables in the room sat a young and beautiful female, dressed in the height of fashion.

Her arms, head, and bust glittered with jewels.

Her costume was perfection.

Peace thought he had never beheld any woman so elegantly dressed, or one possessed of so aristocratic an appearance.

Could he be deceived? Was he dreaming or awake? The features of the female were familiar to him.

“It cannot be!” he ejaculated. “I must be mistaken. And yet the likeness――the similitude――is most remarkable; but, Lord bless me, it never can be her!”

He paced backwards and forwards for some little time, not knowing very well how to act.

To the first-class refreshment room aforesaid his attention seemed to be attracted.

He kept advancing towards the door, peeping in and then retreating again, but he found it impossible to leave the spot.

He was under the impression that the elegantly-dressed female tricked out in such gaudy costume was none other than the long-lost Bessie Dalton.

And yet she was so completely metamorphosed in every way that he had some doubts as to her identity.

Possibly he was mistaken.

But he could not leave the palace without satisfying himself upon the subject which so deeply concerned him.

He passed through the doorway into the refreshment-room and strolled on till he came in front of the elegant young female, who looked like one of the first ladies in the land.

He gazed at her in both surprise and admiration. There could be no doubt about it――she was Bessie Dalton, but oh, how changed!

He had known her only as a chrysalis――now she was a butterfly with gaudy wings.

He walked boldly up to the table by the side of which she was seated, and exclaimed in a hissing whisper――

“Bessie!”

The young woman looked up, and said, carelessly, “Oh, it’s you――eh? Well, you are a stranger.”

“And whose fault is that?” cried Peace, as he shook her jewelled hand which she held forth. “Whose fault is that?”

“Ah, that would not be so easy to say, if there is a fault.”

“What is the reason for you not acknowledging any of my letters? You’ve served me nicely; leaving Bradford without letting me know where you had gone, you and Mrs. Bristow. Now I have met with you I mean to know all about your movements.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Peace, resolutely, and with something like anger in his tone.

“Well, you see, my dear fellow,” said Bessie, in a languid tone, “there were many reasons for our leaving, and as there were also many reasons for our preserving our incognito, I was not able under the circumstances to write a farewell letter to you, and have now to apologise for my seeming neglect, which I assure you was not wilful.”

Peace was perfectly astounded.

The easy self-assurance of the woman proved that she was evidently no longer the same in manner and ideas as he had known as a factory hand.

He was perfectly astounded, and to use a nautical phrase, was completely taken aback.

“You’ve used me badly enough,” he exclaimed, “and as far as your apologies are concerned they are not worth a rap. Where did you and Bristow’s wife fly to? They told me at the house that you gave out you were going abroad.”

“Certainly we did. We wished it to be understood that such was our intention.”

“But you never had an idea of leaving this country.”

“Certainly not; you are quite right in your surmise. We never had an idea of leaving the shores of England, but you see, Peace, there were special reasons for our wishing it to be understood that we had left the land of our birth. You see we sought concealment――this was not so important, as far as I was concerned, but with Mrs. Bristow the case was different. There was an imperative necessity for her to seek seclusion; this she has found, poor thing, and her life, I am happy to say, is now one of unclouded sunshine.”

“Sunshine be ――――,” cried Peace. He was about to make use of an oath, but the lady held up her fan, and by an effort he restrained himself.

“Look here, my lady,” he cried, after a pause. “You’re coming it pretty strong. You’ve got fine feathers and make use of fine words, but don’t you think you can deceive Charles Peace. I can see through you, for all your affected airs and graces. You’ve got an admirer――are under the protection of a gentleman, I suppose. Eh?”

“I must request you to be a little more cautious,” said Bessie, perfectly unmoved. “In the first place you must not address me in language which is in every way objectionable. Our paths in life are as dissimilar as well possible for two persons to be. I have been long since shunted――to make use of an expressive simile――on to a different line to yourself, and I must request you to keep your place as I shall keep mine. I wish you well, entertain the most friendly feelings towards you as far as your own happiness and welfare are concerned, but for the rest――for the rest,” she observed, conveying a spoonful of strawberry ice cream to her lips, “we are separate and apart.”

Peace was indignant beyond expression; he had the greatest difficulty to restrain himself from striking the speaker.

