Charles Peace

No. 1.

Charles Peace alias John Ward, whose life and adventures form the subject-matter of our story, has gained for himself a reputation equal, if not superior, to the lawless ruffians, Jack Sheppard, Dick Turpin, and others of a similar class. He is a union of various elements.

In more senses than one he was a local character. Born in Sheffield he was, in early days, trained according to the customs of the day, and when about eight or ten years of age was one of the foremost amongst his companions in any game of audacious fun.

He was always considered a “rough,” even amongst his earlier associates, and it is said that he was dreaded by the children with whom he played. At ten years of age he had to assist his father who was named Joseph Peace, in the earning of the daily bread for the family.

Mr. Joseph Peace was a man well respected. He was what is known in Sheffield as a “little master,” but in commercial terms would be placed as a “file manufacturer.” He had a large family, and amongst his children was this lad, who has achieved such notoriety in the world.

Charles Peace, from his very boyhood, was wild. It is said that there was no adventure to be undertaken in regard to which he had any fear; neither did he require twice telling when he was requested to lead the way in any mischievous plot.

Mr. Joseph Peace was a man of religious inclinations, and was a member of the Wesleyan body. He occupied a house in George-street, Langsett-road, a thoroughfare which is now known as Gilpin-street.

He had a taste for music, and played the “bass” at the Wesleyan Chapel, Owlerton. When ten years of age Charles Peace commenced to take lessons on the violin, his instructor being his father, who rather prided himself on the way he could play the double-bass.

His son Charles was a diligent pupil, and ultimately, having acquired a proficiency in the instrument, he started in life as a sort of successor to Paganini—​fiddling most successfully on one string, and only failing to achieve some distinction because he lacked the patience which was necessary to make the stage his “field of fame.”

Yet he was always an artist.

If he did not discern for himself a sufficiently splendid career in art, amateur violinists who lived in the neighbourhood of Greenwich, Peckham, or Blackheath had sufficient reason to regret Mr. Charles Peace’s devotion to music.

They found that some undiscovered burglar was abroad who had a good taste in the selection of fine instruments.

Mr. Peace indeed had a passion for violins; and if he spared a service of plate sometimes, he was never known to leave a really good fiddle behind.

He was distinguished, too, by his general cultivation and by his devotion to the fair sex. As his good fortune grew, so did the number of inamoratas increase, yet he never seems to have really deserted the wife whom he married.

In housekeeping his taste was luxurious, and he invariably moved into more aristocratic neighbourhoods as he prospered in the art and mystery of burglary. And here comes out the singular phase of his character.

There is no doubt his fame and fortune as a housebreaker culminated in the period between the Bannercross murder and his apprehension at Blackheath; but he appears to have previously enjoyed a reputation as a cracksman.

How does it happen, then, that he could settle down to the life of a picture-frame maker at Sheffield?

The circumstances would not be so mysterious if he had not really made picture-frames; but it appears that he actually worked at the trade. There is some mystery here which requires to be explained. It is difficult to believe Peace turned honest in a fit of repentance; he would, in all probability, have some other object, which has not yet been made clear.

But, indeed, Peace’s character in Sheffield is altogether in singular contrast with his character as exhibited elsewhere. His behaviour to the Dysons, as it was described in Mrs. Dyson’s evidence, was very much like that of a lunatic.

There appears to have been a singular absence of motive, both for his general conduct and the murder which he is said to have committed. Instead of being the ingenious and cautious Charles Peace of the London burglaries, he is simply an indiscreet and violent criminal.

Equally in contrast was his behaviour on the two occasions when he appeared in the prisoners’ dock. In London he was whining and supplicatory; in Sheffield he was reckless and defiant. This change may, perhaps, be accounted for on the grounds that he had a chance in one case, and no chance in the other; but other contradictions in his character are not so easily explained.

Without doubt he was a cunning, bold, and fearless scoundrel of the old heroic type. The history of his many exploits, of his clever disguises, of his extraordinary escapes from punishment, and of the success with which for many years he contrived to live on burglary, even in these days, when we have a large and well-organised police force, cannot fail to excite surprise in the minds of every citizen.

His career is almost unique in the annals of crime. Not only the boldness and skill which he showed in committing his depredations, but his remarkable success in eluding the vigilance of the police, must be regarded as being altogether uncommon. Working entirely alone in his burglarious course, he seemed to command success.

We are told that even dogs felt the influence of his power, and failed to give any alarm on his approach. As for locks, bolts, and other means of security, Peace simply laughed at them. If he made up his mind to get into a house he got into it, and the booty which he appropriated was exceedingly valuable.

Probably many of the stories which are told of his exploits have only an element of truth, but the sub-stratum on which they rest is doubtless constituted of actual facts. Scarcely less remarkable than his success as a burglar was the skill with which he contrived to escape detection by the police.

Although he had been living openly in London, walking even into Scotland-yard itself, he was not recognised as Mr. Dyson’s murderer; and his eventual detection was owing to the accident of his capture at Blackheath.

Peace certainly possessed remarkable ability in effecting an almost impenetrable disguise. He has boasted of his contempt for the police, and his confidence seems to have been abundantly justified.

The history of his life presents a combination of passion, craft, cruelty, great spite, and audacity, such as is rarely to be found in any single being.

But Peace has boasted of his ability to deceive the most astute constable or detective. As a proof of this we quote the following personal narrative of one of his old pals. We give it in the words of the narrator:—

“Once on a time, no matter where, no matter when, Charley Peace told me the whole story of his life after that little indiscretion which resulted in the death of Mr. Dyson, at Bannercross.

“It is a narrative of events which have never yet been made known to the public. It presents points of uncommon interest, for everybody has wanted to know how he escaped on that fatal night—​how he was disguised, where he went, and how he has lived, down to the days when he reappeared at Peckham, and spent his days and nights after the manner now familiar to the public through the special commissioner of the Independent.

“I shall not trench on the latter well-known period. But I shall fill up the blank in his biography with these autobiographical episodes, for they are almost entirely his own words. I give to you, Mr. Editor, ample credentials to convince you that this is a genuine narrative, for I know, by the way you have stood former tests, that wild horses will not make you break confidence.

“So nobody need take the trouble to come fishing about either you or me for further ‘information.’

“Imagine, then, a circle of choice spirits assembled round Charles Peace, under circumstances calculated to make him loquacious.

“‘They talk,’ said he, ‘about identifying me! Why I could dodge any bobby living! I have dodged all the detectives in London many a time. I have walked past them, looked them straight in the face; and they have thought I was a mulatto.’

“Then he asked us if we knew how he did it; and said ‘Just turn your faces away a minute, and I’ll show you.’

“We turned our heads away, and when we looked again we found he had completely altered the expression of his countenance, and so entirely distorted and disfigured it—​save the mark!—​that he did not look like the same man.

“He threw out his under jaw, contracted the upper portion of his face, and appeared to be able so to force the blood up into his head as to give himself the appearance of a mulatto.

“Then he laughed heartily at his cleverness; went through pantomimic gestures that would have done credit to ‘Quilp,’ and again boasted of the many times he had ‘put on that face,’ and walked past the cute detectives in London and elsewhere.

“We then made allusion to the clever way in which he dodged the police and got away from Sheffield on the night of the murder; and he at once went off into a long story of his escape, telling it with almost fiendish glee, and occasionally laughing joyously at his exploits. He said:—

“‘After that affair at Bannercross I went straight over the field opposite, and through Endcliffe Wood to Crookes, and round by Sandygate. Then I doubled and came down to Broomhill, and there I took a cab and was driven down to the bottom of Church-street.

“‘I got out and walked into Spring-street, to the house of an old pal. There I doffed my own clothes and disguised myself. I stopped there a short time, and then I went boldly through the streets to the railway station, and took train for Rotherham. I walked from that station down to Masbro’, where I took a ticket for Beverley.

“‘On reaching Normanton I left the train, retaining my ticket, and took a ticket for York, where I put up that night. The next morning I went to Beverley, and then walked on to Hull.

“‘I got in an eating house near the docks, where I stopped a considerable time, and did a ‘bit of work’—​(meaning, of course, committed a few robberies).

“‘Then I went to Leeds, and from Leeds to Bradford; and from Bradford I went to Manchester. I was there a short time and then I went to Nottingham; and in a lodging house there I picked up Mrs. Thompson.

“‘Whilst we were together one night, an inspector, who had heard I was there and suspected I was a “fence,” came and said to the landlady—​“You have got a lodger here—​have you not?” She said, “Yes, he is upstairs.”

“‘He said he wanted to see me, and upstairs he came into our bedroom. When I saw him I said, “Hullo!” He answered, “Where do you come from?” and I told him from Tunbridge Wells. “What is your name?” he asked. “John Ward,” said I. “Well,” he said, “what trade are you?”

“‘At that I let out and said, “What’s that to you what trade I am? What do you want to know for?”

“‘He told me he wanted an answer. “Then,” said I, “if you do I’ll give you one—​I am a hawker!” “Oh,” said he, “a hawker. Have you got any stock?”

“‘I told him my stock and licence were downstairs, and if he would step down my wife and I would come and show him all. He was as soft as barm and went down.

“‘I said to Mrs. Thompson, “I must hook it,” and, hastily dressing myself, I bolted through the window and dropped into a yard, where I encountered a man, who was surprised to see me. I told him there was a screw loose, and the bobbies were after me with a warrant for neglecting my wife and family. I asked him not to say I had gone that way. He promised he would not.

“‘To leave the yard I had to go through the passage of a public-house, and at the door stood the landlady. She was frightened to see me without stockings or boots on; but when I told her the same tale as I had told the man in the yard she said it was all right, and I passed on.

“‘I took refuge in a house not forty yards from that I had left, and in a short time I got the woman who kept it to go for my boots, and she brought them.

“‘Soon after that I did a “big silk job” in Nottingham, and then, finding the place was getting too hot for me, I left it and went back to Hull. I had made several visits there before, and had given my wife money to maintain her.’

“Peace then told us how he paid no less than three visits to Sheffield after the murder, and more than once encountered one of the most astute and experienced inspectors of the force, but his disguise was so perfect that he passed unnoticed.

“Whilst in Sheffield he committed, he said, several robberies, and he particularly called attention to his adventures in a house at the corner of Havelock-square. ‘Do you mean,’ we asked, ‘at Barnascone’s,’ and he said, ‘Yes, that was the place. The family were out, and there I did very well. I got several rings, and brooches, and £6 in gold. The policeman said he saw me, but he didn’t. I saw him and blocked him, and he never saw me.’

“Peace declared to us that he was in Sheffield when the inquest was held on Mr. Dyson. Afterwards he returned to Nottingham, picked up with Mrs. Thompson, and went on to London with her, where his life and exploits are now matter of history.

“Peace went on to mention the names of several Sheffield people whom he met at different periods in London; and that part of his astonishing story has been confirmed in a remarkable degree by one of the persons himself.

“More than a quarter of a century ago he worked in Sheffield with Mr. William Fisher—​in those days known as Bill Fisher—​and they remembered each other very well. One day Mr. Fisher was walking across the Holborn-viaduct, when he saw the well-remembered figure approaching him.

“Their eyes met, and Mr. Fisher exclaimed—​‘That’s Peace!’ He turned to look again, but Peace had disappeared as if by magic, and was nowhere to be seen. About a week after, Mr. Fisher was going down the steps leading from Holborn to Farringdon-street, and about midway he again encountered Peace.

“Mr. Fisher gave information to the Sheffield police, and the news was sent to Scotland-yard that Peace was in London.

“‘But what,’ said Peace, ‘was the use of that, when I could walk under their very noses and not be recognised?’

“Again a demoniacal grin overspread his face, and again he went through a series of pantomimic gestures, and set us all laughing.

“It has been conceded that he could be exceedingly good company when he liked, and we assure you he had our attention whilst he related these, the most extraordinary chapters in his history.”

The personal appearance of Peace is thus described by one who paid a visit to Newgate while the burglar was awaiting his trial. He is a man about 5 ft. 3 in., with white hair on his head, cut very close, and bald in front of the head; but the razor had lately done this.

His eyebrows are heavy and overhanging the eyes, which are deeply sunk in their sockets; a chin standing very prominently—​and, as if to make it more so, the head was thrown back with an air of half self-assertion, yet half-caution.

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

In addition he wore a pair of large brass-rimmed spectacles. Peace was professedly a religious man. The neighbourhood thought him so, and probably he thought so, too; so he associated with the good folk who congregated in the edifice, but never made himself conspicuous.

He trifled with Fate. She had made him rich in worldly goods, although they were not his own. Some idea of the magnitude of his operations may be gathered from the fact that there is evidence in the hands of the police that would convict him of no less than fifty burglaries.

The property he obtained is valued at several thousand pounds, but the burglar as a rule does not realise even one-fourth of the value of the property he appropriates.

The charges of “receivers” in every branch of the profession are of an unusual character, but it has been asserted upon reliable authority that he was a burglar years before the events which have made him so notorious.

It is quite twenty years since he worked at a rolling mill at Millsands, and it was while following this employment that he broke his leg. This accident appears to have thoroughly disgusted him with hard work, and as soon as the injuries were cured he went to Manchester.

Here he appears to have fallen into bad company, and to have been the leading spirit of a gang of burglars. In the small hours of the morning Peace and his confederates were tracked to a lonely house at Rusholme, and the police succeeded in obtaining an entrance.

After a desperate struggle Peace was secured, and a great quantity of the stolen property was recovered, but not before the officers had been severely handled. At Old Trafford he was sent to penal servitude, but he played the “good boy” and was let out on a ticket-of-leave.

After his Old Trafford sentence he returned to Sheffield and took a small shop in Kenyon-alley. Here he used to amuse his acquaintances by showing them the dexterity with which he could pick the most stubborn lock. He soon resumed his old courses, and made the acquaintance of Millbank.

The career of the notorious culprit whose doings are chronicled in this work furnishes the novelist with a moral. It will be clearly demonstrated to those who peruse these pages that, sooner or later, justice overtakes the guilty, and that it is impossible for the most astute and cunning scoundrel—​such as Peace has proved himself to be—​to escape punishment.

A life of crime is always a life of care, for the hearts of the guilty tremble for the past, for the present, and for the future. The author of the “Life of Peace” reprobates in the strongest degree that species of literature whose graduates do their best to cast a dignity upon the gallows, and strive to shed the splendour of fascinating romance upon the paths of crime that lead to it—​to make genius tributary to murder, and literature to theft, to dignify not the mean but the guilty.

Let crime and its perpetrators be depicted as conscience sees them, as morality brands them; let them stand out in prominent but repulsive relief. There is yet wanted a picture of crime and its consequences true to nature and conscience, and it is hoped that the present serial will, in some measure, supply that want.

The author proposes to present to his readers the felon as he really is—​to describe facts as they were found—​to present pure pictures of guilt and its accompaniments.

He does not desire to make use of artificial colouring, believing that the interest in the work lies in its reality. The felon appears just as he is, as crime makes him, and as Newgate receives him—​successful, it may be, for a season, but arrested, condemned, scourged by conscience, and cut off from society as unfit for its walks.

Of all the members of the family of man few have been so rapidly forgotten as those who have been swept from the face of the world by the fiat of the law and the hands of the public executioner. Yet the guilty and the unfortunate have left biographies behind them that speak to future generations in awful and impressive tones.

If they were inflictions on the past generation, they may be made useful in the present age as beacons to the reckless voyager—​voices lifted up from the moral wrecks of the world speaking audibly to listening men “of righteousness, and temperance, and judgment.”

Our first scene opens at a picturesque-looking farmhouse situated on the outskirts of a pretty little village within a few miles of Hull. Oakfield Farmhouse—​so called from a number of patriarchal oaks poising their lofty heads in the rear of the establishment—​was in the occupation of two substantial yeomen named respectively John and Richard Ashbrook, their only sister Maude being mistress of the bright and cheerful abode.

In the earlier portion of the day our two Yorkshire farmers had been out on a shooting expedition. They brought back with them two friends—​fellow-sportsmen. They were driven home by the rain, which fell in torrents, and rendered further sport impracticable.

“I knowed how it would be,” said Richard Ashbrook to his companions. “These beastly river fogs always bring wet, and the clouds have been as ‘bengy’ (full of rain) for some time—​as bengy as could be.”

When the party reached Oakfield their garments were saturated with wet, and clung to them like a second skin.

“I have got a fire in the big bedroom—​a good blazing fire—​for I guessed how it would be,” said Maude Ashbrook, as she received her guests at the door. “You’ll all of you have to change your things. Mercy on us, you are dripping wet, John!” she exclaimed, placing her hand on her brother’s shoulder.

“Our friends will stop and have a morsel of something to eat and drink for the matter o’ that,” observed Richard.

“Indeed no—​I think not,” said Mr. Jamblin, one of the farmer’s companions.

“Ah, but he will,” returned the farmer. “None of yer think nots. Come, friends, get thee in. We don’t intend to part with thee so easily.”

Mr. Jamblin smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and obeyed. The other friend of the farmer’s, a Mr. Cheadle by name, followed Jamblin.

After dinner had been served, “clean glasses and old corks” were festively proposed by the host. Some bottles of genuine spirits and a box of Havannas were placed on the board; an animated discussion on things agricultural and political followed, while ever and anon Jamblin and Cheadle would rise from their seats, repair to the window, and, flattening their noses against the panes thereof, would endeavour to distinguish a star in the sky, or the first beams of the rising moon.

But the sky remained black and gloomy, and continual pattering of the rain was distinctly heard.

“It’s no good, my fine fellows,” observed Richard Ashbrook. “You are in for it. The rain has set in for good, so you had better make up your minds to stop where you are. ‘Any port in a storm,’ as my uncle the captain used to say. Nobody will ever expect you home, such a night as this.”

“You are very kind, Ashbrook, but——”

“Oh, bother your buts! I tell you I’ve got a couple of beds for ye. They are small iron bedsteads, both in the same room; but you don’t mind roughing it for one night, surely.”

The farmer’s two friends accepted the offer, and prepared themselves to pass the hours merrily. This they had no difficulty in doing.

Several games of whist were played, after which the host was called upon for a song. He was not quite in tune, but that did not matter. The other singers were equally deficient in that respect; but what was wanting in skill was made up by noise.

Most of the ditties had a good, rattling chorus, which each singer interpreted according to his own fancy. After sundry libations, and much protestation of friendship and good-fellowship, the hour arrived for repose, and the two farmers, their visitors, and Maude betook themselves to their respective sleeping apartments.

As Richard, who was the last, was about to ascend the stairs, he was touched gently on the elbow by a tall long-haired young woman, who was one of the domestics in the establishment.

“Well, Jane, what’s up now, lass?” inquired the farmer.

“Hush, master. This way.” She drew him back towards the entrance to the kitchen, and said in a low, mysterious tone of voice, “Are the guns loaded?”

“Two of them are. But what of that?”

“Load the others.”

“Why, dash it—​what ails thee, girl?”

“Nothing, master. I can’t tell why, but I feel timmersome like, and fancy something bad is going to happen.”

“If loading the other guns will do thee any good the remedy is easy enough,” observed the good-natured farmer, who at once proceeded to charge the other weapons.

“Thanks, Mr. Richard, thanks!” exclaimed the girl, in a tone of evident satisfaction.

The farmer repaired to his bedroom, taking the two guns—​his own and his brother’s—​with him. At his suggestion his two friends had carried up their weapons into their bedroom in the earlier portion of the evening. This might appear a little singular, but John Ashbrook had playfully observed to Cheadle and Jamblin that there was sometimes a hare to be seen out of the bedroom window, feeding on the orchard grass of a morning.

“And so,” he observed jocosely, “if you see one to-morrow morning you will of course be able to knock him over.”

“We will do our best should there be one,” said both gentlemen.

In less than half an hour after the party had broken up all the inmates of Oakfield House were soundly sleeping.

All save one.

This was Jane Ryan, the girl who had exchanged a few parting words with her master, or, more properly speaking, with one of her masters, for John and Richard Ashbrook were partners.

A strange sense of coming evil had taken possession of the girl, who sat moodily and dejected in the kitchen long after the other members of the household had retired to rest. Jane did not feel disposed to seek repose; she was restless and disturbed, albeit she was quiet, moving from place to place in a stealthy way, in direct variance with her usual manner.

“I cannot sleep,” she murmured; “and so I will e’en keep watch for one hour or more.”

She put some fresh coals on the kitchen fire, before which she sat for some time absorbed in thought.

Leaving her there, we will take a survey of the exterior of the house and its surroundings.

It was two o’clock in the morning. The rain had ceased; the moon was shining brightly, and covered the fields with a pale, lustrous light; the stars sparkled in the rain-drops which were hanging from the leaves, and so clothed the trees with a mantle of diamonds.

All was silent in the fields, for the birds and insects of the night were torpid till summer came once more.

All was silent in the yard—​the cattle sleeping on their beds of straw, and the fowls upon their wooden perches.

Seen by the pale moonlight the old farmhouse was a picture worthy of an artist’s pencil.

On the northern side of Oakfield ran a narrow lane, skirted by a dense mass of foliage, which threw the lane into sombre darkness. The lane itself rose abruptly as it neared the farm, which stood on the upland.

In this lane the forms of three men might be seen. The first of these is Charles Peace. Standing facing him is the notorious “cracksman” Ned Gregson, better known by the name of the “Bristol Badger.” The last of the three is known as “Cooney;” he is a tinker by trade, but he is a sort of jackal to rogues of a greater degree than himself.

The three men are in close converse. They had come suddenly to halt, as if doubtful as to their course of action.

“I tell yer it’s right as the mail,” observed the tinker, in a tone of confidence. “The farmers have sold their wheat, and there’s a mighty good ‘swag’ in the house. Only yer see, Ned, old boy, yer must not be too rash. Be keerful—​be very keerful.”