“If you give me any more of your cheek,” he cried, in a hissing whisper, “I’ll slap your face.”

“You had better not, Mr. Charles Peace,” said his companion; “upon my word you are sadly forgetting yourself.”

“What do you mean, you stuck-up, conceited little hussy, by treating me in this way? Separate and apart indeed! I’ll soon teach you a lesson about that, my lady. Where do you live?”

[Sidenote: No. 21.]

“I decline to answer your question; and, indeed, if you do not behave yourself better, I shall decline to have anything further to say to you. I wish you well, and don’t bear any animosity towards you; but at the same time must beg you most distinctly to understand that I am not disposed to submit to taunts or insults from anyone――still less from you.”

“I am not going to let you off so easily,” said Peace. “It’s no use you endeavouring to ride the high horse with me. I intend to know where you live, and, in addition to this, I am determined to know all about you.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you’ll have to find out as best you can; for I must tell you frankly that you will have no information from me.”

“Do you suppose, you little fool,” exclaimed Peace, in a voice of concentrated passion, “that I am going to let you have it all your own way――that I’m going to give you up now I have found you? If you do, you are greatly mistaken.”

Bessie Dalton made no answer, but continued to help herself to the strawberry-ice before her.

Her self-possession――her refinement and graceful deportment――fairly astonished her companion.

“Do you hear me?” he cried.

“I cannot fail to do so,” she answered, “seeing that you speak vehemently.”

“Will you write down your address?”

“Most certainly I will not.”

“Then I’ll follow you, if it’s for twenty miles. You shall not escape me.”

“There must be an end to this, Mr. Peace,” said Bessie Dalton, in an altered tone. “Your words and manner are most objectionable, and I must decline to have any further converse with you.”

“You decline?”

“Most emphatically. Be good enough not to trouble me any further. Our interview is at an end, and I must request you to leave, or, at any rate, not to press your society on me.”

“Did any one ever hear of such audacity?” exclaimed Peace, in a perfect fury. “Do you suppose that I am to be taken in by your fine airs and graces? Play them off upon somebody else――they are thrown away upon me. I don’t appreciate them――don’t believe in them; so the sooner you return to your own natural character the better. I am not to be tricked or hoodwinked. Where do you live, and what are you doing? Don’t toss your head; I must and will have an answer.”

“Once more I tell you not to interfere with me,” cried Bessie. “I do not choose to hold further parley with you. As one whom I knew some long time ago I have been courteous enough to exchange a few words with you. Now I wish I had not done so, for your tone and manner cannot be considered otherwise than offensive in the eyes of any well-bred person, and I therefore request you to leave, as I do not choose to be subject to your insults.”

“Insolent minx!” exclaimed Peace, seizing the speaker by the wrist, which he grasped with an iron grip. “You shan’t escape me――you have played me false, you have been carrying on a nice game without doubt. But you will find, my lady, that you won’t have it all your own way, now. I’m not to be shaken off. I will know what you have been up to, and where you are residing. I swear by the Lord above us that I will not leave till you have told me.”

As he gave utterance to this speech he shook her angrily, and grasped her wrist with such force that the bracelet she wore was forced into her flesh and produced acute agony.

She gave utterance to a slight scream and called for assistance.

One of the waiters at the establishment who heard the angry altercation beckoned to a stalwart policemen who was near the entrance, who at once came forward.

Peace’s countenance wore at this time a most diabolical expression.

“What is the matter, madam?” inquired the constable, in a respectful tone.

“This man is both threatening and annoying me. In the absence of my friends and relations, who are in the grounds but will return shortly, I am constrained to appeal to you for protection.”

“Certainly,” returned the policeman. “Now, then,” he said, sharply, addressing himself to Peace; “you be off, or else I will take you into custody.”

“Leave me alone, officer. I know what I’m about. Don’t you interfere between man and wife.”

“Wife!” exclaimed Bessie; “I’m no wife of his. Don’t listen to what he says; he does not mind what falsehoods he tells. My husband is in the grounds. All I want you to do is to remove this insolent fellow.”

“Do you give him in charge?”

“If he won’t go quietly I must do so, I suppose.”

Peace let go his hold of Bessie, and seemed to be a little staggered at her last observation.

“You go about your business. We don’t want any row here!” cried the policeman, taking Peace by the collar and dragging him towards the door. “We don’t allow ladies to be insulted with impunity, So you must leave. If you don’t, I shall lock you up.”

“Lock me up! What for?”

“For a breach of the peace――for creating a disturbance. You take my advice and get clear off while you can, or it will be worse for you.”

Peace had no desire to make the acquaintance of the inspector at the station-house, and he had, therefore, no alternative but to submit.

“I want to say a word to her before I leave,” he exclaimed, nodding towards Bessie.

“Say it, then, and go.”

Our hero was half beside himself with ill-suppressed passion.

“Hark ye!” he ejaculated, bending towards the female, with a hideous grin on his ill-favoured countenance, “you have carried it off bravely this time, but I’ll have my revenge. I’ll find you out, expose you, and bring ruin upon your head, you deceitful, worthless, despicable huzzy!”

“It is out of your power to do me any mischief. You are beneath contempt,” answered Bessie, turning away.

“Now then, no more of this. Be off!” cried the constable, in an angry tone. “Be off, I say.”

There was no help for it. To avoid being forcibly ejected Peace had to leave the refreshment room with the best grace he could.

But rage and despair sat at his heart. He never was more astonished than he had been by Bessie Dalton’s treatment of him.

He went out into the grounds in a state bordering upon frenzy. He found it difficult to believe that so complete a change had come over the pretty little work girl whom he had been so intimate with at Bradford.

She did not seem to be like the same person. Her costume was magnificent, her manners were polished, her actions graceful, and, taken altogether, her whole appearance denoted that she was moving in the best society.

“Her husband,” she said. Was she married? Possibly so.

This thought did not in any way add to his composure. On the contrary, it seemed to fret and chafe him. He generally viewed affairs from his own standpoint; perhaps he was not singular in this respect, for there are multitudes of other persons who make it a practice to do precisely the same thing.

He persuaded himself that he was an ill-used man――that his most intimate associates turned against him for no imaginable reason, and he therefore declared war against the whole human race. How well he carried this out the history of his life but too plainly demonstrates.

He considered that Bessie Dalton had acted towards him in a manner which was altogether incomprehensible.

She had treated him――so he considered――with the basest ingratitude, when in reality she had but cast aside a man who was not worthy a moment’s consideration.

At one time she had been in a measure attached to the selfish, unscrupulous burglar, but that time had long since passed away.

“My word!” he ejaculated; “but she knows how to ape the fine lady. I never should have thought it was in her. She certainly plays the part to perfection, the pretentious overbearing little devil! Well, this little affair knocks me completely silly. What on earth can she be doing? She’s evidently got into a good position by some means or other. It’s altogether a mystery. It appears to me that everybody gets shoved on in this world but myself――Aveline, Bessie, and Lord knows who else besides!”

He paced the grounds of the palace in a restless and troubled manner. His mind was ill at ease. He had been singularly unfortunate in his escapades with the fair sex.

He had wasted his thoughts and time at Broxbridge over the girl Nellie, and now he was treated with scorn by an old flame, whose absence had caused him so much concern.

All this he found hard to bear.

He did not remain long in the ornamental grounds of the Palace. In fact, he was sick of the place, and therefore at once made for one of the entrances, and passed out of the building.

As he turned off to the road leading to the station a surprise awaited him, which well-nigh took his breath away.

An open carriage, drawn by a pair of high-stepping magnificent horses, passed him.

In it sat Bessie Dalton and a gentleman of aristocratic appearance on one of the seats.

On the other reclined Mrs. Bristow, dressed in the height of fashion, with a male companion on the other.

As the vehicle wheeled by Peace became completely overpowered.

“The devil!” he exclaimed. “John Bristow’s wife! The John Bristow who died on the public highway, and whose body I identified at the workhouse. His wife and Bessie Dalton riding in a carriage and lolling in the lap of luxury! It seems like a dream. Have they come into a fortune, or what? It is most unaccountable.”

This discovery seemed to trouble him more than his treatment in the refreshment-room. He went back to his rooms in Leather-lane in a state of doubt, surprise, and bewilderment.

“It seems I did not go to the Crystal Palace for nothing,” he ejaculated. “Well, this beats all I ever heard of.”

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Chapter XLVI

ALF PURVIS IN HIS NEW HOME――A FRESH LINE OF BUSINESS――PEACE AND LAURA STANBRIDGE.