“What do yer mean?” inquired the Badger.

“Well, it’s just this, old man, the farmers—​leastways so I heerd at the ‘Six Bells’—​have had two blokes with ’em to-day, a poppin’ at the blessed birds, bad luck to them; and from what I could gather from Tim, the two blokes are a stoppin’ there to-night.”

“What matters about that?” said Peace. “We don’t intend to wake the gentlemen.”

“All right—​so much the better,” answered the tinker. “I’m for doing things in a quiet sort of way, I am.”

The Badger uttered an oath, and his ill-favoured countenance wore an expression of disgust.

“Do you know where they keep the shiners?” he asked.

“Oh, yes; I think that’ll be all right. I haven’t been in the house to mend the bell wires without a keeping my eyes open. Ah, ah!”

“Stow that, yer fool!” exclaimed the Badger. “Wait till yer out of the wood afore yer laugh.”

“All right, Ned, I’m as silent as the grave.”

“When were you at ‘The Bells,’ then?” inquired Peace.

“I had a game of skittles this afternoon.”

“At what time?”

“Between three and four o’clock; or it might be a little later. Can’t say to half an hour or so.”

“And that’s how you came to know about these two sporting chaps?”

“Right you are. Tim gave me the tip.”

“You haven’t been fool enough to push your inquiries too far?” said Peace. “Tim, as you call him, might suspect.”

“He suspect?” returned the tinker, indignantly. “Not he. I was as good as gold.”

“It’s no use making a long palaver about the matter,” ejaculated Gregson. “Let’s to business.”

The three burglars made direct for Oakfield House. In the space of a few minutes they were busily at work to effect an entrance, but they found this by no means so easy a task as they had imagined. The windows and doors of the habitation were carefully secured, and, although they knew it not at the time, there was one inmate of the establishment keenly alive to every movement.

This was Jane Ryan, who was aroused from her lethargic reverie before the kitchen fire by a sound which was new to her ears.

Jane started and rose from her seat.

“I said something was about to happen,” she murmured, pressing her hand against her side. “I could have taken a Bible oath of it.”

She paused for a few moments, apparently in doubt as to what course to take; presently she appeared to have decided upon her line of action. She glided from the room with long, stealthy, and noiseless steps, carrying her shoes in her hand.

A sudden surprise awaited her two young masters.

They were awoke from their sleep by a hand placed upon their shoulders. They stared around them sleepily, as yet not realising the real state of affairs. It was dark in their bedroom, for the moon was behind a cloud.

When it gleamed out, they saw Jane Ryan standing before them. Her arms were naked to the shoulder; her eyes glistened with a strange light.

She held a loaded gun in her hands.

The Ashbrooks were perfectly bewildered when they beheld this strange apparition awaking them in the silent hours of the night.

“Jane!” exclaimed Richard Ashbrook, suddenly calling to his mind the warning given him in the earlier part of the night by his faithful and devoted servant. “Jane—​what’s the matter? Speak, girl.”

“Hush!” she murmured, placing her finger on her lips; “make no noise, or it may be fatal. Listen.”

Both the farmers listened till their ears tingled, but they could hear nothing.

A thought crossed the minds of both almost simultaneously, that the girl was (to use the expression they made use of afterwards) off her head.

The brothers stared at each other in mute astonishment.

“I can’t hear anything,” said John Ashbrook.

“Don’t speak, master, but watch and wait; you will hear,” said Jane, in a low whisper.

She was standing as if in anxious expectation—​one hand raised to her ear, the other grasping the fowling-piece.

The two Ashbrooks listened again, and as the moonlight ebbed slowly from the room like a great white wave streaming back towards the sea, they heard a thin scraping sound, which was unlike anything they had heard before. This mysterious sound was followed by deep and heavy blows.

“Are you satisfied now?” said the maid.

“What is it?” they inquired.

She answered in a low, horse voice—

“Robbers, burglars, assassins!”

The two farmers stole hastily but silently from their beds.

Jane immediately left the room.

They at once proceeded to arouse Mr. Cheadle and Jamblin. All this was done as noiselessly as possible. When the four men were up and dressed, Maude Ashbrook joined them, declaring that she would not leave the side of her brothers upon any consideration.

They left the door wide open, and all crouched together in a corner.

The sound of the burglars’ tools soon ceased—​a sign that they were worked by practised hands.

Indeed, no more skilful “cracksmen” existed at this time than Charles Peace, the Badger, and Cooney—​the two first-named men have never been surpassed.

The farmers and their friends silently awaited the movements of the robbers, who had without doubt, by this time, effected an entrance into the house.

The party in the bedroom stood prepared for any emergency—​they all cocked their guns.

“Let us have no firing, except in self-defence,” said Mr. Cheadle. “There are four able-bodied men here, and it must go hard with us if we cannot hold our own.”

“I shan’t be at all particular about peppering the scoundrels, whoever they may be,” returned John Ashbrook. “A set of lawless, midnight marauders—​fellows of their stamp do not deserve pity or consideration.”

They now heard muffled footsteps in the room beneath them, and immediately afterwards similar sounds were heard on the stairs.

They began to breathe a little quicker, and grasped their guns more tightly.

A gleam of light fell across the threshold.

They could see a slipper lying there—​one that Maude had dropped.

The burglars had probably perceived this, and thence argued that people were afoot, for the light disappeared, and they could hear whisperings outside the door.

The big bedroom, as it was called, was a square chamber, barely furnished. The two bedsteads had been placed close to the window on the left-hand side.

Round and about these beds the six besieged persons were crouched or seated.

The moonlight poured in at the window in such a manner that while the whole of the opposite side, except one corner, was as light as day, the little nook by the beds was buried in impenetrable darkness.

The one dark corner on the opposite side was formed by the chimney, which jutted out some little way into the room.

They listened breathlessly for some moments, till they fancied that they heard a board creak inside the room close to the door; and at that moment, as if by magic, a voice issued from the corner of the chimney.

“We are armed with loaded revolvers; if you come a step nearer we fire!”

The lurid flash of a pistol flamed within the room, and they heard a ball strike sharply against the wall.

Maude betrayed their hiding-place with a shriek, and fell fainting in her brother John’s arms.

A loud report rang in their ears, and the room was filled with a thick, sulphurous smoke.

By the light of the powder’s flame when the first shot was fired, there was one who had seen the robber’s face—​a face, once seen, not soon to be forgotten. The dark cavernous eyes of the “Badger” had been distinctly visible to Jane Ryan, who gave a scream of triumph and revenge.

It was but momentarily that she had caught sight of the forbidding features of the miscreant; but it was enough for her purpose.

She levelled her master’s gun at the supposed spot where the robber was; and as she fired, something fell heavily upon the floor.

A shudder passed over them like a cold wind. They drew their breath and heard the same whisperings outside the door.

John Ashbrook placed his sister behind himself and his brother. There was an interval of silence; they began to hope that the burglars had gone, when presently they perceived something on the opposite wall.

They watched it with fascinated eyes. It was a small, dark shadow, creeping towards them along the wall.

It was the shadow of a man’s hand.

Then they heard a harsh, rustling sound, as if something was being dragged along the floor.

The robbers were taking away the dead body of their comrade.

They did not dare to move, for they knew the burglars were armed to a far greater extent than they were, and exposure might prove fatal.

Ten minutes passed thus; ten minutes of frightful suspense to these farmers—​who were brave but not phlegmatic—​who now fought men for the first time, and fought them in the dark.

They could not possibly tell how many there were of their enemies. To fire the only three remaining charges they had would have been an act of madness; they therefore thought it prudent to keep these in reserve for the grand or final conflict.

But the worst was over, as far as the Oakfield housebreakers were concerned.

Presently the eager tramp of men’s feet echoed from the road before the farm, and a dozen rough voices were heard bawling to each other.

The besieged party rushed to the window, and saw in the front of the house one of the village constabulary force, who was accompanied by a posse of strong-bodied youths of the immediate neighbourhood. In addition to these there were shepherds armed with crowbars, stablemen with their pitchforks, bird-keepers with their rusty fowling-pieces, woodmen with their billhooks, and a tall relation of Jane Ryan’s with a substantial kitchen poker.

The reports of the gun and pistol in the dead hour of the night had aroused the whole neighbourhood.

As may be readily imagined, the strong reinforcement at once dispelled all anxiety or doubt in the minds of the farmer’s household.

Three men were instantly mounted, and started off in the dark to the three nearest railway stations. The rest were invited into the kitchen to wait till daybreak.

There had been an unprecedented number of burglaries committed at several houses in the neighbourhood within the space of a few months—​hence it was that the rustic population were so keenly alive when any signal of alarm was given.

To capture the robbers was the wish of everyone assembled at Oakfield on that eventful night.

With the first streaks of dawn the party congregated in the yard, and took counsel on the best means of pursuit.

“If they have been carrying a body with them they can’t be very far off,” said Mr. Jamblin.

“They are lurking about somewhere hard by, I dare say,” said the police-officer.

“Where’s Jarvis?” cried Will, the carter. “He’d be the boy to find ’em for us. He’d ketch ’em if they burrowed underground like a rabbit.”

“Would he?” ejaculated the policeman. “He must be a clever chap.”

“Aye, that he be,” returned another rustic.

“Have you got any more of his sort in this neighbourhood?” asked the officer.

The rustics made no reply.

“Who is this Jarvis you were speaking of?” inquired John Ashbrook.

“Jarvis, sir? Why, him as ’listed some years ago, and fought under Lord Clyde in the Injies. Arter that they sent him to the other Injies, where the red men be, and they’ve taught him a power of strange tricks. He came here wi’ us, but he’s got lost since, or summat.”

“No, I baint lost, Joe,” said a tall young man, whose left cheek was one great red scar, and whose face had been bronzed by no English sun.

“Why, sure enough, it is Jarvis!” exclaimed Mr. Ashbrook. “Give us your hand, lad. Sure enough I shouldn’t ha’ known ye, they’ve knocked ye about so.”

“Aye, that they have, Master Ashbrook,” returned the soldier. “But tell us, neighbour, what you can about this night’s business.”

“You shall know all I know,” answered the farmer; who thereupon put the soldier in possession of all the facts with which the reader is already acquainted.

When he had finished, the soldier said, “I’ll be bound for it that the body of the dead or wounded man is not very far from here.”

“You think not?”

“Ah! that I do. We came up so soon that they’d have no time to get far away with that load upon their backs; and most likely they’ve been forced to hide it in a slovenly way.”

The sudden disappearance of Charles Peace and his two companions upon the arrival of the villagers excited surprise in the minds of all who had assembled at the farmhouse. The police officer did not choose to commit himself by any expression of opinion. He was not a man given to loquacity where silence was requisite. He did not, however, attempt to deny the assertion made by soldier Jarvis—​namely, that the robbers were not far off.

Enjoining the villagers to stay where they were and to carefully avoid treading over more ground than was absolutely necessary, the young soldier accompanied Mr. Ashbrook to the kitchen window, where the entrance had been forced by removing the glass with a diamond—​or “starring the glaze,” as it is termed in the burglar’s phraseology—​and after this had been done panelling the shutter. It was this last process that aroused Jane Ryan to a sense of danger.

Jarvis carefully examined the ground beneath the window, and pointed to some footprints in the wet earth which led towards the straw yard. In one place they were so plain that every nail in the soles could be distinguished.

“They are the impressions of a strange foot—​that’s certain sure,” observed Ashbrook.

“We are on the trail of one of them,” returned Jarvis. “I dare say they thought they could do as they liked among yokels, but we’ve got the trail and I mean to keep it.”

The speaker walked slowly across the yard, following the tracks with his eye as a bloodhound would have followed them with his nose.

“They’re in this barn, Master Ashbrook,” he said, stopping before one of the doors. “No, they baint, though, they’re come out agen and gone along the wall. But they’ve left their dead mate behind ’em. See how different their track is now; they tramples quite close alongside of each other, while afore they carried the body from shoulder to shoulder, and so were forced to walk one behind and a little way apart.”

The villagers gave a murmur of astonishment.

“Ah, he knows how many blue beans make five,” said the carter, as he took out the peg by which the folding doors were kept dosed.

“I don’t feel quite so sure about the footsteps,” remarked the policeman; “they don’t appear to me to tally with the others.”

“If I’m mistaken, we shall have to try back,” answered Jarvis. “Of course, it is just possible we are on a false scent. Ah! what is this?” The speaker pointed significantly to some drops of blood upon the straw in front of the barn. “What say you to that?”

“Blood, without a doubt,” observed the constable.

“That’s where they laid him down when they opened the barn door.”

“Ah!—​dare say—​most likely.”

The villagers were open-mouthed with wonder. They, one and all, voted the soldier a necromancer.

The doors were flung wide open, and they sprang over the rack into the body of the barn. There had been some threshing done the day before, and there was a vast heap of chaff just outside.

While they were gazing around, a low moan, as of one in pain, fell upon their ears.

“Keep quiet, lads,” exclaimed Jarvis; “leave this matter to me and the constable. Keep where you are. We can none of us tell what next will happen.”

“Here’s footmarks on the chaff, and blood on it also,” said the constable, who took a few steps further inside, whereupon his eyes lighted on the prostrate figure of a man lying in the corner on a heap of straw.

He flashed his bull’s-eye on the face of the wounded burglar, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

The Bristol Badger lay helpless, and bathed in blood.

Jane Ryan, who had followed the constable and Jarvis, gave a slight scream.

“Don’t take on so, woman,” said the constable. “He’s only got his deserts.”

Heedless of this observation, Jane went close to the wounded burglar and peered into his face.

“Dost know who this here is? I’ll tell ye!” she exclaimed, in a voice of concentrated rage; “he’s the murderer of my sweetheart. I should ha’ known him out o’ ten thousand.”

There was a murmur of unmixed surprise at this observation.

“What beest thee saying, Jane?” said the farmer, scratching his head. “Hast ever seen ’im afore?”

“Aye, sure enough I have, master. It was not for nothing that I sat up this night. I knew summut was about to happen, but never guessed it would turn out like this.”

Gregson endeavoured to rise to his feet, but the attempt was a futile one; he was too weak from loss of blood.

“What has that false, wicked woman been saying?” he inquired of the policeman.

“She accuses you of murder,” was the brief rejoinder.

“She’s mad. I never saw her before.”

“What’s to be done wi’ this man?” inquired the farmer of the constable.

“He’s my prisoner, anyway,” answered the latter. “Best see and have his wounds attended to, and then we will take him to the lock-up. You charge him, I suppose?”

“Yes, with burglary.”

“Attempted burglary,” chimed in the cracksman.

“And I charge him with wilful murder!” exclaimed Jane Ryan.

Having said this, she folded her arms upon her breast and relapsed into gloomy silence. There she stood, colossal as an Amazon, in her sublime strength, beautiful as a Judith in her just and fearful vengeance.

A hurdle was brought by some of the villagers, and upon this the ill-fated Badger was placed; he was then carried into the farmhouse, not, however, before the constable had taken the precaution to handcuff him, for he was known to that astute officer as a ruffian of no common order. He was, however, run to earth, having been, in a manner of speaking, hunted down by a woman.

A doctor was sent for, who bandaged his wound, which, although severe, was not likely to prove mortal—​certainly not unless some unfavourable symptons set in.

While all this clatter had been going on, Charles Peace had contrived to conceal himself in a neighbouring coppice, from which he durst not emerge while the village folk were prowling about.

When Gregson was conveyed into the house the majority of the villagers wheeled off; at the same time Jarvis, however, was still endeavouring to trace out No. 2. the Badger’s companions. He came too near to the coppice where Peace was concealed to be at all pleasant to a gentleman of his retiring habits, so Peace was fain to avail himself of a neighbouring hedge, on the other side of which he crept along on all fours.

Having gone some considerable distance by this means of progressive, he imagined that he was out of sight, and betook himself to the open field, across which he ran at the top of his speed. His movements were however not unobserved by Jarvis.

The latter caught Mr. John Ashbrook by the leg. The farmer was mounted on his bay mare, and said: “There goes one of them; ride down the lane and intercept his flight, while I run across the field. We shall have him yet.”

The farmer needed no second bidding. He rode at the hedge which skirted the lane. With one stroke from the long corded whip, and one cry from the rider’s lips, the gallant animal bounded over the hedge like a flying deer.

“Wouldn’t ’a brushed a fly off the top twig,” exclaimed Ashbrook, triumphantly. “Now, for my gentleman. Dall it, if this won’t turn an eventful night, especially if I catch that rascal.”

While the farmer was riding down the lane, Jarvis and several others were in hot pursuit of the fugitive.

Peace became aware, much to his discomfiture, that every movement he made was plainly visible to his pursuers, and he deeply regretted having taken to the open field.

He ran his hardest, and had the satisfaction of getting into the lane before any of the pursuing party had even reached the field.

Ashbrook, as he was trotting down the lane, saw the fugitive jump through a gap in the hedge. The farmer urged on his steed, being now under the full impression that the capture of Peace was reduced to a certainty.

In a brief space of time he came within a hundred yards of the enemy.

“I’ve got him now!” exclaimed the farmer. “He’s mine as sure as my name’s Jack Ashbrook.”

But there’s an old adage “that it is as well not to reckon your chickens before they are hatched.”

Peace was in imminent danger, but he was an astute, cunning rascal, who was up to every feint and dodge in all cases of emergency. He, nevertheless, was fully impressed with the fact that matters were growing serious—​much too serious to be pleasant. He turned round and boldly faced the horseman.

Drawing a revolver from his pocket, he watched till Ashbrook came within range of the shot, then he fired. At this time he could not have been more than twenty paces from the horse and its rider.

A bullet was lodged in Mr. Ashbrook’s right shoulder. The wound was not a very serious one certainly—​not enough to place the farmer hors de combat, but the effects of the shot proved more disastrous in another way.

The mare, who was a high-spirited animal, became restive from the pistol’s flash. She reared, then stumbled, and threw her rider heavily to the ground. Peace rushed forward and struck Ashbrook two blows on the head, which produced insensibility.

He then made for the mare’s head. Turning her sharply round, he led her some paces from the scene of action. He patted her on the neck, and strove as best he could to overcome the effects of the fright caused by the flash of his weapon. The mare became comparatively quiet and tractable.

Peace jumped on her back, and rode off at headlong speed.

While all this had been taking place in the lane the mob of persons in the field had increased considerably in numbers; but the foremost of them were a long way from that part of the lane where the short but decisive struggle had taken place.

Two other horses had been brought out from the stables at Oakfield, but some time necessarily elapsed before they could be saddled; and when Mr. Cheadle and Mr. Jamblin mounted them for the purpose of giving chase, Peace was so far ahead that the chances were remote of finding him.

He knew the bye-roads of the neighbourhood perfectly well, and took very excellent care to choose a circuitous route. As he was riding along he listened every now and then to ascertain if there were any sounds of horses’ hoofs to be heard, but none were as yet audible. He felicitated himself upon this fact, arguing therefrom that his pursuers had gone another road.

“I shall give them the double; they are on the wrong scent,” he ejaculated, in a tone of satisfaction; “but even when the worst comes to the worst all that will be left for me will be to make a stout fight of it.”

He had unlimited faith in his own power, skill, and address in confronting and overcoming difficulties; and his confidence did not desert him on this occasion.

Presently he came to three cross roads, and was hesitating which to take—​calculating the while the chances of detection with his accustomed coolness.

While thus engaged he descried a mounted patrol on a formidable-looking horse, coming at a measured pace towards him.

To turn and fly was his first impulse, but upon second consideration he thought it better to put a bold face on the matter.

The mounted policeman came forward, and regarded him with a look of doubt and mistrust.

“Good morning, friend,” said Peace, in a cheery tone. “Better weather than it was a few hours ago.”

“Yes,” returned the other. “Where might you be journeying to this early hour?”

The speaker regarded him with a searching glance. This, however, did not in any way discompose Peace, who, throughout his career, plumed himself upon being able to throw dust in the eyes of the constabulary.

“Ah, I’m sorry to say my errand, or rather the cause of it, is one of a painful nature. A poor gentleman is at death’s door, and I have been sent off for the doctor. In cases of this sort minutes are precious. Let me see, yonder’s the nearest way to Hull, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the right-hand one. But who is in such extreme danger?”

“A farmer—​Mr. Ashbrook. Poor fellow, it is a chance if he recovers, so they seem to think.”

“I know both the Mr. Ashbrooks perfectly well. Which one is it that’s so bad; they were right enough yesterday?”

“Mr. John Ashbrook.”

“Umph! that’s strange. What’s the matter with Mr. John?”

“He was thrown—​horse reared and fell upon him. His injuries are very serious.”

“I’m sorry to hear this, but—” and here the speaker regarded Peace with a still more searching look, “it’s his horse you are riding.”

“Yes, that’s right enough; it is.”

“Then who are you going for?”

“Dr. Gardiner.”

While this conversation was taking place, Peace had so distorted his features that recognition was almost impossible. He was an adept at this. By constant practice he was enabled to throw out his under jaw, lift up his eyebrows, and so alter the expression of his features that he defied detection. This is now pretty generally acknowledged.

“Well, I must not let anyone detain me very long in a case like this,” he observed, carelessly. “So farewell for the present.”

The patrol made no reply. He did not, however, feel quite satisfied that all was quite right; at the same time he did not consider it his duty to offer any obstacle to Peace’s passage along the road, which led directly to the town of Hull.

Peace trotted along till the patrol was lost to sight, then he pulled the bridal rein of the mare, and turned her into a narrow lane which ran at right angles with the road.