We left Alf Purvis at the lodging-house in Westminster. On the following evening, at six o’clock, he presented himself with a faint single rap at the door of a house in one of the streets leading out of Regent-circus.

He was admitted by a buxom maid-servant, who ushered him into the back kitchen.

“Missis expected you would come,” said the girl, “and desired me to tell you to take a bath and wash yourself before you put on these clothes, which you are to wear.”

She pointed to a suit of second-hand garments, which were hanging on the back of a Windsor chair.

A huge tub half filled with hot water was on the floor of the kitchen.

The girl pointed to this, and said:――

“You will do as I tell you?”

“Yes,” answered Alf.

The girl left the room, and the boy had his bath and put on his new things.

Although he had been accustomed to work at Stoke Ferry Farm he did not resemble in any way the rough country lads one is accustomed to see in the agricultural districts.

He had a well-knit figure, a white glossy skin, a fine and almost feminine cast of features, and hair, after it had been cleaned and combed, which shone like virgin gold.

When his ablutions and toilette had been completed, he was called by the maid-servant, who was in the front kitchen.

He entered, and sat himself down on one of the chairs.

“Missus will see you presently,” said the girl.

Alf nodded, and quietly awaited the interview which was to follow. He felt a great deal more comfortable than he had done for a long time.

He glanced complacently at his new things, as a scholar surveys his bombazine gown, and a bishop his first pair of lawn sleeves.

In about half an hour he was shown up to the first floor, and there he found the two ladies whom he had seen on the previous night at the lodging-house in Westminster.

The young lady who the maid had told him was Miss Stanbridge appeared to be the real mistress of the house.

She professed to be very pleased to see him, and spoke in a kind manner when addressing him.

Alf was quite charmed with her. He did not remember to have seen anyone who pleased him better.

She asked him several questions about his former life, and soon extracted the history of all his offences and troubles.

At first he touched very tenderly upon the former, but Miss Stanbridge’s manner encouraged him to make a clean breast of it. She seemed to view misdemeanours in so charitable a light that he took heart of grace and told her all.

She laughed immoderately when he gave her an account of the hare being tied round his neck, and his selling it after all to the bird ensnarer.

She inveighed against the game laws as bitterly as any sworn abolitionist could have done.

Alf Purvin was duly impressed with the justness of her remarks, as her sentiments coincided with his own.

She concluded by saying that it would be just as fair and reasonable to make laws for birds’ eggs as for hares, and that so far from blaming a starving fellow-creature for taking one animal out of a wood which perhaps held hundreds of them, she could scarcely blame him for taking a sheep or a goose or a fowl from those that were over-rich to give to those who were poor.

She was anecdotal also. He was highly entertained at the story she told him of an old nobleman who was a confirmed invalid, and invariably took a constitutional early morning walk before breakfast.

One day, in going through his preserves, he met a strange, black-looking, forbidding-featured man, coming in the opposite direction.

The nobleman knew perfectly well that he had no business there, and so walking up to him he said, in an angry tone,

“Now, fellow, what are you doing here? Eh?”

“I’m taking a walk,” answered the man sulkily; “And pray, if I may make so bold, what are you doing here?”

“I’m talking a walk, also,” returned the nobleman, “to get an appetite for my breakfast.”

“Ah,” muttered the man, “I’m taking a walk to get a breakfast for my appetite.”

The nobleman did not ask any more questions, but walked on without more ado.

This story pleased Alf immensely.

The speaker now paused as if waiting for him to answer her. He observed that her eyes were searching him through and through, while the elder woman was gazing at him with a peculiar expression of tenderness mingled with pity.

“I think I shall be able to find employment for you,” said the younger of the two――“that is if you don’t mind work. I will supply you with much better articles to sell in the streets or anywhere else, and if you are a good boy you can make this your home for the present.”

“Oh, thank you, marm,” cried Alf. “I’m sure I’ll do all I can to serve you.” He said, in continuation, that it was very hard to have no bread to eat, and no means of getting any, but still he thought that honest people were the happiest, and they were often the richest too, for he’d heard a thief say only a few nights before that an honest shilling went farther than a stolen crown, and certainly the thieves he had seen were very poorly clothed, and dirty, and hungry; it did not seem as if they thrived on their trade.