“That fellow suspects something,” he murmured; “and for two pins he would have collared me there and then. The sooner I part company with the mare the better it will be for both of us, I’m thinking.”

He dismounted, opened a gate which was at the corner of a meadow, and led the mare into the field; then he took off the saddle and bridle, which he threw into a ditch, gave the animal a sharp crack with his whip, shut the gate, and left her to herself. This done, he proceeded merrily along on foot.

Messrs. Cheadle and Jamblin had meanwhile been riding to their hearts’ content, but they did not catch the most distant glance of the man of whom they were in search. No wonder, seeing that they had lost all traces of the fugitive, and had been journeying in an opposite, or very nearly in an opposite direction to the one taken by Peace. They had, therefore, the gratification of riding many miles upon a bootless errand.

They returned, vexed and dispirited, to Oakfield House, where they found John Ashbrook in bed, with his sister and the village surgeon in close attendance upon him.

The latter had extracted the bullet, and strapped up the head of the sufferer, who was, he said, doing as well as could be expected. Certainly there was no immediate danger.

The farmer had an unimpaired constitution, and, although sadly bruised and knocked about, would in all probability soon get the better of his wounds.

Peace, when he came to the end of the lane, turned into a road, where stood a small beerhouse, of a primitive character, with a good dry skittle-ground at the back.

He knocked several times at the side door of this establishment, but received no answer to his repeated summonses. It was evident that all were asleep within.

He called the landlord by name, with no better result. While thus engaged, a man came forward from the opposite side of the road, and said—

“Why, what’s up now, Charley? Want to get in?”

Peace turned round in some alarm, but was a little reassured upon finding the speaker was a friend of his.

“Hang it! I’m as tired as a dog, and wanted an hour or two’s rest,” said Peace.

“Tired! where have you been to?”

“Playing the fiddle to a party some miles away from here. They could not accommodate me with a shake-down, so I’ve had to trudge it.”

“Come along wi’ me, my lad,” said the good-natured groom. “You shall have an hour or two’s rest in my little crib over the stable.”

Peace gladly availed himself of his friend’s offer.

A hue and cry would be raised throughout the neighbourhood of the attempted burglary at Oakfield House and the surrounding districts, and Peace, young as he was at this time—​he had only just turned twenty—​was fully impressed with the necessity of using caution.

No one would dream of his being in the groom’s sleeping apartment. The latter informed him that he had to take the carriage up to London, and that he should not return from the metropolis for several days.

“But that aint of no kind o’ consequence,” said the groom. “You can sleep away to your heart’s content, only when you do leave mind and lock the door. You can give the key to the stable-boy.”

“I’m sure I do not know how to sufficiently thank you, Jim,” observed Peace in his blandest tone and manner.

There’s no call for thanks, lad. You’ve done me a good turn afore now, and one good turn deserves another.”

Peace was conducted by his companion into the small sleeping chamber.

“There you are,” said the latter, pointing to the bed. “In less than half an hour I shall be at the station; make yourself comfortable. We shan’t meet again for some days, that’s quite certain, and so good-bye for the present.”

“Good-bye, Jim, and many thanks.”

Then, as the man was about to pass out, Peace said, quietly—

“Oh, by the way, there is no occasion for you to say you have seen me, or, indeed, I’ve been here. It’s a little private matter I’ve been about. You understand.”

“A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse,” returned the other, with a chuckle. “No one will know anything from me, Charlie.”

After the departure of his friend, Peace was too disturbed in his mind to sleep. He watched from the little window of his dormitory the carriage and pair, driven towards the railway station by his friend, the groom.

When the vehicle was lost to sight, he walked towards the door, took the key out of the lock, and fastened the door on the inside. In a few minutes after this he stretched himself on the bed, and sank into a deep sleep—​the village clock had struck eleven before he awoke.

He now began to consider his course of action; he felt perfectly secure from observation in his present quarters. No one would for a moment imagine that he was safely ensconced in one of the apartments of the stables adjoining a gentleman’s house.

He thought it best to watch and wait; it would not do to be too precipitate; in the dusk of the evening he might creep out and get clear off.

He found in the groom’s bedroom some bread and cold meat, which served him for a meal, and he prepared himself to pass the lonely hours as best he could. The day wore on tediously enough, but the longest day must have an end. And when the grey mists of evening began to encircle the objects seen before so distinctly from the window, Charles Peace prepared to take his departure.

He disguised himself in so complete a manner as to almost defy detection. He made himself up as a hawker. He took the precaution to always carry a hawker’s licence, made out in a fictitious name; the licence itself, however, was genuine enough.

He heard, as he descended the creaking stairs, the boy whistling in the stable. Agreeably to the directions he had received, he handed the key to the lad, at the same time dropping a shilling in his hand.

The lad stared with astonishment, which was not unmixed with alarm.

A few words from Peace soon reassured him.

“But ye’ve been ’nation quiet all the day though,” said the lad, with a broad grin.

“People generally are quiet when they are asleep, my lad,” was the ready rejoinder.

“Ugh! ’spose so.”

Peace did not want to have further parley. His purpose was served, and he therefore proceeded on his journey.

The most celebrated cracksman of his day, Ned Gregson, alias the Bristol Badger, was certainly the least fortunate of the three ruffians who contrived to effect an entrance into Oakfield House. He was run to earth. After he had been carried on the hurdle into the farmhouse the village surgeon made a superficial examination of his wound, which was of a fearful nature; the whole of the charge from the gun fired by Jane Ryan had entered the burglar’s chest, and the loss of blood was enormous. The only wonder was, that Gregson had not been killed outright; but he was not the sort of man to be so easily disposed of. As far as physical strength was concerned he was a perfect giant; this he had proved on many occasions.

He was more than double the age of Peace, with three times his strength. Nevertheless, as far as the guilty and lawless lives of the two men were concerned, there was not much difference between them; they were both criminals of the worst type, their whole career being one of profligacy and crime.

Gregson was taken away to the lock-up in charge of the constabulary, who procured an ambulance from the hospital. The divisional surgeon was sent for; every care was taken of the prisoner; and all that skill and attention could do to preserve so valuable a life as the burglar’s was, as is usual in such cases, not wanting.

When sufficiently recovered Gregson was examined before the stipendiary magistrates. The facts deposed to were plain enough, and the prisoner was committed for trial upon two distinct charges—​namely, murder and burglary.

Mr. John Ashbrook had by this time sufficiently regained his strength to leave his room and look after his farming stock, but he was not as yet up to his usual form.

“This extraordinary charge of murder,” said the farmer to Jane, one afternoon, as he reclined upon the sofa in the front parlour, “it seems just like a romance. Strange that you should have recognised the ruffian by the pistol’s flash on that eventful night.”

“I should have known him out of ten thousand. His face was as familiar to me as if I had seen him but yesterday.”

“Tell us all about it, Jane.”

“Well, master, it’s a sad and sorrowful tale, which I have kept locked up in my own breast for ever so long, but it is but right you should know all about it.”

“Right lass, right you are; go on. What made you imagine that the house was likely to be attacked? You asked me to load the two other guns.”

“I did, because I felt assured that danger was at hand.”

“Why so?”

“I had a dream—​twice I dreamt the same thing—​and then I went over to Mother Crowther and consulted her. She can read the future—​being—​being a wise woman.”

“She is a wise woman indeed if she can do that,” remarked the farmer, with a smile; “what did she say?”

“She consulted a book, cast my nativity, and told me that in less than three days I should see here or hereabouts the murderer of James Hopgood.”

“And who might he be?”

“He is dead now; he was my sweetheart,” answered Jane, hanging down her head.

“Oh, your sweetheart—​eh?”

“Yes, before I came here I lived at Squire Gordon’s. A kinder master never lived. James Hopgood was a carpenter by trade; he had been doing some work for the squire—​building some outhouses, and while the work was going on he slept in the house.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Aye, it must be nearly six years.”

“You’ve been here over four.”

“That’s true. Indeed, it must be more than six years. I cannot say to a certainty; but they’ve got the date—​the pleece have.”

“No matter, that’s quite near enough—​six years or a little more. What happened then?”

“I will describe all to you, just as it occurred. James Hopgood was in the kitchen; he and Mary, my fellow-servant, were having supper together. I was in the back kitchen, when all of a sudden we heard a scuffle in the passage, and my master cried, ‘Murder!’ James rushed past me, and flew up the kitchen stairs. Then we heard a heavy fall in the passage; this was followed by some low moans. I went up to see what was the matter, and found my master stretched on the floor of the passage, with blood flowing from a wound in his left temple. I endeavoured to raise him, but was unable to do so. He was a stout, heavy man, and I had not strength enough to lift him.”

“Was he killed?”

“No—​oh, dear, no; he recovered afterwards. But the worst remains to be told. Oh, master, these be tears that are a flowin’ from my eyes. I can see it all now, as if it occurred but yesterday.”

“Yes, your master, the squire, you found him senseless. There’s no hurry, girl, take your time—​don’t flurry yourself.”

“While I was looking at my poor master, I caught sight of James Hopgood and the burglar—​him as I shot down in the big bedroom. James had closed with the ruffian, who, as far as I could judge, was striving to shake James off; but he was not able to do this so easily; they wrestled like two serpents. I felt sick and faint; but, notwithstanding, I had sufficient strength left to hasten to young Hopgood’s assistance. I saw the flash of an open knife in the pale moonlight, saw the gleaming of the desperate wretch’s eyes, and in another moment the knife was buried up to the hilt in James’s breast. He fell with a deep groan, and never stirred hand or foot afterwards.

“I rushed forward, and caught his murderer by the handkerchief which encircled his throat. After this I lost all consciousness. When I came to I found myself on the wet grass of the lawn—​the ruffian’s handkerchief was firmly grasped in my right hand.”

“Why, Jane, my girl, this is indeed a horrible story, and have you kept this all to yourself for these last six years?”

“Indeed I have; but, waking or sleeping, one burning thought has been in my brain. It is this—​to avenge the death of my dear and true-hearted James.”

The farmer was bewildered—​partly dazed by the fearful tale he had been listening to. He turned his eyes towards his sister, who had crept into the room to listen to the appalling narrative.

“Did you know of this?” inquired Ashbrook.

“I knew a shocking affair of some sort took place at Squire Gordon’s when Jane was there, but I never knew till now its precise nature. I understood that some young man was murdered—​that is all. How and by whom I was never told.”

“And was the man never discovered? An attempt was made to find him, I s’pose?” asked the farmer of his servant.

“Government offered a reward of a hundred pounds; a description of the man was printed on handbills, which were sent, so they said, to every police-station.”

“With what result?”

“With none, except the arrest of a poor harmless fellow, who never set foot in the squire’s house, and who had no more to do with the crime than you or I have.”

“And the handkerchief?”

“That I have kept. The knife also with which the murder was committed was picked up on the lawn; that, too, I have preserved. They are both now in the possession of the pleece. Ah! we shall bring it home to the deep-dyed villain. I felt certain that, sooner or later, he would be caught, the murderin’ thief.”

“What became of the squire?”

“He left England for good, and settled in Brittany. He has a daughter who is married there.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I believe so. I never heard of his death—​oh! I’m pretty sure he’s alive.”

“Do you think he could identify the man?”

“He told me after his recovery that he saw his features distinctly, and that he would be able to swear to him. It appeared that Gregson was making his escape from the house with the things he had stolen, when he was suddenly and unexpectedly confronted by the squire, who had come over the fields, crossed the lawn, and entered by the back door of his residence.”

“We’ve all of us had a narrow escape,” said Maud Ashbrook, “and it will be a warning to us for the future.”

“I’m glad Jane shot the fellow down,” observed the farmer. “She’s a true-hearted, brave girl—​not, mind ye, but it would ha’ bin better for him to have fallen by the hands of one of us men.”

“No, master, no,” cried Jane, in a deprecating tone. “I am the most deeply injured, sick and sore of heart—​I who have sworn to devote the remainder of my life to discover the slayer of James Hopgood—​I was the most fitting person to hunt him down. It has been done, and he will not escape now.”

Jane had given her evidence before the stipendiary magistrates in the clearest and most lucid manner. She swore positively to the prisoner Gregson, whose features she declared had not changed since she saw them so distinctly on that fatal night. Her fellow-servant also identified the prisoner, whom she saw, so she averred, through the back-parlour window at the time Jane had hold of him by the handkerchief.

He was also recognised by several of the police as a well-known burglar, who had been convicted several times.

Gregson, who was about as hardened a ruffian as it was possible to conceive, knew and felt that his game was up; nevertheless he clung to the hope, as most criminals do of his class, that he might escape the last dread sentence of the law—​perhaps his life might be spared.

He was taken to Broxwell Gaol; his custodians conducted him through the lodge, then he passed through a square with a green plot of grass in the middle, encircled by a gravel walk.

It was like a college quadrangle.

Gregson looked at the grass and the turnkeys who came out to meet him. He was conducted up a flight of stone steps, and one of the turnkeys who had joined him and the constabulary who had him under their charge tapped at a thick oak door, which was covered with iron nails and secured with a gigantic lock.

They were admitted immediately into a little room, which was almost entirely filled by a clerks’ desk and stool.

Upon this stool was seated an old man, with a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles on his nose, making entries in an account-book.

The turnkey who had opened the door to them now closed it with an ominous sound.

The key clanked loudly in the lock.

The Bristol Badger was in prison.

The turnkey unlocked another door and disappeared. In a few moments he returned, dismissed the constable, and ordered the prisoner to follow him.

They entered a snow-white corridor, which was lined with iron doors, and above with galleries, also of iron, bright and polished.

Gregson was placed in a cell, for some time in the company of a single turnkey, who stood by him, rigid and voiceless as a statue, watchful as a lynx.

The “cracksman” assumed an air of dejection, and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground.

He had only partially recovered from his wound. From this a vast number of shots had been extracted; but several more, it was thought, still remained in the flesh.

The burning pain in his chest had not entirely left him, although it was not nearly so insupportable as at first.

Presently the door of the cell opened, and a gentleman in plain clothes came in. He had a ruddy complexion, with a brown moustache and beard.

Gregson recognised him immediately. He was the governor.

The recognition was mutual.

“So,” he said, “you have come here again?”

“They’ve brought me here,” muttered the cracksman.

“Precisely. Of course you know the usual forms prescribed by the authorities. We must put you through the ordeal of a warm bath.

“Turn on the tap, Wilson,” said the governor; and in a few minutes the bath was filled with hot water.

They took off his handcuffs, and then stood by him as he undressed.

“Do you know, governor, that I’ve been wounded—​well-nigh to death? It’s too bad to put a cove in hot water in my state.”

“Wounded, eh? We’ll send for the doctor.”

The prison surgeon was brought into the room.

He glanced at the wound, which still presented an angry appearance.

“The bath won’t hurt you. There is no necessity for you to immerse your chest or shoulders in the water. In my opinion you will be better for it.”

“All right,” returned Gregson; “you shall have your way. I’m not one to make things disagreeable.”

And forthwith he jumped in.

The governor paced the corridor for the next ten minutes or so under pretence of superintending the arrangements of the prisoners’ dinners, which ascended from the kitchen on a great tray by means of mysterious machinery.

On his return he called another turnkey, and ordered him to have the prisoner’s clothes brushed and cleaned.

“You have got plenty of money,” he said to Gregson. “You are suffering from a severe wound. We don’t wish to deal harshly with you.”

“I’m much obliged, I’m sure,” returned the Badger.

The governor took no notice of this last observation, which, to say the truth, was half conciliatory and half sarcastic.

“We will therefore allow you to wear your own clothes, and to procure your own meals from an eating-house if you prefer it.”

“Yes, I do prefer it, if it makes no difference.”

“So be it, then. You will see by the printed copy of the rules which is hung up in every cell that you are not allowed more than one pint of wine or one quart of malt liquor daily, and that, if you undertake to board yourself, you must do so altogether. Besides this you will be allowed books to read and paper to write upon, and other little comforts, under my supervision, as I have no desire to treat you with unnecessary severity during the brief period that will elapse while you are awaiting your trial. I hope you will conduct yourself in a proper and becoming manner.”

The cracksman nodded, and seemed by his demeanour to appreciate the lenity which the governor displayed.

“You are very good, sir, I’m sure,” he muttered. “I wish all gentlemen in your position were equally kind and merciful.”

The governor bowed in a dignified manner, and then left the cell. The turnkey returned with Gregson’s clothes, and stood by him as he dressed. He was then conducted to Cell No. 15.

There they showed him how to ring the bell, how to pull the slide from the grating when he wanted fresh air, and how to manage the water taps and the bed furniture.

They also informed him that when he wanted anything from the town there was a prison servant attached to the establishment whose office it was to run errands for the prisoners who were waiting for trial.

The turnkeys made these explanations with a courteous accent, for turnkeys have a sort of veneration for great criminals.

And Ned Gregson, in this respect, was a man of mark.

The prison officials went out of the cell backwards, as if they were retiring from a royal presence; they locked the door with an ostentatious noise that they might thereby strike a wholesome awe into the mind of their prisoner.

Gregson sat himself down upon the wooden stool in his cell without moving.

The bitterness of his thoughts it would not be so easy to describe.

He remembered with harrowing distinctness the most remote incident of the night upon which the ill-fated James Hopgood fell beneath the fatal blow.

“And that cursed woman!” ejaculated the Badger. “Who would have dreamt of her being an inmate of the farmhouse? And the oily-tongued Peace, he has got clear off, I’ll dare be sworn; and the chances are that he is now playing that old fiddle of his—​whilst I—​I—”

Here he uttered an impious oath, and then lapsed into silence again.

He sat for two hours a prey to the most agonising thoughts.

At the expiration of that time he uttered curses loud and deep. He ran frantically round his narrow cell.

One of the turnkeys opened the door, and told him that he must make less noise. There was a punishment for making an outcry of that nature, and he pointed to one of the printed rules.

The “cracksman” answered with a howl of rage, and squatted abjectly on his stone floor.

The turnkey, who was pretty well used to scenes of this nature, and who, therefore, made due allowance, repeated his warning and shut the door.

Soon after this the prison servant brought a wooden tray in.

There were two dishes, each surrounded by a pewter cover. One contained three slices of roast mutton, floating in lukewarm gravy; the other contained four good-sized potatoes.

Gregson, who was still on the floor, looked at them supinely.

“Governor! thought you would like a little dinner,” said the man kindly; and he propped up a slab which was hanging from the wall, placed the tray on it, reached down a salt dish from a shelf in the corner, where it had grown dusty, in company with a bible and two hymn books.

“Will you take beer or wine?”

“I want wine,” said the Badger, sulkily.

“Very good, I will bring you a pint; it’s against the rules to have any more.”

He drank some of the eating-house sherry, which, bad as it was, encouraged him to eat a few mouthfuls. This awoke him from the stupor into which he had fallen, and which had been almost akin to madness.

Leaving the guilty man to his reflections, we will now return to the hero of our story.

Charles Peace, after he left the groom’s little bedroom, succeeded in getting clear out of the neighbourhood, without attracting any observation.

As he trudged along he reflected that it would be advisable not to return to Hull. The hue and cry raised in consequence of the events already described would reach Hull, and search would be made by the police in that town.

What had gone of Cooney Peace had not the remotest idea. Whether he had escaped or been captured it was not possible for him to say; neither did he concern himself much about the fate of the tinker. In cases of this sort he felt that self-preservation was the first law of nature.

As he was proceeding along he was overtaken by a covered cart. He persuaded the driver thereof to give him a lift on the road. By this means he managed to get many miles on his journey. Having made up his mind to take up his quarters at Bradford, he, on the first opportunity, took the train to that town. He was acquainted with a girl at Bradford, who was, to a certain extent, attached to him. She was a mill-hand. She was possessed of a considerable share of personal attractions.

It was evening when Peace arrived at Bradford, and in the streets were throngs of persons. The factory hands had knocked off work; some were hastening homewards, others were making for some favourite house of entertainment, and groups of inveterate gossips were to be seen in various parts of the town.

Peace walked jauntily along one of the main streets. Having threaded this, he turned round and retraced his steps. He seemed to be wandering about in a desultory way.

A group of girls emerged from a turning out of the street. Three peals of laughter proved that they were in a merry mood.

One of the girls came suddenly forward, and struck Peace in a familiar manner on the shoulder.

“What! Charlie?” she ejaculated, in a tone of surprise and delight. “Who would have thought of seeing you at Bradford?”

“Bessie dear,” said Peace, “don’t talk so loud; I’ve not been in the town half an hour, and——”

“What brought you here?”

“I came to see you, my charmer.”

The girl made a grimace—​she didn’t quite believe what he said, but, nevertheless, felt flattered.

Although one of the working class, she was very beautiful—​her features being delicately chiselled, and her form being cast in one of nature’s choicest moulds; for the rest she was giddy, thoughtless, and her morals were not of the highest order. Her name was Bessie Dalton.

“And your mother?” inquired the girl.

“I left her at Hull,” returned her companion.

The two walked on in close converse for some time. They passed through several streets, and eventually arrived at an unpretending-looking house, where Bessie lived.

They both entered, and Peace was introduced to the landlord, and took one of the furnished rooms, which were let out to work people. He had a tolerably fair share of money, which would suffice for his immediate wants; and in the course of a few days he succeeded in getting some odd jobs in picture framing. In the evening he contrived to pick up a few shillings by playing the violin at some of the houses of public entertainment.

He was a man who could make himself agreeable enough when it answered his purpose to do so. He was in no way deficient in conversational powers; was tolerably well informed upon most subjects, and generally ingratiated himself in the good graces of most persons with whom he came in contact.

To a certain extent the girl, Bessie Dalton, was proud of him. He was far ahead in many ways of the working population of Bradford, who, one and all, voted him a right good fellow.

For a short time he led a tolerably quiet life.

But it was not in his nature to earn a respectable living for long without having recourse to his evil courses.

He became straitened in circumstances, and once more he essayed to replenish his exchequer by his midnight excursions.

Since the disastrous affair at Oakfield House he had made up his mind to carry on business on his own account.

He would have no accomplices. None should know of his depredations save the girl Bessie, in whom he had implicit confidence.

And it is but justice to her to note that whatever may have been her faults she never betrayed Charles Peace.

He was for the first time made up as a one-arm man. He had for a long time contemplated disguising himself in this way, and the better to carry out his purpose had moulded a piece of gutta-percha, to which a hook was attached, his hand, when drawn up, fitting into the socket of the gutta-percha.

When this instrument—​if it can be so termed—​was on no person in the world would have guessed that he was anything else but a one-armed man.

Disguising himself after this fashion, and staining his face so as to represent a mulatto, he one night started upon one of his lawless expeditions.

He passed quickly out of the town of Bradford, and made direct for a small but handsomely-built house, just on the outskirts of Dudley-hill.

The house, which was built of stone, with bay windows and a handsome portico in front, was in the occupation of a wealthy gentleman, who was a retired mill-owner.

Shrewdly guessing that a pretty considerable amount of moveable property would be found within this habitation, Peace had determined to pay it a visit.

Upon his arrival in front of the house he opened the garden-gate with a skeleton key, closed it again, and began to mature his plan of operations.

There was a garden in the front and rear of the villa, which stood by itself on the brow of the hill. No other habitation was near it—​certainly none within a quarter of a mile.

Peace deftly climbed up to the balcony which stood in front of the first floor window. This balcony was half filled with evergreens, and these completely concealed him from any chance passenger—​not, indeed, that there was a single living person to be seen abroad save himself.

The windows were what is termed French ones; they opened in the centre, and swung back on hinges, like folding doors. He had not much difficulty in lifting the bottom bolt of these, the top one had not been pushed into its socket.

He now had to operate upon the shutters; these were fastened by an iron bar, which ran across them.

Stooping down so as to conceal himself behind the evergreens, he began to bore holes in the shutters with a small centre-bit. After working industriously, but at the same time as noiselessly as possible, for some little time, he succeeded in making an aperture in one of the shutters, sufficiently large for his hand to pass through. He then lifted up the bar, and pushed open the shutters.

In another moment he was in the first floor front room. He wore at this time women’s cloth boots, over which were goloshes, also women’s, so that his footsteps were as noiseless as a cat’s.

He carefully closed the shutters after he had effected an entrance. Then he began, by the aid of his dark lantern, to make an inspection of the apartment, which was sumptuously furnished. It contained plate and valuables, which must be worth a considerable amount.

Peace opened cupboards and drawers. In one of the last named he found a bag of gold and a roll of bank notes. An elegantly-wrought silver cup, presented to the mill-owner by his workpeople, shared the same fate as the other articles; and, taken altogether, the valuables abstracted from this one room was a rich booty for the most rapacious mercenary burglar.

Peace was, however, hungering for more. He passed out of the front room and gently opened the door of the back. All was still. He entered; when, to his infinite astonishment, he found it tenanted.

He stood transfixed with wonderment. On a couch, the head of which was near the window, was stretched a young female of such surpassing loveliness that even the callous heart of the burglar was touched.

The pale moonlight streamed through the lace curtains, and revealed a picture upon which the burglar gazed with fascinated eyes.

The young maiden was in a deep slumber, her head was thrown back, resting on one exquisitely-formed arm, a long tress of glossy brown hair fell over her partially-revealed bosom, and the moist, ruddy lips were parted, disclosing the pearly teeth.

The pose of the figure was perfect, and if there ever was a living personification of the “Sleeping Beauty” most assuredly the lovely maiden, who moved the senses of the burglar to wonder and delight, was that one.

Peace was spell-bound—​he had never beheld in his life anything so matchless, so surpassingly beautiful.

He stood speechless and immovable with admiration.

The power of volition seemed to have entirely forsaken him.

“How matchlessly beautiful she is!” murmured the burglar. “What a paragon of perfection; indeed—​indeed, I have never seen aught so fair!”

His eyes were rivetted on the couch upon which the young creature reclined.

The room was furnished with all the appliances which wealth could supply, or taste could suggest. Every piece of furniture in that elegant apartment was of the choicest and rarest manufacture. It seemed to the enhanced eyes of the robber to be the personification of a Paphian bower—​at once bewitching, poetic, and almost fabulous.

On the mantel-piece was a small clock of rare workmanship. This elegant timepiece was set with jewels, which sparkled and scintillated beneath the rays of his lantern.

Each picture that hung upon the walls was a perfect gem. The chairs were covered with brocaded silk, and the articles of virtu observable in almost every part of the bedchamber were too numerous to particularise. It will suffice to note that they served to make up an ensemble perfectly unique.

But all these things paled before the lustre and beauty of the sleeper.

Much has been said about the might and majesty of beauty, and no one will deny that a lovely woman is nature’s crown of triumph.

She is, beyond all else, the fairest thing in the creation.

Charles Peace was touched. He longed to clasp in his arms the fair maiden who was slumbering so tranquilly.

He had, whilst gazing on her, almost forgotten the purport of his visit to the mill-owner’s villa; but was in a measure reminded of the same when he looked at the various articles in the room.

Creeping forward he sought to gain possession of the gold watch on its stand by the toilette-table. He moved forward a step or two, but suddenly became motionless again, as the sleeper heaved a soft sigh and shifted slightly her position. She did not, however, awaken, but the motion revealed something more of her charms.

The heart of the burglar beat audibly.

He hesitated how to act. Grasping with his right hand the revolver he invariably carried with him, he watched the maiden with the eyes of a lynx.

Not that he meant doing her any harm. He hardly knew what he meant. For a time he was subdued, but the greed of gain returned to him, and he placed his hand upon the watch.

“No,” he murmured, after a pause, “I will take nothing of her’s—​nothing.”

“I am well repaid by looking at one so lovely.”

He withdrew his hand from the watch and retreated some two or three steps backwards towards the door of the room.

Then he became immovable again.

“This will never do,” he muttered. “If I go on like this I shall run the chance of being discovered; and how then? No, I must away at once, and yet, hang it, she is so very beautiful!”

He again rivetted his eyes on the form of the sleeper, upon which he once or twice cast the rays of his lantern.

“I’m a weak, silly fool to be overcome thus—​an idiot. Bah! there must be an end to it.”

He turned round and crept through the half-opened door. Down the stairs, with faltering steps, he then proceeded. He entered the front parlour, and then the back. He stripped them of as many valuables as he could conveniently carry, and then passed out of the house by the back door.

All this had been done without his disturbing any one.

Taking his way along the garden he passed out into the high road. Not a soul was to be seen. The night was clear and bright; and he walked on for a good half mile. Upon arriving at the end of a lane which ran out of the road he halted, looking the while to the right and left.

He saw the back of a policeman going down the lane, and prudence dictated that he should go in the opposite direction.

He walked on with rapid strides, and succeeded in reaching his lodgings at Bradford. Having let himself in with a latch-key, he made direct for his own little room without disturbing any one.

Peace had several orders on hand for picture-framing, and for the next two or three days after the burglary near Dudley-hill he worked industriously at his trade—​if we can bring ourselves to consider that to be his legitimate occupation.

He could turn his hand to a number of things—​picture-framing being one. This was supplemented by carpentry, wood-carving of every description, and, last not least, he was a violinist of no inconsiderable ability.

Had he chosen to conduct himself in a discreet and proper manner he might have made, if not a shining light, certainly a respectable member of society.

The booty he had obtained from the mill-owner he, of course, carefully concealed. He had already changed one of the notes in a quarter where there was not much fear of detection.

While working at his trade, in a shed at the bottom of the yard of the house in which he had taken up his quarters, he was surprised at seeing a stranger enter the yard in company of Bessie Dalton.

“A friend of mine,” said the latter, introducing her companion to Peace. “He is on a charitable expedition. A poor fellow was severely injured at Ludlow’s mill, and he has since died. His wife and two children are in the greatest distress. My friend is getting up a subscription for his widow.”

“Very creditable of you, I’m sure,” remarked Peace, turning towards the stranger. “I am but a working man myself, as you see, but I will willingly give my mite.”

“Thank you. It is hardly fair, perhaps, to ask you, as you are a comparative stranger to us. Still, at the same time, it has been well said that many can help one.”

Peace put his hand in his pocket, and gave the man five shillings.

“I can’t afford much, but what I can spare you are welcome to,” remarked the burglar. “Totally unprovided for—​are they?”

“Yes; I am sorry to say he was not in any benefit society, although he had put his name down in one, and would no doubt, have been elected at the next meeting.”

“All these things are sad, very sad. What does the widow purpose doing?”

“Well, I must tell you that the little sum subscribed, whatever it may be, will be applied to meet her immediate wants. After then we shall endeavour to raise a sum sufficient to set her up in business—​some little shop, perhaps. Her husband’s employers have promised their assistance, and Mr. Knight, the organist at the church, has promised his services at a benefit concert we thought of giving.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“The rector will also give us his patronage, besides several other influential gentlemen in the town.”

“And I’m sure, Charlie, you will have no objection to give your services,” added Bessie.

“In what way?”

“Well, of course, I mean in the way of music. You can play the violin, you know.”

“Would you have any objection?” said the stranger.

No. 3.

“Not the slightest. If my services are of any use you may command me; but there must be the arrangement as to programme and the style of music. Also whether you desire me to play a solo or otherwise.”

“I am not able to say at present; but this can be arranged by those who understand these matters better than I do. I aint much of a musician myself, although I am very fond of hearing music either vocal or instrumental.”

“Have you any vocalists?”

“We shall have some volunteers—​some of the choir will, of course, do some part-singing; besides there are several amateurs as well as one or two professionals, have agreed to come forward on this occasion. Oh, I dare say we shall have a tolerably good muster. Mr. Knight presides at the piano, and he has consented to play the accompaniments to the vocalists.”

“No easy task,” remarked Peace, “especially if he is not acquainted with the performers.”

“No—​so he says. Would you like to see him?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Knight.”

“It will be necessary for me to do so before the night of the concert. Otherwise we shall be all at sea.”

“I will mention the subject. You will find him, I’m sure, in every respect a gentleman, who, I dare say, will be happy to make the acquaintance of a brother artist.”

“I’m obliged to you for your good opinion,” said Peace, with a sort of bow, which was half obsequious and half satirical.

“In the cause of charity we are all of us brothers; and on what evening do you purpose giving this concert?”

“As soon as possible. It would be as well, I think, to strike the iron while it’s hot. It must certainly be within a fortnight—​or a week, if it can be arranged. Do you play sacred music—”

“I do not care to play anything else. If I consulted my own inclination I should confine myself to sacred music—​not, mind you, that I have done so at present.”

“Oh, he can play anything and everything,” chimed in Bessie Dalton. “Nigger melodies, dance music, comic songs, serious and sentimental.”

“There, that will do, Bess,” cried Peace.

“Well, you know you can. What’s the use of being bashful when you’ve got—​ahem, talent?”

“Be quiet, girl; leave people to judge for themselves.”

“Oh, I’ve done; sorry I spoke,” answered the girl, pouting.

“I will not detain you, Mr. Peace. Allow me to return you my most sincere thanks. I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again in a day or two.”

The speaker offered his hand to the burglar; there was the usual interchange of courtesies, and the stranger took his departure.

“You ought to make something out of this, Charlie,” said Bessie Dalton.

“How so?” returned Peace; “I am to give my services gratuitously.”

“True; but it will be the means of introducing you to a lot of swells and rich people, whom you can afterwards call upon and leave your card. You see I’ve an eye to business, old man.”

“Oh, yes, certainly, there’s some use in that. Some of them may want pictures framed.”

“Who are these for?” said the girl, pointing to some frames which had been just finished.

“For old Dawson, up the hill. There’s not much hanging to them, he’s as mean as Lucifer. Indeed, they are all pretty much alike as far as that goes. It’s a hard job to get a living by working for the trade.”

“You should have a shop of your own.”

“May be I shall after a bit—​that is, if I settle in Bradford.”

“You are not going to leave us again?” said the girl, putting her arms around his neck, and embracing him fondly; “what should I do without you, Charlie?”

“Do as others do,” returned Peace, with a smile.

“And what might that be?”

“Get hold of another chap—​that’s all.”

“Men never give girls credit for any feeling,” said Bessie, pouting.

“Yes, they are all of them selfish by nature.”

“Who?”

“Why, the men, of course.”

“You don’t mean what you say.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

“Only saying so to please you—​is that it?”

“I’ve no doubt it is.”

“Well, here’s something better than words, lass. Here’s a couple of quid for you, to buy a new dress, or anything else you may want.”

“Oh you dear, good fellow; and is this for me?”

“Certainly, seeing that I gave it of my own free will.”

The girl clapped her hands with delight, gave her companion a kiss, and pocketed the money.

The ill-fated weaver who had succumbed to the injuries received in the mill in which he worked was a man of steady habits, an excellent husband and father, and altogether a worthy member of society. He was, in consequence, greatly respected in the town. A committee of influential persons was formed for the purpose of carrying out successfully all the necessary arrangements for the forthcoming concert.

Peace, who was to a certain extent popular with a section of the operatives, was introduced to Mr. Knight, the musical director of the proposed entertainment. At the first interview a discussion took place as to the part he was to play on the eventful evening. He tried over several difficult pieces with the pianist, who professed himself well satisfied with the burglar’s ability.

“I see you have paid some attention to chamber or classic music, as well as sacred,” observed Mr. Knight.

“I commenced with sacred,” returned Peace, and always took great delight in both, but at the same time it doesn’t go down with the multitude so well as livelier strains, such as ballads, music-hall songs, and nigger melodies.”

“We are most of us aware of that,” observed the director and pianist, “and hence it is that we purpose dividing the entertainment into two or three parts. The first will be devoted to the better class of music, both sacred and secular; the next will be a mixed entertainment, consisting of varieties of various descriptions. You can, of course, appear in one or both parts. The first we shall have no difficulty in arranging. Your assistance will be required in several pieces which I may say are of exceptional beauty, and will require very careful rendering. We must have a few rehearsals before appearing in public. Can you find time to attend these?”

“I will make it my business to do so.”

“Good. And now, as to the second part, Mr. Peace?”

“I leave it to your better judgment, sir.”

“Nay, I think you are the best qualified to determine as to that,” returned his companion, courteously.

“If I might suggest, then,” said Peace, “I will come on as a nigger, give a sort of medley on the violin, and finish up by performing on one string only. I have been tolerably successful in this, and find it generally pleases the people.”

“I’ve no doubt it does. We’ve got a young gentleman—​a volunteer—​who is well up in nigger melodies. Would you like him to assist you in this part of the performance?”

“Yes, most certainly. He will black his face, I suppose?”

“Oh, most willingly; nothing would please him better. I will introduce you to him, and there will be but little difficulty, I think, about the matter. You can consult together.”

The preliminaries being satisfactorily settled, nothing remained but the rehearsals.

These Peace attended with unvarying punctuality, and the several performers got tolerably perfect before the night on which they were to appear.

A large building—​one of the parish schoolrooms, and which was frequently made use of as a lecture hall, was placed at the disposal of the managing committee.

Bills containing a programme of the performance were posted all over the town, and on these the name of Charles Peace figured as the “Modern Paganini,” who would, by special desire, perform on one string only, after the manner of his great predecessor.

Little did those who purchased tickets for the concert imagine that they were about to listen to the performance of one of the greatest and most notorious burglars of modern times.

Peace at this time was led or rather fell into good society; and he was too astute and cunning a rascal to show the cloven foot. He was discreet and very proper in his conduct, and indeed it may be said that he was highly popular in the select circle in which he moved.

Peace throughout his career was fond of notoriety—​this has been evidenced in the latter part of his sinful life—​and he looked forward with something like pleasure to the evening upon which he was to appear in conjunction with some worthy and honourable gentlemen who were acting in unison in the cause of charity.

The Bradford people, in common with those of Birmingham, Liverpool, Norwich, and other manufacturing towns, love music for music’s sake; this is evidenced by the enormous gatherings at the festivals held at these great centres.

The assertion made by people of other nations that the English are not a musical people is without a shadow of foundation—​this fact is well known to all who are conversant with the subject.

When the doors were opened at the schoolroom in which the entertainment was to take place crowds of persons rushed forward to obtain seats. The area was filled in an incredibly short space of time.

By the time the performance commenced the whole place was full from floor to roof.

Bessie Dalton, in company with Mrs. Bristow, the wife of an artisan residing in the parlours of the house in which Peace lived, had taken up her station at the entrance some half an hour or more before the public were admitted.

Bessie and Mrs. Bristow therefore contrived to get a tolerably good position in the fourth row of the area.

A young man, evidently moving in a superior class to themselves, had been of essential service to the two females in protecting them from the pressure of the crowd during their progress towards the entrance.

He took a seat beside them.

After waiting patiently for some considerable time the audience began to be restive.

Many began to hammer on the boards with their feet, while others clapped their hands.

“Hush! silence! order!” exclaimed several voices.

“What are they making a noise for?” inquired Bessie, of the gentleman by her side.

“Oh! it is time the performance commenced,” he answered, “and the people are getting impatient. They ought not to do so, seeing that the performers give their services gratuitously; and that, moreover, many of them are novices, and, perhaps, appear publicly this evening for the first time.”

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Bristow. “People are so inconsiderate—​so unreasonable.”

These were stereotyped phrases which the speaker was accustomed to make use of on every occasion.

The gentleman merely nodded his acquiescence to the proposition.

A burst of applause announced the appearance of a young man on the platform, who proceeded in a most deliberate manner to place the piano in a better position. When this had been done he placed some music on the instrument, and drew forth a small music-stand, which he furnished in a similar manner.

Having completed these arrangements he retired.

A titter was heard in the house as he left.

Nobody knew why or wherefore.

Mr. Knight now came forward.

He was well known to most of those present, and, as a natural consequence, he was loudly cheered.

He bowed, and then sat down to the piano.

He played a difficult piece by Mendelssohn in a masterly manner. It was too long to encore, so they contented themselves with applauding it.

The performer still retained his position at the instrument.

A group of choristers entered. These were composed of boys and adults.

They sang a selection from the “Messiah” in a way which appeared to give great satisfaction, some portions of it being encored.

Two other performers now made their appearance, the first being Charles Peace, the other a tall gentleman, whose name was not announced; he, however, bore in his hands a bass viol.

Two chairs were brought forward in close proximity with the piano, and on these the musicians sat.

After the usual formula of scraping and twanging the strings, one of Beethoven’s magnificent symphonies was attacked—​to use a newspaper phrase.

It was played with great feeling, being, in fact, a gem to those who could appreciate first-class music.

It was re-demanded.

“That was well played—​was it not, sir?” said Bessie, to the gentleman.

“Oh, dear, yes; highly creditable to all three of the performers—​exceedingly good!”

While this had been going on, Peace appeared to be a little disconcerted. Despite the encore, he arose from his seat, and was about to make a precipitate retreat; but Mr. Knight signified by a movement of his hand and head that the symphony was to be repeated. Notwithstanding this, Peace still hesitated.

At length he returned to his seat.

Many persons attributed his manner to timidity, and the tender-hearted gave him a vociferous round of applause by way of encouragement.

They were, however, quite mistaken in their surmise.

Timidity was not one of Peace’s characteristics.

There was another and more potent reason for his trepidation.

It was this.

In one of the side boxes sat an elderly gentleman and a young lady.

The features of the last-named were familiar to the violinist.

She was the beautiful and ravishing creature whom he had seen slumbering at the millionaire’s house on the night of the burglary.

She was within a few paces of him, being in one of the lower boxes, and she looked the very personification of female loveliness.

Peace was bewildered. He did play his part in the symphony, and he played it well, but it was a desperate struggle to get through it. Any other man placed in a similar position must certainly have broken down.

And as it was Peace was very nearly doing so.

He would have given anything he was possessed of to have been spared this trial, for most assuredly it was the greatest trial he had as yet experienced.

He had in a measure recovered his confidence when the symphony was given for the second time; nevertheless he kept casting furtive glances in the direction of the box in which the young lady was seated.

The performers bowed and retired.

“Three pieces have been successfully got through, and as yet there has been no apology,” said a young man behind Bessie and her companion.

“What do you mean?” observed another of the audience.

“Why, only this—​that in entertainments of this sort, where amateurs are to appear, there is generally some hitch, some mistake, and as a natural consequence an apology has to be made.”

“Oh, no doubt we shall have one before the evening is over.”

A young lady was now led on by the director. She had a piece of music in her hand, which shook and trembled like an aspen bough agitated by a passing breeze.

It was painfully evident that she was nervous, and those who have experienced that sensation upon facing an audience for the first time will, I am sure, pity her.

She was set down in the programme for Haydn’s canzonet, “My mother bids me bind my hair.”

Luckily for her the piece in question has a lovely introductory pianoforte prelude. This gave the singer time to recover her first shock at seeing the sea of heads before her.

There was no help for it—​she had to commence. The prelude was over, and in faltering accents she began to warble Haydn’s plaintive music. But her throat was dry and husky—​a thing by no means uncommon with nervous singers, and even the applause she received did not appear to lubricate it.

It was evident she had a magnificent organ—​I say organ advisedly, as it is a term invariably made use of by musical critics, and if they don’t know who should? Vulgar, commonplace people would perhaps call it a voice, but that’s no matter; organ is the “properer” term, as Artemus Ward would say.

The young lady, however, could not possibly display her full powers in consequence of timidity; yet she did contrive to get through the piece creditably. In the morning she had sung it in Mr. Knight’s room magnificently.