At this the old lady smiled, and Miss Stanbridge did not vouchsafe a reply.

There was a pause, after which the elder of the two females asked him if he had any father or mother.

And when he said he could not remember either, and that when he asked about them he was told to hold his tongue, since he was an orphan, she started and asked him quickly what part of England he came from.

He said Broxbridge, at which his questioner started, repeating the word after him in a slow, thoughtful manner.

Her emotion did not escape the observation of Alf Purvis.

“You won’t find yourself badly treated here,” said Miss Stanbridge. “If you do, it will be your own fault. I intend to send you out to sell different articles for me, and I shall give you a commission on all you sell.”

“Thank you, marm.”

“Then, as you will get your bed, board, and clothes for nothing, you will be able to put by what money you earn, which, in the course of time, let us hope, will amount to a good round sum. That will be an encouragement for you to persevere.”

“Certainly, marm. I will try my hardest.”

“Good lad. I think we understand one another.”

The boy saluted her with his head and hand.

He was delighted with the prospect which opened before him.

That night he enjoyed the luxury of a clean, comfortable bed, such as he had not known for a long time――certainly not since he had left Stoke Ferry Farm.

The next morning he had a good breakfast in the kitchen in company with Susan, the housemaid.

When he had partaken of his morning’s meal he was told that his mistress wanted him.

She was at breakfast. On the sideboard was a glass vase with a dozen gold and silver fish in it.

“Now, Alf,” said the lady, “look at these. Do you know anything about them?”

“Oh, dear, yes! I know a good deal about them.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I know everything about the street trade in live-stock, and about almost every other kind of street trade, for when I could afford it I used to go to a sixpenny lodging-house, or else had fourpennyworth at the Drury Chambers.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“Well, you see, marm, there’s a good many people, who are in all the street trades, goes to both places, and by asking questions and listening to their patter, I got put up to a pinch of snuff or two. That’s how I came to know about these things, for you see I was always looking out for a better trade than birds’ nests, which is but a poor one, make the best on it.”

“Oh, I see, you’ve had more experience in those matters than I had at first imagined. Can you tell me what that is worth?”

“A thing is worth what it’ll fetch.”

“Yes, I know; but that is no answer to my question. What do you suppose is the value of that?”

Alf. Purvis went up to the sideboard and examined them with the eye of a connoisseur or practical dealer.

“They were brought here this morning,” added Miss Stanbridge, glancing at her elderly companion, who had just entered the room, and with whom she spoke in a low voice, pointing at the fish.

“They ought to fetch eighteen pence a pair, but it all depends upon the customers you meet with. Here’s one pair of large silvers that are honestly worth four or five shillings of anybody’s money. Large silvers are scarcer than large golds.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, marm, they are, indeed.”

“Well, now you must see if you can sell some of them. You’ve no objection?”

“None in the world.”

“Where will you go? How will you set about it?”

“What I should do with these would be to walk Kensington way. On the outskirts of London they say is the best line for these. I should walk along the street crying them, and when I saw any children at the window I would knock at the door, for children crave rarely after gold fish. If I am asked where they come from I shall say some on ’em were brought from China and some from Portugal, and some from the Injies; then they’ll be sure to buy ’em. People are so fond of anything that comes a long way off.”

Miss Stanbridge laughed.

“You’re a strange lad,” she ejaculated――“an old head upon a young pair of shoulders. So you would do that, eh?”

“Certainly; all’s fair in trade, and the fun of it is that the Essex fish are the best of all, being bred in cold weather, while t’others have to be bred in warm ponds, and are not anything like so hardy.”

“You’ll do, I can see,” said his patroness.

“But did the man bring a hand net with the fish, marm?” inquired the boy. “It don’t do to mess ’em in your hands.”

“No, I don’t know that he did; but I dare say we have such a thing. My dear,” she said, with a dubious smile, “will you go to the lumber-room, and see if you can find one?”

Her elderly companion hesitated for a moment, then went upstairs. In a few minutes she returned with a bundle of nets of various cordage, with handles of stained wood.

These the boy said he might be able to sell with the fish.

Susan crammed a huge packet in his pocket which contained bread and meat――this was to serve him as a dinner; and he went gaily into the streets.

He returned in the evening in the best of spirits, having been unusually successful.

His good looks, his clean clothes, allied with his cheery manner and lively chatter, won for him plenty of customers.