But despite her shortcomings the audience encored her.

She, however, bowed and retired.

There was a clamour for her return.

The director had to rise from his seat for the purpose of bringing her back, but she declined.

The clamour continued.

Mr. Knight apologised, and pleaded indisposition, a cold, and hence the young lady’s inability to repeat the canzonet.

The tumult was hushed.

Charles appeared—​he was accompanied this time by a harpist.

A trio for harp, piano, and violin. This proved to be a very taking piece; it seemed to give general satisfaction.

It was encored.

It was not, however, repeated, the performers substituting another in its stead. This was done to give a greater variety to the entertainment.

After another song and a harp solo, the first part was brought to a conclusion by the choir singing a magnificent chorus from one of the oratorios.

While all this had been going on, the young man or gentleman it might be, who sat beside Bessie, was unremitting in his attentions to her and her companion, Mrs. Bristow, who, albeit a married woman, was not much older than the girl.

In the second part of the performance Peace made a still greater impression on the audience, who applauded him to the very echo.

After two or three popular ballads had been sung, he and another young man came forward with their faces blacked, as a couple of nigger delineators. After some patter, in which some old jokes were given, Peace commenced a mild and meek-like prelude on the violin, his companion the while working vigorously on the concertina.

The sounds he produced from his instrument were so novel, not to say bewildering, that the house was convulsed with laughter. He imitated animals, the shriek of the railway whistle, the noise of a passing train, and a variety of other noises which were familiar to all persons present.

After which he threw aside all the strings of the instrument save one, and upon this he played, a la Paganini. Of course no one present had heard his great predecessor, and most persons took it for granted that the performance of the black gentleman before them was most wonderful. It was certainly received with greater favour than many admirably performed pieces in the earlier part of the evening.

When the two niggers left the stage there was a general clamour for their reappearance.

They returned and favoured the company by giving a few more specimens of their musical eccentricities.

The concert was universally acknowledged to be a great success. It was brought to a close by a well-known elocutionist delivering a parting address, which a local poet had written especially, as a conclusion to the evening’s entertainment.

The chairman of the committee then came forward, and thanked all present for their attendance.

After partaking of some of the wine and other refreshments provided for the performers by the managing committee, Peace prepared to take his departure; but he did not find it so easy to get away, there were so many persons present who sought to detain him.

In addition to his brother artists, who were by this time loquacious enough, he had to run the fire of many of the town’s folk, who were very profuse in their thanks for the diligence and attention he had displayed in furthering the ends of charity. Some who had partaken pretty freely of the champagne went further, and spoke in laudatory terms of his talent.

He was, of course, greatly flattered by these encomiums, as many better men have been under similar circumstances both before and since; but he was uneasy, and was desirous of beating a retreat.

There was good reason for this. The young lady whose acquaintance he made for the first time at Dudley Hill was among the throng of persons in the little room, which had been placed at the disposal of the artists.

There was something so heavenly and bewitching in the expression of the face of this fair young creature that Peace felt abashed and crest-fallen in her presence. He found it impossible to meet the glance of her dark, lustrous eyes without quailing. Conscious of his own weakness in this respect, he was fearful lest it might be observed by others.

He therefore, upon the first opportunity that presented itself, passed out of the room unobserved, and crept along the passage towards the side door, by means of which he gained the street.

Then he breathed again more freely.

He saw Bessie Dalton and Mrs. Bristow some distance ahead, in company with a gentleman, and walked on quickly, that he might overtake them; but his progress was checked by a shabby, dilapidated-looking man addressing him—

“Be your name Peace, sir?” inquired that personage.

“Maybe it is, and maybe it is not. What matters it to you?”

“I’ve got a letter.”

“Indeed. Who from?”

“I don’t know the party’s name, but he said I was to give it to you.”

Peace snatched a dirty piece of paper from the speaker’s hand, opened it, and read the following words, which were written in a miserable scrawl—

“Dear Charlie,—​‘Cheeks’ (a flash name for an accomplice) is nabbed—​want to see you—​am at the ‘Bag o’ Nails’—​hard by—​bearer will show you where it is—​don’t delay. Yours, Cooney.”

“Here in this town,” muttered Peace to himself. “How can he have possibly guessed? Why, of course, my name in the bills. Curse it, I must have been mad to play in my own name.”

“Any answer, sir?” said the man, touching his forehead.

“Answer. Well, yes, I s’pose so. He wants to see me. Where’s this house, the ‘Bag o’ Nails?’”

“Not a quarter of a mile from here.”

“Very good, then I’ll go at once with you.”

Peace and his dilapidated companion walked on in silence for some time; they threaded three of the dingiest and most miserable streets in the town. The locality was in consonance with the character of the tinker.

“Do you know the person who gave you that letter?” said Peace.

“I’ve seen him once or twice before, I think. Don’t know much on him. Guv’nor does, I believe.”

“Umph. Has he been long in the town?”

“Came yesterday, I b’lieve.”

They now arrived in front of a dirty-looking beershop, which was the house they were bound for. The man, who was potman to the establishment, led the way in. He passed the bar, and pointed to a room in the rear of the premises.

Peace entered. A solitary person was in the apartment. This was Cooney.

“Well,” said Peace, offering his hand, “we meet again once more. How goes it with you?”

“Precious bad—​jolly bad; haven’t got a stiver. Am bust up—​that’s how I am.”

Peace took hold of one of the ricketty wooden chairs, which he drew towards the fire, and sat down beside his quondam pal.

“You managed to give ’em the slip, then?” said Cooney, with a chuckle. “But the old un’s grabbed.”

“So I’ve heard. It was a bad night’s work altogether.”

“Aye, that it was.”

“How did you manage to get away?”

“I gave ’em the double,” returned the tinker, with a grin. “I’ll tell yer all about it another time, if so be ye’re interested in a miserable bloke like me, which aint at all likely, seeing as how yer a-keeping company with the hupper classes.”

There was a tone of irony in the man’s manner which jarred upon the feelings of Peace, who, however, thought it best to take no notice of it.

“We’d better have something to drink first, and then I can hear what you have to say,” remarked Peace, as he touched the bell.

Glasses of grog were ordered and promptly served. Peace paid for the liquor, and gave the potman a shilling as a gratuity.

“Here’s to our noble selves,” said the tinker, raising his glass to his lips. “Ah, that does a cove a world o’ good!”

“Well, now, then, we’ll proceed to business,” observed Peace. “You’re hard up.”

“I’m done up—​bust up, and ha’ been pretty nigh starving. That’s how I am, and seeing as how I aint got bite nor sup—​same what we’ve jest now had in—​I’ve made so bold as to lay my case afore one who won’t send me away empty-handed—​leastways not if he ’ave the means to hold a ’elping ’and to a pal vot’s in distress.”

“I’m in no very good position myself, but whatever I can spare you are welcome to.”

“Blessed if I didn’t say so. I know’d it—​vot yer can do you vill do.”

“Yes, here’s a quid for your immediate wants. It’s all I can spare now, for I must tell you I’ve cut the old game—​don’t intend to have any more of it.”

“Oh, goin’ to do the respectable, eh?” said Cooney, with a very low whistle. “That’s yer game, is it?”

“Yes, I am at work now at my old business, and to that I intend to stick. No more night work for me—​it’s a deal too risky.”

“Vell, perhaps you are right. But I say, old boy, can you spare another quid?”

“Yes, provided you leave the town and don’t bother me any more.”

“Oh, ye’ve no call to be afeard. I aint a-goin’ to stay in this here place—​not if I know it.”

“Good—​then here’s the other.”

“Thanks—​you’re a good fellow Charlie, arter all, but I ’spose yer’ll be glad to get shut o’ me—​eh? Here the speaker winked his eye.

“Well, you see we are on a different lay now.”

“Right yer are, old man. Vell, there, I aint a-goin’ to bother yer; so make yer mind easy on that score, but the old un, Charlie, it’s duced hard lines wi’ him.”

“Ah, he’s charged with murder—​is he not?”

“Sartin shure he is.”

“How came that about?”

“I’ll tell yer. Yer see, the Badger, some years ago, cracked a crib in the country, and, as ill luck would ha’ it, jest as he vos a-making off with the swag who should cross his path but the blessed old fool hisself. He’d up an’ give him one for hisself. A young man as vos a-keeping company vith the servant rushes forward and ketches ’old o’ Gregson. Vell, there the two vere struggling like anythink on the grass plat, and Gregson couldn’t get away not no how, although he tried his utmost.”

“Couldn’t get away?”

“No, I’m blessed if he could—​leastways, that’s what I’ve heerd. Vell, vot does the Badger do but he whips out his knife, and stabs t’other chap to the heart? Then the gal comes at him, and clutches hold of his throat. He managed to shake her off, but you see he left a something behind—​the handkercher he wore round his neck and the knife.”

“What has that to do with the affair at Oakfield House?”

“Ah! it’s a deal to do wi’ it—​it has. You shall hear. The last part on it is like a play—​better nor any play, that’s what it is. Yer see, as I said afore, the Badger gets clean away, a reward is offered by Guv’nment, likewise a reward by the old bloke—​him as was robbed and knocked down in the passage. The bobbies set to work, the whole biling on ’em, but they never got the blind side of the old un. Vell, this is six year ago—​aye, more than six year it is now, and a durin’ them six years the gal has had but one thought—​this was to ketch the murderer of her love, and she’s a done it, Charlie—​there aint no mistake about that ’ere—​she done it. The Badger, like a fool, fired a pistol at random when he were in that bedroom. The gal sees his face by the pistol’s flash, and she shoots him down—​that’s what she does.”

“Of course we know he was shot, but I did not know who by.”

“By the gal, I tell yer. She’s been afore the magistrates, and has sworn to him like anythink, and she means to hang him—​leastways, it won’t be any fault of her’s if he doesn’t swing. Ah! it’s all up with the Badger,” said Cooney, with a sigh, at the same time draining off the liquor left in his glass.

“It’s a bad bisness—​a precious bad bisness, there aint no manner o’ doubt on’t.”

“It is, indeed,” returned Peace; “but it is a lesson to both of us—​a lesson I hope you will profit by.”

“Oh, there aint no call for you to preach, or to try and make me better nor I am. But I am sorry for the old un—​he was always square enough with me—​always.”

“I tell you, Cooney, sadly and seriously, that if you don’t intend to profit by the warning already given to both of us, I shall; and I advise you to follow my example.”

“Oh, I’ll profit by it one way or t’other; I sed as how it ed come to this sooner or later, he was so rash, so headstrong. Didn’t I always say that I liked to do business in a quiet sort o’ way? Answer me that.”

“I admit you did,” said Peace in a conciliatory tone of voice. “But now we must part—​I durst not stay any longer,” he added rising from his seat.

“Are yer agoin’?”

“Yes, you don’t want anything more of me.”

“No, not a morsel. I’m thankful enough for what yer have given me—​but I say, Charlie, you’re a knockin’ up a tidy business in the town, aint yer?”

“Oh no; but very middling at present. What are your movements?”

“I leave to-morrow morning—​and so good-bye and good luck to yer.”

The two companions in crime shook hands and parted.

Peace when he reached the street, walked on as fast as possible. He was greatly relieved when he lost sight of the beershop in which this interview had taken place.

Peace greatly regretted having had anything to do with the Badger or his jackall, Cooney. This association with others of an equally lawless character had doubtless a marked influence on his late career. He had got into trouble more than once through evil and lawless companions; hence it was that he afterwards went alone upon his predatory and nocturnal visits; and these, as it afterwards transpired, were singularly successful and lucrative.

While Peace was in comparative security, and enjoying immunity for his past crimes, the hours were rolling away sadly enough with Mr. Edward Gregson, alias the Bristol Badger, alias the Old Un. He was caught in a net from which he was not likely to escape. He was deeply impressed with this fact.

The day appointed for his trial was close at hand, the nearer it approached the more anxious, nervous, and fidgety, he became. He was anxious to obtain the services of some leading barrister to conduct his defence, but he had not funds sufficient for that purpose.

His sister, who was married to a drunken, worthless fellow, was the only person who stood by him in the hour of his extreme need. She went, at his request, from one to another of the burglar’s quondam associates, for the purpose of raising a sum sufficient for the defence.

At Gregson’s direction she waited upon Peace, who was not a little disconcerted when she presented herself at his lodging in Bradford. He, however, did more than many of the others did—​he gave her a few pounds.

He also spoke words of kindness to her, and expressed a hope that the verdict would be more favourable than anticipated.

And now let us return to Gregson, who had been confined in one of the model cells of Broxwill.

The little money he had with him at the time of his capture, he had spent entirely upon sumptuous dinners.

Gorging himself, like a boa constrictor, he would fling his enormous frame upon the hammock-like bed, which oscillated beneath his weight, and slept from dinner time to dinner time.

Thus did the earlier portion of his imprisonment pass pleasantly enough.

It is true that he sometimes complained of the regulation respecting the quart of malt liquor, but upon the whole behaved himself very quietly.

In fact, as he was almost invariably asleep, it could hardly have been otherwise.

But, alas! one dreadful morning he was informed that his money was all gone, and that he must, for the future, content himself with the prison diet.

He knew from experience what that was.

A mug of gruel and a piece of bread was brought him for his breakfast. He surveyed it with contempt, and emptied it away into the slops.

He did not care about breakfast or tea. He liked being fed once a day, like the lions in a menagerie, or the bull terriers in the mews.

His anxiety was great to see what his hot dinner was. It happened to be a soup day; and his disgust on finding that he was to dine off a little thin broth and a piece of bread defies description.

He entreated the warder, in the sweetest tones his rough voice could command, to bring him something better than that.

The warder only laughed at him.

From entreaties he passed to threats, and from threats to a savage blow with his fist, which would have annihilated the jocund official had he not parried it with the iron door, which rang beneath the shock, and covered the brawny hand with blood.

He howled with pain, and stretched himself on his bed in sulky silence.

After this he became a little more tractable; contenting himself with grumbling at everything that was brought him.

His sister paid him a visit. She informed him that she had obtained some money towards paying counsel for his defence.

Upon hearing this he seemed greatly pleased; despite his recklessness and bravado, he had become sad and serious as the time for the opening of the assizes approached.

He still clung to hope, even as a drowning man might cling to a spar.

At length the day arrived on which the trial had been appointed to take place. The facts connected with the charge of murder were simple enough.

Jane Ryan, who had become by this time a sort of heroine, was the chief witness; but there were others who were to be called as witnesses for the Crown, who to a great extent could corroborate her evidence.

Jane, when placed in the box, was calm and self-possessed.

She swore most positively to the prisoner as being the man who stabbed James Hopgood. She averred that she had a distinct and vivid recollection of every minute circumstance attendant upon the crime committed on that fatal night.

The counsel for the defence by a series of cross questions and inuendoes, strove to throw a doubt upon her testimony.

But Jane never wavered for a moment. Her answers were clear and concise. Every word she uttered bore the impress of truth.

Her cross-examination was continued for so long a time that it became wearisome.

There was, of course, the usual wrangling between the advocates as to what was admissible as evidence.

Objections were taken to some of the questions put to the witnesses, and an appeal was made to the judge, who overruled certain objections, and admitted others.

Jane’s former master and her fellow-servant were the next. They both swore positively to the prisoner as the same person who stabbed the young carpenter.

Eight other witnesses were examined, amongst whom were the two Messrs. Ashbrook and the policemen.

The weight of evidence was clearly against the prisoner, and after retiring for a short time the jury returned a “Verdict of Guilty,” upon the charge of wilful murder.

The judge passed sentence of death upon the prisoner in the usual form, and Gregson, who did not display the slightest emotion, was taken back to Broxwill gaol.

Jane Ryan, who had borne up with wonderful firmness and fortitude throughout the trial, now gave way. When the sentence was passed she swooned, and was carried out of court in a state of insensibility.

“Poor gal,” said Richard Ashbrook; “we none of us know what it has cost her to get through this day’s business. Poor lass! it’s the recollection of her sweetheart that’s done this. It can’t be any sympathy she feels for that miscreant.”

“Ah! no—​for it aint that as does it,” said a female attendant. “The poor dear soul has nerved herself up to go through a trying part, and she’s broken down now it’s over. It’s a chance if she ever overgets this day’s business.”

“She’s none of your weak sort of bodies,” observed the farmer. “Jane’ got a brave heart.”

“May be she has, sir; but the bravest of us are a little overcome at times,” returned the woman.

With care and attention Jane Ryan was soon sufficiently restored to be taken by the good-hearted farmer and his relatives to Oakfield House. She was with good kind friends, who strove in every possible way to restore her to her wonted health and spirits.

But a canker worm was at her heart. And those about her acknowledged to themselves that she was no longer the same Jane whom they had known in an earlier day.

*   *   *   *   *

There were but a few grains of sand remaining in Time’s hour-glass for the hardened criminal, Gregson. The morning of his execution was at hand.

Let us visit the street before Broxwill gaol before the fatal day.

It was Sunday night, at eleven o’clock; the public-houses had closed and forced the people into the air, which was rain—​into the street which was mud.

A vast crowd was already collected before the gaol, and were watching the ominous preparations for to-morrow.

The new act for carrying out the last dread penalty of the law within the precincts of the gaol had not as yet passed, and the public were permitted to see the last throes of the doomed. Now, even the representatives of the press are denied that privilege.

There were lanterns placed at intervals of several yards down the whole length of the street. Dark shadows might be seen flitting round these lights.

The harsh sound of iron striking stone rose in the air.

They were digging holes in the ground with picks and iron crowbars.

At the end of the street, at the farther extremity of the prison, there was a yard surrounded with iron spikes.

The door of this yard was open, lights trembled in its mysterious depths.

A group of men and women stood near it; a policeman was stationed at each side of the door.

Occasionally men carrying large iron bars and wooden posts passed out. These, planted in the ground, were formed into a barrier that the mob might be kept at a certain distance from the scene of execution.

Gradually the group in front of the yard increased into a crowd.

As at every quarter of an hour the church bell gave forth its solemn notes they clung closer together, and peered over each other’s shoulders into that black space from which indefinite sounds were raised and which was guarded so vigilantly by its two sentinels.

They heard the noise of wheels and cried joyfully—

“It’s coming! it’s coming!”

But they became silent as, drawn by three horses, a strange vehicle passed them.

It was a large square cart of enormous size, upon four low, broad wheels. It was painted black.

It passed slowly up the street, and halted before a small door which opened from the prison into the street.

From the interior of the prison sprang three men in their short sleeves. They dragged with them a huge pole, and erected it towards heaven.

A low murmur ran through the crowd. This was a portion of the gallows.

How strange and absorbing is the interest of every class in all that pertains to death!

Many of those assembled round Broxwill Gaol, remained there all night. These were, of course, the “roughs.”

But it must not be for a moment supposed that the interest was confined to them.

Numbers of persons belonging to the middle and upper classes had engaged seats at windows of those houses commanding a good view of the scaffold.

As the night wore on the throng of persons diminished in numbers. There were, however, many around the apparatus of death when the first few streaks of dawn were visible in the horizon.

In an hour or so after this people debouched from all quarters of the town, hurrying on towards the fatal spot.

As the minutes flew by the multitude increased.

The salesmen of hot potatoes, coffee, pies, and other delicacies, were threading their way through the crowd.

Some loud-voiced fellows began to cry out the last dying speech and confession of the notorious murderer, Gregson, better known as the Bristol Badger. They recited some doggrel lines as they took their way along, which persons of a powerful imagination might suppose to be the production of the wretched man who was about to die.

The windows of the houses commanding a view of the ghastly scene now began to fill with people.

In them too, many of the fair sex were to be seen. The crowd before the scaffold became denser—​people, as is usual on occasions of this description, push and elbow each other. An English crowd is bound to do this.

“Where ye’re shovin’ to?” said a tall youth to a brawny looking man, who to all appearance was a navigator. “Jest keep yer elbows to yerself.”

“It aint my fault, yer fool,” said the navigator. “It’s the people behind who’s a pushing.”

“Well, then, you’re strong enough, and can keep ’em back if you like.”

“Don’t you be so cheeky, young fellow,” returned the other; “you aint everybody.”

“Give him a dab in the eye,” said a voice behind.

“I shan’t be at all particular about that if he gives me any more of his cheek.”

“Hush! Order!” ejaculated another of the crowd. “This aint a time to be a-quarrelin’.”

“Right you air, old man,” said another.

“Pies, all hot—​all hot,” shouted out an itinerant vendor of those delicacies. “Here’s some of the right sort, all hot.”

Several persons became purchasers. The morning air had given them an appetite, and they devoured the pies with evident relish.

A man in a black suit, with a white necktie and a low crowned hat, proceeded to distribute tracts to the gaping throng.

In a few moments he got unmercifully chaffed, but heedless of this he proceeded on his mission.

The hours passed on. It was nearly eight o’clock.

A man in a sable suit, bent form, and a feeble step, made for the door of one of the houses opposite to the gaol. He wore green spectacles, and to all appearance was a cripple, with a false arm. He passed through the doorway, and in a few moments after this had taken up his position at one of the front windows of the second floor of the house he had entered.

He seemed to be a broken, afflicted creature, who was past the meridian of life. His form was bent with premature age or disease—​it was not possible to say which.

This person, who was disguised so completely that his own mother would not have known him, was our hero, Charles Peace.

He had come to see the last of Ned Gregson.

His make-up suggested a Dissenting minister. He seated himself by the side of a tall, thin, serious-looking person, of quiet manners and gentlemanly appearance.

The prison bell began to toll.

Then, as if by presentiment, the crowd became more orderly, the men ceased their jests, and the vendors their cries.

“It is nearly time for the carrying out the final act of the law upon the poor condemned wretch,” said the tall gentleman to Peace. “What must be his feelings now?”

“Ah, sir! the thought is terrible. It is painful to dwell upon. What, indeed, must be his feelings?”

Here he heaved a profound sigh.

“I have never attended an execution,” remarked the other; “and now my heart begins to fail me. I wish I had kept away. And you——”

“I, like yourself, have never witnessed a scene of this nature, but, having come, I shall endeavour to fortify myself as I best can.”

“I am not an advocate for the abolition of the punishment of death,” remarked Peace’s tall companion. “I frankly own that I do not believe it can with safety be done away with.”

“Most assuredly not,” returned Peace, in the mildest tone of voice. “In the interests of society it is requisite that the guilty should not escape punishment. The murderer is unworthy of sympathy from his fellow-man.”

“I am quite of your opinion—​indeed, I may say that you express my sentiments to the very letter.”

Peace bowed, and his face wore a complacent expression, which was altogether at variance with its ordinary appearance.

His companion was evidently quite taken up with him.

“The man who is about to suffer has been convicted upon the clearest evidence of a most dastardly and cold-blooded murder. The circumstances which led to his discovery are a little singular; and, indeed, I might say romantic.”

“So a neighbour of mine was saying,” observed Peace. “I am not acquainted with all the particulars.”

His companion gave a succinct but graphic account of all those facts with which the reader is already acquainted.

“How very singular!—​how remarkable!” exclaimed Peace, adjusting his spectacles when his companion had ceased.

A short thick-set man, with dark piercing eyes, a close-cut grey beard, now appeared on the scaffold, at which he took a hasty glance.

This figure presented a weird-like appearance.

“There he is!” said several voices.

“Who is that?” said Peace.

“Calcraft, the hangman,” answered his companion.

“Oh, indeed. What has he come for?”

“To see that the arrangements are made in a satisfactory manner. He has made one or two mistakes lately, and I think the old man is getting a little narvess.”

No. 4.

It was quite true that Calcraft had had one or two mishaps; but these, it is said, were attributable to circumstances for which he was in no way responsible. He certainly fulfilled the duties of public executioner creditably for nearly fifty years, during which period he made use of what is known as the “short drop.”

His successor, Marwood, advocates and makes use of the “long drop,” and many have affirmed that his mode for putting criminals to death is the most merciful of the two; but when doctors (I mean hangmen) differ, who shall decide?

Calcraft has now retired. He is seventy-nine years of age, and was, when I last saw him, in tolerably good-health for a man of his years.

The name of the gibbet’s victims have been legion; for until a very recent period our penal code was most severe. We have hanged not only the murderer, the ravisher, and the incendiary—​not only the burglar, the highwayman, and the forger, but the sheep-stealer, the petty thief who purloined a roll of cloth or a loaf of bread from a shop-counter. If any nation ought to know how to hang, it should assuredly be the English.

Decapitation has been a mode of death reserved for aristocratic culprits, although in the “Halifax gibbet” and the Scottish “Maiden” some faint resemblance to the guillotine may be traced. But we have always obstinately refused to employ the machine, adapted from the mediæval types by the benevolent French physician, and have stuck manfully to the gallows.

Formerly the convict doomed to the “triple tree” used to be flung off a ladder. Then we grew more humane, and made him stand with a noose round his neck in a cart, which was drawn from under him at a given signal.

Ultimately, in the middle of the last century, being under the necessity of hanging a lord—​the noble convict was Laurence Earl Ferrers, who had murdered his steward—​the scaffold, with a trap-door secured by a bolt, and flapping down from under the criminal’s feet, was devised for the express accommodation of the murderous peer.

This was in the reign of George II.; and we have not advanced one step since then in the way of hanging.

The “new drop” is more than a hundred years old, but nothing has been done to render the grim agency more efficacious.

When the bolt is drawn and the drop falls, Marwood asserts, according to his arrangement, that the neck of the criminal is at once broken, and that death is instantaneous. This is his theory; but in practice, we believe that in nine cases out of ten the wretched culprit dies from suffocation.

A murderer, it may be urged, deserves no better fate.

He has shown no mercy to others, and has no right to expect that mercy should be shown to him.

We adhere to the notion that hanging is the shortest and swiftest mode of killing; and Marwood has declared that if he were condemned to death, and had to choose the mode of execution, he would certainly prefer hanging to any other.

Peace remained silent and thoughtful when Calcraft appeared on the scaffold. The latter, after a glance round, returned to the gaol.

Shortly after this the prison door opened slowly. One of the gaolers stood in the portal.

There was now a cry of “hats off” and a thousand heads were bared, a thousand faces upturned.

One would have believed it was a performance at the theatre they were witnessing.

Gregson appeared, bound and pinioned. This was the signal for groans and hisses, which were, however, supressed by the more discreet and better-behaved portion of the throng.

Behind Gregson was the chaplain, with an open Prayer-book in his hand, the sheriffs in their robes, the officers of the gaol, the myrmidons of the gallows.

A regiment of policemen encircled the scaffold with their truncheons drawn.

A trembling ran through the crowd, which resembled the waves of the sea beneath the first blast of the north wind.

This was followed by a murmur like that of the waves when the wind lashes them into wrath.

The crowd became hushed and silent.

The chaplain began to read the service of the dead.

The Badger looked sullenly upon the ground, presently he raised his head and examined the faces beneath him as if there was some one whom he wished to find.

He withdrew his eyes almost reluctantly, and turned them upon the officers behind him.

At this sign the clergyman moved on one side, and Calcraft approached.

All was hushed into silence, deep and terrible as that of the tomb.

Gregson had already made one step towards his death—​he now placed himself on the drop.

Calcraft adjusted the noose around the miserable man’s neck, then passed a strap round his feet and secured it with horrible deliberation.

He drew a white cap over his eyes and mouth—​then he disappeared beneath the gallows.

For an instant Gregson stood motionless upon his open tomb.

The eyes of Charles Peace were rivetted on the form of his quondam companion.

The bolt was withdrawn from below; there was a frightful crash; a black chasm opened beneath the feet of the culprit, whose body swung round and vibrated in the air.

Then commenced those struggles, which, we are informed, are merely muscular and involuntary, but which nevertheless are sickening to behold.

Charles Peace was in no way moved by the appalling spectacle, albeit he affected to be overcome, and buried his face in his hands.

His newly-made acquaintance, however, was visibly affected. The expression of his countenance was indicative of the most profound sorrow.

In a few minutes the crowd before the scaffold recovered from the shock.

A motionless figure dangled from the rope. It was evident enough to all the spectators that life had fled.

Gregson had paid the penalty of his crimes.

The crowd swayed to and fro; several groups of persons took their departure in various directions.

During the whole of the melancholy proceedings the pickpockets were industriously plying their vocation.

More than one of the light-fingered gentry had been given into the custody of the police.

This was a common thing at the time of public executions.

Full two-thirds of the multitude had in the space of a quarter of an hour bent their way homewards.

Many, however, still remained to witness Calcraft’s re-appearance on the scaffold for the purpose of cutting the rope from which the body of the murderer was suspended.

Those that remained were, of course, the roughest and least sensitive of the throng.

Their thirst for the horrible appeared to be insatiable.

The unprincipled scoundrel, Gregson, who, as a just penalty for his manifold crimes, suffered death on the public scaffold, was a ruffian of the very worst type. Educated to crime from his earliest youth, his conscience, which had never been tender, became, as years passed over his felon head, “seared as with a hot iron.”

If we were to take a retrospective glance at his career from the day that he first enlisted in the “Devil’s Regiment of the Line” until the last dread sentence of the law was carried out, we should find abundance of evidence to prove that the way of the transgessor was hard. As we have before signified, “A life of crime is always a life of care.”

Gregson found to his cost, despite his callous nature, that this axiom was a true one; nevertheless, he was so steeped in vice and immorality that he found it impossible to reform or mend his ways.

Throughout his whole life there was not manifested one trace of mercy or generosity such as was attributed to the old highwaymen.

On all occasions he displayed a spirit of almost animal ferocity, shown to all who interfered with him.

Gregson, in fact, loved crime—​the double life it involved, the excessive danger it created, and the cynical enjoyment it yielded him of doing always the worst thing he could think of.

The man was so radically bad—​so naturally prone to wickedness—​so utterly dead to the whispers of conscience—​that he was a foul blot upon the face of nature.

He was a sort of wild beast, who waged ceaseless war against society.

It is indeed a sad thing to reflect upon that in this civilised country, with the means of education and moral training open to the poorest and humblest in the land, such monstrosities as Gregson and Charles Peace should have existence.

But we will not dwell further upon this painful theme. Gregson, as we have seen has paid the penalty of his crime.

The career of Peace it is our purpose to chronicle. In doing this it will be necessary, as this work progresses, to diverge occasionally to note the actions and doings of other groups of characters with whom Peace was more or less connected.

Charles Peace, when he had seen the last of Gregson, rose from his seat, and moved slowly towards the centre of the room, which was more than half-filled with sightseers.

The tall gentleman who had sat by his side during the execution also rose, and prepared to take his departure.

“This is a scene when once witnessed is not easily to be forgotten,” he observed to Peace. “I assume, sir, you are like myself, but too glad it is over.”

“I am, indeed, sir,” answered Peace, in oleaginous accents.

“You do not desire to remain longer?”

“Oh, dear me, no.”

“Nor I. We will get away as speedily as may be convenient.”

“By all means.”

The two companions descended the stairs, and gained the street. This done, they walked side by side until they had got clear of the gaol and its ghastly surroundings.

It transpired, in the course of conversation, that Peace’s companion was journeying in the same direction as our hero, who expressed himself very well pleased at having his company on the road.

“We have met for the first time this morning, sir,” observed Peace; “allow me to express a hope that we may meet again under more auspicious circumstances.”

The gentleman bowed, and said, “I hope so, I’m sure. Any way, we shall not meet again under similar circumstances, for I tell you frankly that this is the first, and it will be the last, time of my being present at such a scene.”

They walked on for some little distance further, and came within sight of a roadside inn, with seats and alcoves in its front.

“I think a little cold brandy and water will do us both good,” said Peace. “What say you?”

“As you please, I have no objection,” was the ready rejoinder. “As a rule I do not take any spirits in the morning, but this is an exceptional case.”

The two strolled in the grounds in front of the hostelry, and glasses were ordered and paid for by Peace.

“It is a terrible thing to see a fellow-creature put to death—​terrible to even the most callous and unimpressionable. But it is a necessity—​an absolute and imperative necessity.”

“Undoubtedly it is.”

“I do not complain of the law as it stands,” observed the other; “I think it a just and reasonable law; for the very least a member of a civilised community has a right to expect at the hands of his fellow-citizens, should he fall by the blow of an assassin, is that his murderer, after being convicted by a jury of his countrymen, should be put to death. What say you?”

“I am of the same opinion as yourself.”

“I think the mischief arises, or has arisen, on more than one occasion, by the injudicious use made of the prerogative of the Crown. Villains of the deepest dye have been respited, while criminals of a lesser degree have been executed. This, I think, has materially weakened the effects of the punishment of death. It is not only unjust, but is manifestly injurious. It is by the reliability of punishment—​by the certainty that punishment follows conviction—​that we can hope or expect it to act as a deterrent from the commission of crime. I have given the subject some consideration, and I could cite many instances in which the clemency of the Crown has been made use of in an unjust and most injudicious manner.”

“I am not so well up in the subject as you are,” remarked Peace, who throughout his life was always ready to moralise; “still, at the same time, I see the force of your argument.”

“Well, sir, I will instance a case which came under my own knowledge. In the year 1844 I had a brother residing at Battersea, and, when in the metropolis, I was in the habit of paying him a visit once or, indeed, sometimes twice a week. One evening I was crossing Battersea Bridge, on the left-hand side going from the Bridge-road, when all of a sudden I observed a woman on the opposite side running along with her hands to her throat, from which a stream of blood was flowing. I was, as you can readily imagine, moved to an extremity of fear at the heartrending sight. The poor creature proceeded onwards with tottering steps, and did not stop till she had reached the ‘Old Swan’ tavern, on the Battersea side of the bridge. This was kept at that time by a man named Goslin, who was a friend of my brother.”

“And what followed?” inquired Peace.

“You shall hear, for I remember every incident in this fearful tragedy as clearly as if it had occurred but yesterday. The woman rushed in front of the bar of the ‘Swan,’ and fell on the floor, deluging the place with her blood. Her throat was cut from ear to ear. I arrived at the tavern just in time to see her fall, and to also see her breathe her last.”

“And who was her murderer?”

“A man named Dalmas. It transpired in the course of the subsequent inquiry that he had been paying attention to the murdered woman, whose name was Macfarlane. She was a school teacher, and had half supported the odious wretch who so cruelly and remorselessly took her life.”

“And the motive—​jealousy, I suppose?” said Peace.

“Nothing of the sort. The ill-fated woman, Macfarlane, was engaged to be married. She wrote to Dalmas, informing him of her engagement, to which he did not presume to offer any objection, neither had he any right to do so; indeed, he clearly understood that she was about to make an alliance with a gentleman, which would place her in a much better position in life. Dalmas wrote a very kind letter to her, in which he requested her to meet him on the Middlesex side of Battersea Bridge that he might bid her a last farewell, declaring that he was about to return to his native country, France, but did not like to leave without bidding her good-bye. She acceded to his request, and met him at the appointed time. The wretch proceeded to carry out his fell purpose unperceived, and while behind his victim he drew a razor across her throat, and inflicted such a fearful wound that she did not survive many minutes—​certainly not more than five or six minutes. The wretch, after his barbarous act, coolly walked through the turnstile on the Chelsea side, and succeeded in making his escape.”

“And was never caught, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, he was; the police captured him in the course of a few days, and brought him in a four-wheeled cab to the Millman-row Police-station. Strange to say I saw him taken there. Well, to cut a long story short, he was tried and convicted upon the clearest evidence. There was not the faintest shadow of doubt as to his guilt—​indeed he did not attempt to deny it. The murder was cold-blooded, premeditated, and brutal. Most assuredly, if any man ever deserved hanging certainly it was the wretch Dalmas, for there was not one redeeming point in the whole case. Well, sir, what do you think happened?”

“I cannot say.”

“To the surprise of everybody the fellow was respited. Why or wherefore no one could possibly tell. No one has ever been able to account for the strange caprice of the executive. I don’t believe there was an attempt made to even get up a petition to spare his worthless life. I don’t believe there was a single individual—​certainly none that I ever heard of—​who was not perfectly assured at the time that the law would be suffered to take its course. Indeed, as far as I can remember, everybody was thunderstruck upon seeing it announced in the public papers that Dalmas had been respited.”

“How very extraordinary!” remarked Peace. “And what became of him?”

“Oh, he was of course doomed to penal servitude for his natural life. He is at the present time in Portland prison, dispensing the medicines. He was a chemist by profession. He has been kept all these years at the expense of the public, and the probability is that he has found himself much more comfortable during his incarceration than he did when earning, or endeavouring to earn, a precarious existence outside the walls of his prison house.”

“It seems hardly possible.”

“I have been giving you a plain narrative of facts,” returned the other, “and I can vouch for the truth of all you have heard fall from my lips; but this is only one of the cases I could cite to prove to you or anyone else the injudicious use made of her Majesty’s prerogative.”

“A scoundrel who would be guilty of such an atrocious crime was utterly unworthy of the clemency of the Crown,” said Peace. “It seems to me most singular that mercy should be extended in such a case.”

“It surprised everybody—​none more than myself. I shall never forget the death of that poor creature in front of the bar of the ‘Swan.’ It has made so lasting an impression, that we have been, and still are at a loss to imagine the sympathy—​the misplaced sympathy, I may term it—​for those who imbrue their hands in the blood of their fellow-creatures.”

“But I do not believe for one moment in the sincerity of anyone who endeavours to screen a murderer,” observed Peace.

“Neither do I, sir—​neither do I,” ejaculated his companion. “If it became a personal question if a murder had been committed in their own immediate circle, they would be the first to demand the assassin’s life. We have a practical instance of this in the Marquis of Boccaria, who, while the sheets of his work against capital punishment were passing through the press, did his best to get a servant hanged who had stolen his watch.”

It was evident to Peace that the topic was a favourite one with his companion, for he gave one or two more instances of a similar nature to Dalmas’s case.[1]

After some further discussion the two companions took their departure from the roadside inn, and walked on towards their respective destinations. When the time came for them to part company Peace’s picked-up friend gave him a card, with his name and address on the face, and said he should be glad to see him at any time he could make it convenient to call. Peace thanked him, and promised to pay an early visit.

And so the two parted.

When left to himself, Peace had more time to think over the sad event of the morning. Gregson’s fate made an impression on him, but it is to be regretted that this was but of a transient nature. He was too fond of adventure, too prone to wrong-doing, to allow the miserable end of his brutal and guilty associate to take deep root in his heart, or have any influence over his future actions or way of life. He returned to his lodging, it may be a sadder, but certainly in no way a better man.

[1] The description given by the speaker, of the murder on Battersea Bridge, is true in substance and in fact. The trial of Augustus Dalmas, for the murder of Sarah Macfarlane, took place, June 14th, 1844. The prisoner was found guilty; there was not one extenuating circumstance in the case, and no possible plea for a respite. Dalmas is at the present time, or was a few months ago, at Portland, in a responsible situation as dispenser of medicine to the sick, and his life is not one of hardship or suffering. He must be now close upon seventy years of age, if not more.

The winter has passed away and spring has come again.

All that remains of the much-dreaded Gregson is a few mouldering bones. His body was buried within the walls of the gaol, and the quick lime in the coffin has done its work.

Let us return to the scene of the opening chapters of our tale.

Oakfield House presents a charming picture of rustic beauty in the sweet spring time. In the yard there are milch cows and cart horses, with fowls fluttering, chirping, and pecking.

Stables and barns with tiled and slated roofs, and strong oaken doors through which as they stand ajar, one can see the busy shirt sleeves of the labourer.

A blue river and a long line of willows, a fine view of the arable country—​chalk hills and clay valleys—​an orchard with a great stone pigeon-house rising from the midst and towering over all the trees. A rookery which is silent, for all the birds are feeding in the fields, and a little hamlet in the distance seen here and there between the leaves.

These are the leading and most noticeable features of the fine old English homestead known as Oakfield House.

But the picture is unfinished, as every picture is unfinished without a human figure. It is to colours upon canvas what the eye is to the face, what the sun is to the sky.

At the side door of the homestead is a young woman. She is attending to a throstle suspended from the wooden porch in its wicker cage. Her face is pale, its expression is sad and thoughtful. It is evident that she has been early acquainted with sorrow.

It would be difficult for many, who had known her in earlier years, to recognise this young woman as the once gay and sprightly Jane Ryan.

A strange change has come over Jane. She moves about the house, and grounds attached thereto, in a mechanical and listless manner. Her household duties are attended to with even greater care and thoughtfulness than heretofore; but a settled melancholy seems to have fallen upon her, her cheeks are wan and pale, her features are thinner and more delicately chiselled. It is painfully evident to all within the farmer’s domicile that Jane is a prey to a deep-seated, and, it is feared by some, an incurable sorrow.

Nevertheless, she does not complain—​does not for a moment admit that she is otherwise than in her wonted health.

Those about her, however, are of a different opinion. The Ashbrooks shake their heads. Miss Ashbrook, in answer to her brother’s questions, murmurs, “Fading away.”

“Poor girl, she cannot forget the past, and, to say the truth, it be no wonder,” said the farmer’s sister on more than one occasion, when the question was discussed.

“This is an upright straight for’ard good gell!” exclaimed Richard Ashbrook. “That what she be, and I donna’ like to see her thus. Ye must do your best, Maude, to cheer her up.”

“I ha’ done so, many and many a time.”

“Ah! that be but right and proper. I cannot see why she should take on so. The past be passed away, it canna’ be recalled. But ha’ left its traces behind—​any one on us can see that,” observes John Ashbrook. “Let the lass alone—​maybe she’ll get over it after a bit.”

But the getting over it did not seem so easy as the good-natured farmer might wish.

Jane, as days and weeks flew by, seemed to grow more sad and thoughtful, and more than one of the rustics gravely remarked that she would go off her head if she gave way too much.

Everyone declared that she was a truthful, honest girl; indeed, she was a general favourite. It is little to say perhaps that she had not an enemy.

During the period which elapsed between the burglary and conviction of Gregson, she was looked upon as a sort of heroine, and numbers of well-to-do folks paid a visit to the farmhouse for the avowed purpose of making her acquaintance.

This popularity—​or notoriety would, perhaps, be the better term—​did not afford Jane any gratification; on the contrary, she was ill at ease when in the company of strangers, especially so when allusion was made to the circumstances connected with the crimes of burglary or murder.

She was a girl possessed of acute feelings—​remarkably sensitive—​though few persons would, perhaps, have given her the credit of possessing this latter quality, the reason for this being that she was reticent and undemonstrative.

In addition to all these characteristics, she was deeply imbued with superstition—​was, in fact, a fatalist, and believed that all things were pre-ordained, and that it was useless for anyone to struggle against the decrees of fate.

The good pastor of the village strove in vain to dismiss from her mind this idea.

Jane heard all he had to say, but remained inflexible, affirming that her own life was a proof of this theory. Twice she dreamt that a burglary would be committed at Oakfield House on the very night that it did take place. A warning voice told her that the murderer of Hopgood would be one of the burglars—​this came to pass.

It was in vain for anyone to deny the truth of these assertions, which, as we have already seen, were made manifest to wondering thousands; and it would be equally useless to deny also that similar warnings had been given in similar cases. The dead body of Maria Martin, of Red Barn notoriety, was discovered through the agency of a dream. This was incontestably proved upon the trial of William Corder, her murderer.