He was very well satisfied with his day’s work; so also was his mistress, who was no niggard in her praise.

He went out again and again, and in the course of three or four days the vase was empty.

He was called up into the drawing-room and regaled with a glass of spirits and water.

“You’ve done well, Alf, and I’m much pleased with you,” said Miss Stanbridge. “Did you tell your customers that your fish came from foreign parts――you young rogue?”

“I was obliged to pitch it a little strong with some of them. I told ’em this fish came from one place and that from another. There, I have done wrong,” he added, with a look of humility.

“Dear me! no. All’s fair in trade,” said his mistress. “People in this world like to be humbugged――I’m quite sure of that; besides, it doesn’t do to be too particular. Why, lor bless me, when I was of your age I didn’t stick at trifles, I can tell you――not a bit of it.”

And she followed up these observations by telling him a series of stories about the pilferings of her childhood, in such a manner that the boy did not understand that these were thefts she was describing so pleasantly. He was entertained, and thought she was very kind and condescending. So, indeed, she was.

But it was the condecension of a ruthless, remorseless woman, with the face of an enchantress and the heart of a demon.

She had the boy in her toils, and as our story progresses, we shall see what she made of him.

Alf Purvis went to bed that night in a state of mind which was at once happy and confused.

Happy because he had six shillings in his pocket, confused because he was not accustomed to whiskey and water, and because the doctrines which his mistress’s anecdotes appeared to inculcate were so different to those which Mr. Jamblin had been accustomed to propound.

He considered the matter over before going to sleep, and came to the conclusion that one must be wrong. It was clear, however, so he thought, that the citizens of the metropolis and the rustics of the country, just as they dressed in two different styles, so viewed questions of morality from two points of view.

Which view was right he had not at present determined.

It would be a blessing indeed for him if he had never left the roof of the honest old farmer.

He expected to find another consignment of gold fish on the sideboard on the following morning, but in this he was mistaken.

For the next few days he was sent out with second-hand telescopes and opera glasses.

He did not much care about this occupation; he was not so successful.

He had to stand all day at Tower-hill, or by the docks, and waylay the seafaring men as they passed by.

They were hard customers to deal with――they were not to be talked over; were too wide awake, and were not particular in their expressions.

In addition to this, he was forestalled by a number of Jew dealers, who dealt in articles of that description.

At the end of the week he returned disheartened, and told his mistress he couldn’t get on at all to his satisfaction.

The sailor gentleman, he said, would always insist on trying his telescopes before they would make the least bid for them, and when they did bid they showed themselves much more at home in the matter than he was. They beat him, for even when they were drunk they seemed to understand them just as well.

“I suppose,” cried his mistress, “that they were accustomed to look through telescopes when they were drunk aboard ship. No wonder so many vessels are lost. I haven’t patience to think of such persons; but how about the opera glasses, Alf?”

“Oh, they’re no good at all; nobody would even look at them. When I offered them they said, ‘Get out. What do we want with opera glasses, you little fool? Better wait till we get opera boxes.’”

“Well, we must start you in another line,” said his mistress. “Don’t be disheartened. You can’t always be successful.”

Alf was a little despondent when he retired to rest. He found himself in such comfortable quarters, and was so well cared for, that he dreaded lest his non-success should cause him to be turned adrift.

To be again in the streets, with no friendly hand to help him, he naturally enough dreaded, more especially as he had now tasted the sweets of a comfortable home, for it was a home to him who had been for so long a time a sort of Arab, or outcast.

On the following morning, at his earnest solicitation, his mistress allowed him to try his luck for another day with the telescopes.

Upon his returning in the evening he discovered, much to his surprise, a gentleman at the door――this being none other than the good Samaritan who had presented him with a shilling at the corner of Parliament-street.

He touched his forelock, and made a respectful bow to the stranger, who eyed him in a most inquiring and searching way.

“Umph! I hardly knew you again,” cried Peace, for it was he.

“Got a suit of new togs, it appears.”

“Yes, sir.”

Susan now opened the door, and Mr. Peace inquired if the mistress was in.

He was shown into the first floor.

He had no reason to complain of the reception he met with from his quondam companion――Laura Stanbridge――who professed herself delighted to see him.