We are not for a moment assuming that it would be wise of anyone to put trust in dreams, signs, or omens of any sort—​such an act would be the worst of folly.

Superstition is a blight, a mildew, and a curse to all who come under its fatal influence, and to a certain extent it was a blight upon the young life of Jane Ryan.

She had borne up for years hopefully and trustfully, in the full belief that the death of her lover would be avenged.

Now that this had come to pass, Jane felt that her mission was fulfilled. She had little to care for, nothing to hope, and it mattered not to her how her future course was shaped.

She consulted the wise woman who had prognosticated the appearance of Gregson at the farmhouse. The woman told her to forget the past, and look hopefully to the future, which is about the best advice she could give.

But Jane found it difficult to forget. A shadow had fallen upon her like a funeral pall.

One afternoon, while sitting alone in the breakfast-room of Oakfield, she met with a surprise. She had been at needlework. She put this aside, and leaning her head on her hand, with her elbow resting on the table, she fell into one of those deep reveries which had been so frequent with her of late.

A hand was placed on her shoulder, whereupon she gave a slight scream. Upon looking up she found Mr. Richard Ashbrook by her side; his brother John had gone with his sister to pay a visit to a neighbouring agriculturist.

The farmer smiled, and said, good-naturedly—

“Why, Jane, lass, thee beest eas’ly frightened.”

“I did not know anyone was here,” she answered, “and I was a little startled, and that’s the truth.”

“You’ve got very timursome o’ late. Tell me, girl, what ails ye? Ye gets paler and thinner every mortal day; and ye see we are getting a bit concerned.”

“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered, with a faint smile. “There’s nothin’ amiss wi’ me.”

“Aye, but there is, gell. I tell ’ee thee is getting in a bad way. Dall it, I do not want to see ye go melancholy mad.”

“Oh, I shan’t do that.”

“Jane,” said the farmer, in a more solemn and serious tone than he was wont to assume; “ye been a thinkin’ an’ a thinkin’ till your brain becomes all of a whirl. Tell us, lass, what ails ye, and if anything can be done to put thee right it sha’ be done. You know, Jane, we all o’ us are as fond o’ ye as if—​as if ye were our own flesh and blood. Your troubles are our troubles, an’—​well, what was I saying? Oh, you must not look like that.”

“How am I to look, then?”

“More natural like.”

The farmer stood for a few moments after this silent and thoughtful.

Presently he drew a chair beside Jane’s and sat down. Upon this the girl was about to rise when he motioned her to keep her seat.

She looked surprised, but said nothing.

There they both sat for a short time without exchanging a word. Presently Richard Ashbrook broke the silence, which was becoming painful and perplexing to both.

“Ye must know,” began the farmer, “that I ha’ something to say to ye. That be why I came here. I don’t want to open old wounds afresh, but there is a reason for yer droopin’ and droopin’ as ye have been for ever so long a time, and I mean to know what it be.”

“I s’pose you can guess?”

“Maybe I can; but I want to have it from yer own lips.”

“Oh, sir, ye don’t want me to tell ’ee more than ye already know?”

“Ye’ve mourning for one that be dead and gone. Is that it?”

The girl nodded her head.

“I knew it—​I could ha’ sworn it. Well, Jane, it is no discredit to ye; still at the same time, gell, thee knows that the wisest and the best of us cannot recall the dead to life, and to cherish a hopeless sorrow is neither wise or discreet. I don’t wish to pain ye, but I tell ye plainly that you are altogether wrong. You are young, and although yer have gone through a deal o’ trouble that is no reason why you should let the past embitter your life.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Richard—​it shall not do so.”

“But it does, lass, anyone can see that it does. Tell me, do ye think yourself the same gell as came here some five year and a half agone?”

“I hope I am,” she murmured; “time has changed me a little, I suppose.”

“Jane,” said Ashbrook, “we are one an’ all of us fond of ye. I had somethin’ to say that mustn’t go unsaid. Listen—​ye’d not disgrace any man, and ye’d be no discredit to any farmer as the mistress o’ his house—​as his wife—​do ye understand what I mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I don’t want to see ’ee fade away before my very eyes, under my very nose. I can’t and won’t stand that, an’ ye shall not if I can help it.”

Then he took her hand in his own and said, in a voice broken by emotion—

“I love ye, Jane.”

Then he placed his other arm across her shoulders and said no more.

The pale cheeks of Jane Ryan were suffused with a deep flush of red, in another moment they became paler than ever.

“Ah! ah!” she ejaculated, after a pause—​“ah, Mr. Richard, ye do not know what ye’ve been sayin’.”

“Don’t I?” said the farmer, resolutely—​“don’t I?”

“I do not think so.”

“Well, then, if it comes to that, I will say it agin. I love ye. I’ll deal honest and fair by ye. If thee likest, if ye’ll consent, ye shall be my wife.”

He drew her towards him, and imprinted on her lips the first kiss of pure love.

“Ye mek no answer,” he murmured. “Speak, gell.”

“I bid ye think agen, Mr. Ashbrook,” answered Jane. “Think agen.”

“I have thought of it over and over agen. What need is there o’ further thinkin’ when a man has made up his mind?”

“You are too good and kind to me, that’s what you are,” said his companion. “Much too good, an’ that be the truth on’t; but, my dear master, you deserve someone better than myself, and it may not be. My heart is bruised and broken, and it be a poor offering to any man. Seek someone more worthy of ye. Ah, Mr. Richard, ye make the hot scalding tears come to mine eyes, which ha’ been dry these many a year.”

She ceased suddenly, bent forward, buried her face in her hands, and burst into a passionate flood of tears.

The farmer was touched. He was more than this—​he was fairly overcome.

He was quite unprepared for this violent demonstration of grief.

“I be sorry I’ve hurt your feelings, Jane, truly sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t say anything to me. Don’t say kind things. Oh, how truly wretched I am!” interrupted Jane.

“Wretched!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise.

“I had never counted on this.”

“And is an honest man’s love a thing to be despised?” he said, with something like indignation in his tone.

“No, my dear master, it’s a thing to be proud of,” returned Jane, throwing her arms round his neck, and embracing him tenderly. “It would and ought to make any girl proud and happy—​any but me.”

“Ah, that’s it—​is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You love another.”

“Now, I’m sure you do not mean what you say. I did love another—​him as is dead and gone these six years ago an’ more.”

“Ah! true. No one else?”

“Certainly not. It seems strange to me that you should ask such a question.”

“Does it?” said the farmer, musingly, gazing, at the same time, abstractedly through the lozenge panes of the lattice window of the apartment. Then, after a pause, he added—

“I don’no but what you beest right. I don’no what med me ask such a question.”

He again became silent and thoughtful. He was doatingly fond of the young woman by his side—​much more attached to her than he had supposed, or, indeed, cared to confess.

A suspicion crossed his mind; it was vague and shadowy at first, and did not assume any tangible shape. It was this—

“What if Jane had formed an attachment in the neighbourhood?”

He had never given that a thought before, not until after he had avowed his love.

The thought was agony. Poor Ashbrook was a man of impulse. He had never throughout his life been accustomed to consider twice before he spoke. He was hasty and at times brusque in his manner; for the rest he was as upright and honest as the day, and was quite incapable of doing a mean, paltry, or ungenerous action. Of all men in the world he was, perhaps, the one least able to bear a disappointment or a repulse from the woman he loved.

The bare supposition of a rival—​and it might be a successful one—​was gall and wormwood to him.

“Ye’ve heard what I’ve bin sayin’, Jane,” said the farmer, in a tone of voice which, to say the truth, was in strange contrast to its usual tone.

There was a mournful cadence in his voice which his companion never remembered to have heard on any former occasion. He proceeded with his discourse slowly and deliberately.

“As I ha’ just sed,” he observed, thoughtfully. “You’ve heard the few words that ha’ fallen from my lips, and, hark ’ee, it aint because I’m in a better position than ye are, Jane, that I would seek by word or deed to control ye in a matter which concerns ye more perhaps than aught else. I’ve no right to control ye. A woman cannot help her likins’ and dislikins’ any more than a man, and if ye cannot find it in your heart to look upon me wi’—​wi’ eyes o’ favour—”

“Mr. Richard—​Mr. Ashbrook,” interrupted the girl, with sudden warmth, “you not goin’ to tell me that you believe for a moment that I would turn from ye—​that I would not lay down my life gladly and cheerfully for you or your’n—​at any turn, at any time, or do aught that a poor creature like myself could do to help and benefit you. Ah, ah! if ye doubt this ye do me but scant justice.”

“I do not doubt it—​I should be worse than a fool to doubt it,” said the farmer, bending fondly ever her.

“Spoken like yourself—​your own good self!” exclaimed Jane.

Ashbrook did not deem it advisable to press the question further. He contented himself with imprinting a kiss on the girl’s forehead, and said gently—

“You are troubled. Now, think over what I’ve bin a-sayin’; we’ll talk further on this matter another time.”

And with these few parting words he crept softly out of the apartment and went abroad in the fields.

“She must ha’ bin mighty fond o’ the young carpenter,” he murmured, as he took his way over the meadows. “Mighty fond, to keep the memory o’ him green for so long a time. Wimmen they’re strange creatures—​the best on us can’t mek ’em out at times, and yet—​yet—​dall it, I do love that gell, and that’s the honest truth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He glanced furtively around.

Not a solitary passenger was in sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Help! Murder! Police—​police!”

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

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

The watchman, perceiving this, gave chase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He heard footsteps ascending the stairs; heard also voices.

Every moment was now precious.

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

No. 5.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The police were on his track.

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

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

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

He had by this time gone too far to recede.

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

He alighted with comparative safety.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He, therefore, remained speechless and motionless.

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

“Yes, there is one in the yard. Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

Not a soul was to be seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you go, sir?”

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

“How can I protect you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

She drew back indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No one has been here.”

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

“You’re quite sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

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

“Strange!” ejaculated policeman No. 1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is your number?”

“46 T.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long since?”

“Not a minute ago.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She rushed downstairs; Peace followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Certainly you are—​everybody says so.”

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

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

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

“Yes, he is.”

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

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

Peace was pale with rage.

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

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

Bristow laughed derisively.

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

Peace by this time was wild with fury.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve had enough.”

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

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

The women both screamed with fright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace, therefore, made for his own apartments upstairs.

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

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

After the departure of Peace, Bristow toned down.

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

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

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

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

The house was quiet for the remainder of the night.

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

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

From whence could he have obtained his information?

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

Some mysterious agency had been at work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A four-wheeled cab conveyed him to Whitechapel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll have them all at a price.”

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

The Jew regarded the speaker with a half angry glance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yer vont—​eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is love?”

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

Is this love? Slim girlhood answers yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is its nature?” inquired his companion.

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

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

“You are not offended, I hope?”

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

No. 6.

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

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

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

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

“Pity, and for what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hope what?”

“That you will look with favour on me.”

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

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

Miss Maitland rose from her seat.

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

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

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

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

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

Her candour and prompt answers cut him to the quick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She moved towards the house.

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

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

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

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

Peace found himself alone.

He had some difficulty in mastering his feelings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His heart beat audibly, his pulse quickened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He would watch and wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What should he do? How should he be avenged?

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

These were questions he found some difficulty in answering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What if I refuse to answer impertinent questions?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Suppose I have—​what’s that to you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let go, coward—​let go!” exclaimed Peace.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not unless you promise to behave better.”

“I wont promise—​I’ll die first.”

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

“A constable?”

“Yes, a policeman. Will you promise?”

“What?”

“To conduct yourself like a sane person.”

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

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

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

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

“You impudent wretch!” ejaculated Peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her image was for ever presenting itself to his vision.

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

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

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

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

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

The end of this may be readily divined.

He avowed his love, and proposed.

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

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

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

Mrs. Maitland shrewdly guessed the object of his visit.

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

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

The widow nodded.

“Ah, as I supposed.”

“And Aveline?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, dear me, no—​not for a moment.”

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

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

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

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

“Whose daughter is she then?”

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

“I am indeed surprised.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And its mother?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Can such things be possible?” exclaimed Gatliffe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably he may be so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one would be able to gain an entrance.

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

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

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

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

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

No one was visible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace made no answer to these expletives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is my duty to do so.”

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

“Yes, I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where is the prisoner?” said the inspector.

“He has escaped,” answered Gatliffe.

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

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

“Well, you followed, of course?”

“Yes.”

“And could not overtake him?”

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

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

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

No. 7.

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

This last query was addressed to Gatliffe.

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

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

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

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

This was addressed to the constable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no burglar was discovered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our hero is an instance in point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He waited till Gatliffe came up to him.

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

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

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

Peace nodded.

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

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

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

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

“What have you heard?”

“I will not pain you by repeating.”

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

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

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

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

Peace laughed.

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

“I wonder myself.”

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

“Not at all likely, I should say.”

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

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

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

“I’m not likely to be jealous.”

“You are engaged to her?”

“Yes, I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had become an incorrigible and irreclaimable inebriate.

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

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

As a rule he seldom came back till past midnight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still no reply.

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

“Of course I do.”

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“I have answered.”

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

“I suppose there’s no harm in that.”

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

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

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

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

Here he burst out into an idiotic laugh.

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

This had the effect of aggravating him.

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

“Who do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“If he has it was without my knowledge.”

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

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

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

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

“I shan’t do anything of the sort.”

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

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

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

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

Here he burst out into another mocking laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once more he strove to shake her off.

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

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

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

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

Then Bristow rushed out of the house.

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

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

Bruised and bleeding from the effects of the blows inflicted by her husband, the wretched woman cried as if her heart was about to break.

Very soon after Bristow’s departure Bessie Dalton, upon her return from the factory, let herself in with the latch-key. As she entered the passage she heard sobs and sighs proceeding from the back parlour.

She was at no loss to divine that something was amiss.

Opening the door of the room she was appalled at beholding Mrs. Bristow seated on the side of the bed in a terrible plight. The clothes were torn off her back, so that the upper portion of her person was nearly in a state of nudity.

Her lip was swollen, her nose was bleeding, and one eye was in an incipient state of blackness.

To add to the horrors of the scene the furniture was upset, and the miserable apartment gave unmistakable evidence of the violent scene which had just taken place.

“For mercy’s sake do tell me what’s the matter?” exclaimed Bessie Dalton.

“Oh, don’t ask me—​don’t speak to me!” answered the wretched wife. “I wish I was dead—​I wish I had never seen that inhuman wretch.”

“It is as I guessed. Then Bristow has been here. It is he who has done all this. But do bear up, dear—​bear up,” said Bessie, going at once for a bason of water, with which she washed the bruised and bleeding face of her companion.

“Ugh, the drunken, good-for-nothing beast,” she ejaculated; “and has it come to this?”

“It has. I only wish he had killed me outright—​then there would have been an end to my misery. As it is there does not appear to be any end to it.”

“But you must leave him. It would be worse than madness to remain longer with such a ruffian. How did it occur?”

“He came back, much to my surprise, much earlier than usual. He had been drinking heavily, that I saw at a glance, and did all he could to aggravate me; but I was determined not to lose my temper if I could help it. He then got up and searched about the room and opened all the drawers, in one of which he found the silver I had put by to pay Parker two weeks’ rent. He threatened to turn us into the street unless we paid.”

“And what then?”

“He snatched hold of the paper which contained the money, and was about to thrust it in his pocket, and because I tried to get it from him he became furious. He has beaten me most unmercifully, as you see.”

“If you live any longer with this infamous man you will have yourself only to blame. Go away this very night. Do not remain another hour under the same roof with such a diabolical wretch.”

“Where can I go?”

“Anywhere. Do you suppose that I would remain if I was in your position? Ah, dear, you are too meek and mild. He should have me to deal with.”

“You could do nothing with him. Nobody could. He’s past cure, Bessie. At one time I had some hopes of reclaiming him—​now I have none.”

“He’ll never be any better,” said Bessie Dalton. “That I have seen and known for a long time past. He’s a lost man.”

“Ah,” ejaculated Mrs. Bristow; “it was an ill-fated day when I first set eyes upon him. I was warned and cautioned by those who knew him better than I did; but like a fool I was heedless of their warning. I’ve paid the penalty of my obstinacy. Many a time I have prayed to be released from this odious thraldom, while at other times I have contemplated flight. Now I am resolved. I will no longer live with him, not under any circumstances.”

“Well spoken. I am glad to hear these words fall from your lips, dear,” said Bessie, putting her arms round the neck of her companion and kissing her fondly. “Your words give me hope and comfort. Do not change your determination. Go this very night. Go at once.”

“But look at me. See how I am disfigured! What will people think of me?”

“Let them think what they like. Tell the truth; you’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I hope not.”

“I am sure not. If you remain here you will be murdered. Of that I am as well assured as that he will never reform. I say one day or another you will be murdered. Ah! no, dearest. You most not change your mind upon this. Come, dry your eyes. There, that’s better. You are beginning to look a little more like yourself. Oh! how I should like to have the wretch flogged! I haven’t patience with the monster.”

“What have I done that I should be punished thus?” murmured Mrs. Bristow.

“You’ve been too easy with him.”

“Ah, Bessie! don’t say that. It’s all very well for a woman to talk about controlling a drunken man. It is quite impossible. Do what you will, treat him with harshness or kindness, the end is the same. But too well I know that.”

“Well, I’ll not vex you by offering any further observations upon that subject. Doubtless you know best. One thing, however, you can do.”

“What is that?”

“Why, leave him. Take a situation, far away from this town. I would rather beg my bread in the public streets than subject myself to the brutality of such a ruffian.”

“You are quite right, Bessie. Such a course is the more bearable one of the two.”

“Suppose he should come back, how then?” said Bessie, in a tone of alarm.

“Ah, he will not come back till he’s spent the whole, or the greater portion, of the money. There’s no fear of that.”

“To say the truth, I don’t think there is. But how he’s knocked about the things,” said Bessie, glancing at the overturned table and the broken glass.

“He upset them as he went out. The looking-glass is broken. That is a fatal sign. No luck in this house after that.”

“Don’t be superstitious,” cried the girl, lifting up the table, and endeavouring to replace it in its position.

“It won’t stand, dear. One of the legs is broken,” said Mrs. Bristow.

“Never mind.”

Her companion propped it up as best she could. Then she stooped down and began to pick up the pieces of the glass which had fallen from the frame.

These she placed on the table.

She then lifted up the glass. As she did so, something met her eye. It appeared to be a thin piece of paper, which had been concealed between the plate of the glass and the wooden back.

“Mercy on us! what is this?” exclaimed Bessie.

She drew out the paper, and held it forth. Then, with a sudden scream, exclaimed, in a hissing whisper—

“A hundred pound note!”

“Heavens above! what do you mean?” cried the miserable wife.

“Well, seeing’s believing,” answered her companion. “I’m not much of a judge of these matters; but if I am not mistaken, this is a genuine Bank of England note for one hundred pounds.”

“How came it there? This looks like sorcery. Ah, Bessie, dear, you are playing me some trick. It cannot be.”

“But, my dear, it is. Look here.” She drew towards the side of the bed, and placed the note in the hands of Mrs. Bristow.

“Well, this is most wonderful—​most incomprehensible. Can you account for it?” said the latter.

“Indeed, I cannot. Where did you get this glass from?”

“Bought it at a broker’s shop in the town.”

“Give the note to me, I’ll take charge of it,” cried Bessie, clapping her hands.

“Yes, you had better do so; but I say, dear, suppose it should be a forged one?”

“Oh, lor! I never thought of that; but I’ve no doubt we shall find it all right enough.”

“Let us hope so.”

“You have given me your word that you will leave this very night,” said the girl. “You are not going to break it?”

“No! Oh dear no.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Certainly. What makes you think otherwise?”

“Never mind my thoughts. Swear that you will leave this place. If you refuse——”

“Well, what if I refuse?”

“I will burn this note before your very eyes,” exclaimed Bessie Dalton, holding it over the fire.

“What would you do? Are you mad, Bessie?”

“Swear!” ejaculated the girl.

“If it’s any satisfaction, I do swear. In the name of the most High and Mighty I pledge myself to leave this house to-night.”

“And never to return to it from your own free will.”

“And never to return to it from my own free will.”

“That is enough. Now I feel assured that you are in earnest. So am I; for I tell you plainly that I shall not rest till I see you out of the house.”

“Upon my word you appear in a monstrous hurry to get rid of me.”

“No matter about that. You’ll have to go, and it’s no use making long faces about it. Come, dear, put your things together, and we’ll away at once.”

“We! are you going, then, as well?”

“I purpose bearing you company for to-night, at all events.”

“And whither are we to go?”

“Leave that to me. I have an old friend who lives but a few miles hence. We can stop with her for to-night, and in the morning we shall have a little leisure to arrange our plans for the future.”

“You’re a brave girl, Bessie; I wish I had your nerve,” said Mrs. Bristow, who proceeded at once to look up several garments which were necessary for her immediate use.

Bessie Dalton went upstairs to her own apartment, and brought therefrom a capacious carpet bag, which she handed to her companion.

Poor Mrs. Bristow was suffering terribly from the blows inflicted upon her by her brutal husband. She was sadly bruised and disfigured, but bore up as best she could.

She had one sincere friend in the hour of her affliction, this being Bessie Dalton.

“Put all you want in the bag,” said the latter, “and bid adieu for ever to this miserable place, in which you have suffered so much.”

“I intend to do so—​rest assured of that.”

While the unhappy wife was thus engaged her companion once more proceeded to examine the shattered looking glass.

As yet she had but taken a curious glance at the article in question. Now she made a more searching and minute inspection of it.