“Well, Charlie,” she ejaculated, after the few first civilities had been exchanged; “this puts me in mind of old times. I began to think that you had given me the cut; but I suppose you have been pretty well engaged, or I should have seen something of you.”

“Middling. You see, before I leave London I thought it just as well to see a few of the sights. Perhaps I shan’t have another chance for a goodish while, you know.”

“Ah! just so. Then you are only here for a time――you intend returning to Sheffield?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I see, a bird of passage――eh?”

Peace smiled. Then, after a pause, he said, quickly――

“But, I say, Laura, old girl, who was that boy I saw at the door as I came in?”

“A fair-haired lad?”

“Yes, and good looking. I hardly knew him.”

“Have you seen him before, then?” inquired Miss Stanbridge, in a tone of surprise.

“Aye――surely.”

“Dear me; how remarkable! You know him, then?”

“Well, I know about him――have seen him several times in the neighbourhood of Broxbridge.”

“Oh! that’s where he came from.”

“I suppose so. He was with farmer Jamblin. How is it he is here?”

“Poor fellow! he was starving, and――and――well, I made him useful, and gave him board and lodging.”

“Ah!” murmured Peace, looking down on the floor of the apartment. “Well, I suppose it’s all right?” here he whistled.

His companion burst out into a loud laugh.

“You’re not getting nasty particular, I hope?” she ejaculated.

“I suppose the boy is nothing to you?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Do you know any of his relatives――his father or mother?”

“Not I; but he hasn’t got any. He’s an orphan――so I’ve been told. As to his late master, Jamblin, it would not much matter if he were at the bottom of the sea; but let us pass on to something which more immediately concerns me. I want you to do me a favour.”

Laura Stanbridge clapped her hands together, and said joyfully――

“Certainly, old man, with pleasure. What is it?”

“You are mistress of this house, I suppose?”

“Yes. All right; go on.”

“And you can let me have the use of one of the top attics for a night?”

“Of course I can, for as many nights as you like for the matter of that. But, I say, what’s your little game? You have something on――that I can see plain enough.”

“You are right, I have. Between us there should be no concealment; there should be mutual confidence.”

The girl smiled and nodded.

Peace went on.

He could be plausible enough when it answered his purpose.

“Well, this is it,” he said in continuation. “A crib is to be cracked, and I want to gain the roof of this block of buildings. I can do so easily enough by creeping through one of the windows of your attics. That’s plain enough for you, isn’t it?”

“Most unmistakeably plain. You want to get through one of the attic windows. Well, and what then?”

“The rest is my business. Once on the roof I shall know how to work. What say you? Will you oblige an old pal?”

“I dare not refuse you so trifling a favour; but you must understand, Charlie, that if I am suspected, and a search is made in this house, I am done for. At present I am not suspected, but――”

“You have no call to be alarmed; I shall emerge from the window. Close it after me, and no one will be any the wiser.”

“Let us hope such will be the case.”

“You don’t care about running any risk to serve a friend――is that what you mean?”

“I have not said so, Charles. It is you who will have to run the risk. You are welcome to the use of the room, or rather the window. Take care, however, you don’t fall down and break your neck.”

“Where does the maid servant sleep?”

“In the back room second floor.”

“Does anyone occupy either of the attics?”

“No. One is used as a lumber room, the other as an occasional bedroom, but not often. You can occupy it if you like.”

“That is precisely what I wish to do.”

“The matter is easily arranged. You can have a latch-key and let yourself in after we are all in bed. Creep upstairs, and enter the room. Let me at once show you the way to it.”

Laura Stanbridge rose and conducted Peace into the attic in question.

He said nothing could be better adapted for his purpose.

It was agreed between the two conspirators that the door should be left unbolted, and Peace was at liberty to enter at what hour he thought best suited for his purpose.

His female companion presented him with a latch-key, and after some further conversation and protestations of friendship on either side, he took his departure, well satisfied with his diplomatic arrangement.

It was not, however, without considerable misgivings that Miss Stanbridge had yielded to his request, and had it not been that she was in his power, and therefore dreaded to make him her enemy, she most likely would have given him a point-blank refusal. As it was she had no other alternative. She knew the man she was dealing with, and therefore deemed it advisable to temporise. Peace had taken her by surprise, and had talked to her in such a plausible way that she was thrown off her guard, and had given in without the faintest show of resistance.

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