She removed the remains of the plate from its front and then uttered an expression of surprise and wonder. The back was literally lined with Bank of England notes.

Bessie’s head seemed to swim as she made this unlooked-for discovery.

“Heaven be merciful to us!” she exclaimed. “See here, there are more of them—​a whole heap.”

“What!” ejaculated Mrs. Bristow, whose heart was by this time beating audibly. “I feel as if about to swoon.”

“Bear up, dear,” said her friend. “You have nothing to fear, but everything to hope. Here are several notes for a thousand pounds. You are an independent woman, and the possessor of fabulous wealth. Be of good cheer. A bright future is before you. Now we know what to do.”

“I feel quite overcome—​completely prostrated. Can it be? Is it possible? Or is it all deception?”

“Never you mind, we shall soon be able to ascertain all about this wondrous gift presented to us—​or rather to you—​by Dame Fortune. I tell you there are notes for thousands, and you are rich—​immensely rich.”

“I find it hard to believe.”

“No matter, you will soon believe it.”

“But where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, can all these riches have come from?” said Mrs. Bristow, passing her hand across her aching forehead.

“Will you leave the matter in my hands?”

“Of course I will.”

“Very well then, so be it. There is a mystery about this affair which neither of us for the present can fathom—​that we may take for granted; but the property belongs to you, and for the present I will take charge of it.”

“Ah! do so. You are much more quick-witted and clever than I am, and I need hardly say I would trust you with my life.”

Bessie Dalton folded up the notes, flew upstairs again to her own room, and returned with a pocket-book.

In this she carefully placed the notes, and then thrust the pocket-book in her bosom.

“So,” she ejaculated, “they are safe for the present—​safe until we can learn something more about them and their real value. Now, are you ready to leave?”

“Yes; but—​ahem—​I—”

“Well, what?”

“Hadn’t I better write a letter to John, bidding him farewell for ever?”

Bessie shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

“It’s more than he deserves,” she said, “but as you wish it, do so.”

Mrs. Bristow had screwed her courage up as best she could, but now that the time had arrived for her to leave her home she felt a pang shoot through her heart.

She pictured to herself her husband’s return home after his debauch, his awakening in the morning, and his bitter remorse. Dissolute, debased, and worthless fellow as he was, his ill-used and miserable wife had some compassion left for him, some latent love of which she found it difficult to dispossess herself.

This is almost invariably the case with ruffians of this class. We are furnished with numberless instances of this in the reports of assaults upon women heard in our public police-courts.

The injured woman almost always finds some excuse for her brutal husband, and it is likely enough that Mrs. Bristow would never have left her home, however badly she had been treated, had it not been through the instigation and by the advice of her friend Bessie Dalton.

Mrs. Bristow had seated herself in front of a little table—​pens, ink and paper were before her, the last-named being already blotted by her tears.

“What shall I say to him, Bessie?” enquired the wife of her friend.

“How should I know? If it were my case I would not trouble myself to write. Wish him good-bye and say you are going abroad, that’s the best thing to do.”

“Abroad?”

“Certainly. Don’t let him imagine you are going to remain in this country; say you are going abroad to seek your fortune in a strange land, that’s the way to put it.”

“He wont believe it.”

“It doesn’t matter what he believes—​only don’t give him an idea that it is any use his endeavouring to find you out.”

“I wish you would dictate the letter.”

“Very well. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then go on.”

“Dear John,—​I write these few lines to tell you that I find it impossible to remain under the same roof with one who has treated me with such unkindness and cruelty. My cup of sorrow is full to the brim. If I remain here I feel convinced that I shall meet with my death at your hands. For both our sakes it is therefore better that we should part. Never expect to see me again in this world. I leave England to-morrow; you will do much better without me. I do hope and trust that you will see the error of your ways and lead a better life.—​Your miserable wife,

“Maria Bristow.”

“That will do; won’t it?” said the girl.

“Oh, dear, yes. My head is in such a whirl that I find it impossible to collect my thoughts. That will do very well, I think,” returned Mrs. Bristow.

She folded up the letter, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on the shelf where her husband could not fail to see it.

This done she felt greatly relieved.

“Now let us away at once,” cried the girl. “Give me the bag.”

“But where are we going to?”

“To Stanningley. An aunt of mine lives there, a dear old soul. We can remain with her as long as we like, but there’s no occasion for us to stop unless we choose.”

“How far is it?”

“Oh, it must be over five miles, but we must have a fly.”

“And the money?”

“I’ve got enough for our immediate wants.”

The girl had not spent the last sum Peace had sent her, in addition to which she had some of her own little savings.

A fly was procured. As they were about to step into this, the gentleman they had met at the concert, at which Charles Peace appeared, now accosted them.

“Well, ladies, whither away in this hurry?” said he, in a tone of surprise.

Bessie put her companion into the fly, then she hurried towards her male friend.

“Ah! Mr. Chipp,” she ejaculated, “how glad I am we have met with you! Something has occurred—​something terrible,” as she nodded towards the passenger in the vehicle.

She proceeded to give a rapid account of the assault upon Mrs. Bristow, and wound up by informing her friend that his wife had left him for good and for all.

“It’s not to be wondered at,” said Mr. Chipp. “The only surprise to me is, and has always been, that she consented to live with the brute for so long a time.”

“I want to see you, sir, about a little matter of business. Want your advice, but have not time to explain matters now.”

“Very well, I shall be much pleased to see you to-morrow, if that will suit you; if not, on the following day. You know the hotel I’m stopping at?”

“Yes. If I can manage to see you to-morrow, I will most certainly do so, or the day after.”

“Very good—​I am at your service.”

He now drew close to the vehicle, and shook its inmate warmly by the hand.

Mrs. Bristow had taken the precaution to wear a thick veil, which she wore down, so that the injuries done to her face were not discernible.

“I am pleased to have met you,” observed Mr. Chipp; “and, believe me, I hope and trust a more happy future is in store for you.”

He raised his hat to both females, and went on his course.

Bessie Dalton jumped into the fly, and the driver pushed forward in the direction of Stanningley.

Bessie chatted merrily during the greater part of the journey, but her companion remained sad and thoughtful.

Upon the travellers arriving at their destination, Bessie conducted her companion to a small, mean-looking cottage, in the rear of which was a large and well-cultivated garden.

The place was primitive enough in appearance.

Bessie Dalton unfastened the front door, which was opened with a small latch, and entered the parlour.

An exclamation of surprise, which was not unmixed with pleasure, proceeded from its solitary occupant.

“Why, Bessie, lass, who ever thought of seeing you?” cried a well-known voice.

“My dear aunt,” said Bessie in reply. “I have brought with me a very near and dear friend of mine, Mrs. Bristow, of whom you have often heard me speak.”

“You are welcome,” observed the old lady, addressing herself to her visitor. “I am much pleased to make your acquaintance. My niece has made me familiar with your name. Sit down.” The speaker handed a chair as she made this last observation.

The three women were very soon on the best of terms, and an animated conversation was kept up for the best part of the evening. A frugal supper was served by the hostess, and Bessie Dalton and Mrs. Bristow shared the only spare bed in the establishment.

They had, however, but a short period of rest that night, both being in too great a state of excitement to make sure of unbroken slumber.

They rose early, and having dressed, bethought them of what to do.

“I’ve thought over and over again the best course for you to adopt,” said Bessie, who had already been tacitly acknowledged to be commander-in-chief; “and the more I consider, the more I feel convinced that my first idea is the best.”

“And what might that be?” inquired her companion.

“You will become a fine lady—​that’s what you are destined to be.”

Mrs. Bristow laughed at the naive manner of the speaker.

“Ah, you may laugh; but I tell you that’s what will happen. I’ve laid it all down as nicely as possible. Listen. There is no place in England, so I’ve been told, equal to London for concealment. You must take up your abode there, change your name, and no one will suspect that you are the wife of a poor mechanic.”

“Change my name!”

“Most certainly you must do that. Pass yourself off as a widow.”

“I should never have the courage to do that.”

“You must; don’t tell me you haven’t courage. What matters—​who’s to know? You have money, and to the possessor of money everybody pays homage. We all know that.”

“You certainly are a most extraordinary girl,” observed Mrs. Bristow, in a reflective manner. “What in the name of goodness could have put such thoughts into your head?”

“Common sense; that’s all, my dear. I am only using common sense in a matter which, to say the truth, requires a considerable amount of that useful commodity. To remain here, or anywhere else in this county, would be the worst of folly. Change your name, take quiet, respectable apartments at the west end of London, and make your life as happy as possible. You have suffered enough, and deserve to taste a little of the sweets of life. Do you see that?”

“Ah, I acknowledge the truth of your observations.”

“Very good. And now, first of all, let us make an examination of the little store. Lock the door, dear. We don’t want anybody prying into our secret—​not even my aunt. In a case like this, it’s best to keep one’s own counsel.”

Mrs. Bristow rose suddenly from her seat, and crept softly towards the door, which she locked.

“Now for it,” said Bessie. “Now for the notes.”

She drew them forth, and placed them on the dressing-table.

The first upon which her eye lighted was a note for the sum of one thousand pounds. This was followed by many more for a like sum. In addition to these there were many for one hundred, two hundred, as also others for smaller and larger sums.

Reckoning the whole of them up they represented an amount exceeding fourteen thousand pounds.

No. 8.

The two women were astounded at the prodigious sum.

“What say you to that?” inquired Bessie.

“I feel like one who is walking on a precipice, and expects every minute to topple over. That’s how I feel.”

“You’ll get used to it in time. Oh, you’ll get used to it, believe me.”

“But are the notes genuine?”

“I do not doubt it for a moment. You had now better take charge of your own property; sew them up in your stays. That will be the best plan till we see what can be done with them.”

“But where can we get notes for so large an amount changed without exciting suspicion?”

“That will require a little thought. It won’t do to be too hasty in a matter of this sort. If one note is good they are all right, depend upon that. I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“You’ve got one for fifty pounds?”

“Yes.”

“I will ask Mr. Chipps to change it. He’ll have no objection to oblige either of us.”

“But he’ll want to know where we got it from.”

“I will tell him, my dear—​a legacy, a legacy. Don’t you see it was bequeathed to you by a relative? I have promised to see him either to-day or to-morrow. I will take this note with me.”

“As you please. I leave it to you. Indeed, without you I know not how I should get on at all.”

Having agreed upon this course of action Bessie Dalton in the earlier portion of the day started off for the town of Bradford, leaving her friend in charge of her aunt.

The looking-glass in which the notes were found was originally in the possession of an old miser, named Nathan Schreiber.

He was a refiner, and dealt in metals of every description. In addition to this he was a usurer.

Living in an old dilapidated house in one of the back streets of his native town he contrived to drive a prosperous trade; but throughout his whole life declared he was miserably poor.

He was plagued by a number of poor relations, some of whom, it is believed, robbed him.

Anyway, in the last closing years of his life, he was under the impression that his rapacious relatives would send him out of the world before his time.

This thought haunted him by day and by night.

He was eccentric to the last degree. He grew old and feeble, and prior to his last illness he unfastened the back of his looking glass and laid the notes carefully on the silvering at the back of the plate.

This done, he replaced the backboard in its original position, and felt a grim satisfaction at glancing at the glass on the table by the side of his bed, upon which he shortly breathed his last.

As a matter of course after his decease the house was pretty well filled with his relatives.

A search was made for a will; none could be found. The effects he left behind, however, realised a considerable sum.

The distribution of this was the occasion of a wrangle, and the acrimonious feeling evinced by some of his heirs was in no way creditable to them. The property left by old Schreiber was sold by public auction.

A tradesman in the town bought several articles of household furniture. Among them was the looking-glass containing the notes. The tradesman afterwards became bankrupt, his furniture was sold off, and a broker bought two lots, in one of which the glass was included.

Mrs. Bristow afterwards purchased it of the broker for the sum of fifteen shillings. The end of this we have already seen.[2]

When Bessie Dalton reached the hotel at Bradford she inquired for Mr. Chipp, and was at once shown into a room where she found her friend seated.

She entered into a full description of the assault on Mrs. Bristow, and wound up by informing him that the latter had left him for good, but did not as yet know where she was to take up her quarters.

It would appear that Mr. Chipp had, for some reason which was best known to himself, been desirous of continuing the acquaintance of the two females he had met for the first time at the concert given for the benefit of the weaver’s widow and children.

He had paid frequent visits to the house in which Bessie and her friend resided, and had at all times taken great interest in them; and therefore, Bessie, who was the most self-possessed of the two, had no compunction in seeking his advice on the present occasion.

“She’s had a legacy—​a little money left her,” said Bessie, “and my advice is that she sees no more of that wretch of a husband of hers, but go up to London at once, and see if she can get something to do.”

“The best advice you can give her.”

“And I’ve brought with me a fifty pound note, which we don’t know where to get changed. Perhaps you can oblige us?”

She handed him the note—​not, however, without some misgivings.

He looked carefully at it, and appeared perfectly satisfied.

“I have not so much money about me, but I can give you a cheque if that will do. You can get it changed before you return.”

“Oh, thank you, Sir! That would be indeed a favour.”

“Not at all,” said her companion, carelessly. “Happy to have it in my power to oblige you.”

He drew the cheque for the required sum, and handed it to the girl.

Then, with a smile, he said—

“Then, I suppose I am going to lose sight of you ladies.”

“Oh dear, I hope not, Sir!”

“Umph! Do you go with your friend?”

“I have not decided as yet. Poor thing! She is sadly borne down just now, and needs some one to be with her. I suppose I had better see her on her journey.”

Mr. Chipp nodded assent to this proposition, and murmured—

“Yes, it would be better for you to do so.”

“You see, we are not at all busy at the factory,” said Bessie; “and I can be well spared, for a short time at all events.”

“It does not appear to me that they are busy anywhere,” observed her companion. “I shall not remain much longer in this town, but return to London before next week is over. Have you heard or seen anything of the fiddler?”

He alluded to Peace, whom he had, since the night of the concert, invariably designated as the fiddler.

“I have not heard from him lately,” answered Bessie, carelessly.

The gentleman smiled, but made no further inquiries.

Bessie now took her departure, and bent her steps in the direction of the bank. Upon presenting the cheque, she elected to take the amount in gold.

She then returned to her aunt’s residence, and made Mrs. Bristow acquainted with the successful nature of her expedition.

In a few days after this the two women started off for the metropolis.

[2] The concealment of notes to a large amount betweeen the plate and back board of a looking-glass is true in substance and in fact. A case similar to the one described came under the writer’s own knowledge. Many years ago, in Cheshire, a woman in a humble position of life accidentally broke a looking-glass which she had had in her possession for very many years. To her infinite surprise she discovered a number of bank-notes, concealed at its back. The case attracted considerable attention at the time, and she handed the property so found over to the stipendiary magistrates, who ultimately decided that the property so found was hers, and the notes were consequently returned to her. There are many persons now living who can attest to the truth of this statement, which proves the oft-repeated adage that “truth is strange—​stranger than fiction.”

Peace paid frequent visits to the post-office to inquire for letters; none, however, arrived. He could not in any way account for Bessie Dalton’s silence.

Had she turned against him?

Or had her picked-up friend persuaded her to leave Bradford?

These were questions he was unable to answer.

Something had occurred—​of that he felt certain.

Perhaps Bristow had set the girl against him.

“But no,” he ejaculated. “She’s not such a fool as to listen to the counsels of that drunken brute.”

He dispatched another epistle to her lodgings at Bradford.

In a day or two after this it was returned to the post-office at Sheffield.

On the envelope was marked, “Gone away. Not known where.”

His worst fears were confirmed. He uttered anathemas loud and deep not only against Bessie Dalton, but the whole sex generally. He was wild with fury, and, like M. Mallet, tore up the letter in a thousand pieces.

“The perfidious, worthless, little hussy,” he ejaculated. “The ungrateful, deceitful minx to serve me like this. Gone away, and not known where. Oh, she’s made a bolt of it, that’s quite certain. There’s no dependence to be placed on women—​they are all alike. Once out of your sight you stand but a poor chance. Still, hang it all, I never expected she would have served me like this.”

He had a burning desire to know the reason for her leaving Bradford, and as the days passed over this feeling became intensified.

He could not rest without making an effort to clear up the “mystery,” as he termed it.

He took the train to Bradford, and hastened at once to his old quarters in that town.

Bristow was not at home. This he was glad of. He inquired for the landlord, who at once made his appearance.

“So Bessie Dalton’s left, I hear?” said Peace, after the usual civilities had been exchanged.

“Yes, Mr. Peace, she’s gone. So also has Mrs. Bristow, and I don’t expect her husband will remain long. He’ll have to ‘bunk’ if he goes on as he has been of late.”

“Mrs. Bristow left!” ejaculated our hero. “Did she go with Bessie, then?”

“Yes, they were sworn friends, you know, and when one left, why I suppose the other did not care to be left behind.”

“And pray can you tell me the reason of their leaving?”

The landlord entered into the particulars of the quarrel between husband and wife and the desperate assault made on the latter, and wound up by saying, “Everybody saw how it would end. She couldn’t stand his cruelty any longer, and, therefore, left him. It’s the wisest thing she ever did.”

“And Bessie?”

“Oh! she went with her.”

“Do you know where they’ve gone to?”

The man shook his head.

“Not I,” said he. “It is not likely they would let anybody know that; but I’ve been told——”

“What?”

“That they are both gone abroad—​to America or Australia—​so I’ve been given to understand.”

Peace was perfectly astounded.

“Gone abroad?” he iterated.

“Well—​yes; and the best thing they could do. They are both young and good-looking, and will do a great deal better in either of those places than they did in this over-taxed country. Working people have not much of a chance here.”

The speaker was a Radical of the most pronounced type, and attributed the greater part of the ills which afflict the working class to over-taxation and an oppressive aristocracy.

Peace was in no mood to discuss the question—​he was too much overwhelmed by the account given by the landlord of the women’s sudden flight.

“I shouldn’t bother myself much about them, if I were you, Peace,” said the landlord. “It’s all for the best, depend upon that. They behaved fair and square to me, and I wish them both well.”

“Yes—​right you are—​I won’t bother myself. They are gone, and joy go with them. Thank you for the information.”

And wishing the man a hearty farewell, he took his departure.

He visited some of his old haunts in the town, and lodged for the night at a coffee-house.

In the morning he returned to Sheffield.

He was ill at ease—​restless and fidgetty—​everything appeared to be going wrong with him.

Though apparently pursuing at this time the vocation of a picture-frame maker and picture-dealer, he had, as we have already seen, made “overtime” at intervals with varying success. The illustrations which have been given of his career have in many instances shown that he obtained most valuable booty. But the number of occasions on which he failed in his depredations are not so well known; the reader, however, may rest assured that it was not all smooth sailing with him. He had, as it will be our purpose to show, a number of reverses and many narrow escapes.

The course which he generally pursued was to “prospect a district well” and make himself thoroughly acquainted with the general movements of the police in it.

Next to pick out the places which offered at once the chance of a good haul, with the least possible risk, and having done this, gather in the harvest with as little delay as possible and then disappear from the district.

No wonder the police were baffled.

On the night prior to his leaving Sheffield, Peace had an adventure, which at the time taxed his inventive genius.

He had obtained an entrance to the back premises of a fish shop which was situated at the back of the Cemetery-road. This would be between eleven and twelve o’clock at night.

He was “operating” upon the back window of the place, intending as usual to “borrow” something, when very unexpectedly the proprietor of the establishment returned from the theatre in a cab.

Peace heard the vehicle stop and before he had time to get out of the yard the proprietor came into it.

Seeing Peace, he said—

“What do you want here?”

The visitor, after the manner of many other people, said “oh nothing!”

The fishmonger was far from satisfied, and made a demonstration as though he was about to seize the little fellow.

But Peace had used every bit of the time available during the brief conversation, for the consideration of the best means of escape, and he had formed a loophole.

Jumping upon the boundary wall he dropped over, and fell a considerable depth into the river Porter, which flows past there, but is shallow at that point. In point of fact it is like a large weir. He did not move in the darkness, but kept close to the wall, so that the astonished fishmonger should not know whether he had gone down the stream or up it.

Afterwards he quickly walked up it, past the back of Napier-street, and came out above Andrew-lane, but not without a good soaking.

Had he succeeded in his attempt to break into the shop he would not have got much, as the proprietor had placed his cash in a place of safety.

This is one of the many faithful accounts of his various escapades; but the reader must be apprised that it occurred subsequently to the events we are now chronicling in this and the preceding chapters. It is cited as an instance of our of his many failures. We have, however, to record one which was more ignominious and disastrous.

Peace remained in Sheffield for some little time after his return from Bradford. He paid several visits to localities which lay at more or less distances from that town, and succeeded in possessing himself of a number of valuables, but he felt unhinged and grew tired of his native town.

Once more he paid a visit to Hull. The Oakfield House burglary, described in the opening chapters of our work was no longer fresh in the recollection of the inhabitants of that town, and Peace felt quite sure that he would not be recognised by any of the constabulary.

The love of change and adventure had most likely prompted him to shift his quarters for awhile, and transfer the scene of his operations to another locality.

Soon after his arrival in Hull he began to look out for the places most available for his purpose, and contrived to commit some daring robberies without detection.

He had noticed a small villa which stood on the outskirts of a village, a few miles from Hull. The house was far removed from other habitations.

It was very tempting, not to say inviting, to the burglar.

Peace had played his violin at a beershop in the neighbourhood—​that is how he came to notice the Gothic cottage, as it was termed.

To obtain an entrance would be matter of no great difficulty. Most of the inhabitants in the neighbourhood went to bed early, and rose with the lark.

It was between ten and eleven o’clock at night when Peace arrived at the villa in question.

A flight of steps led up to the front door. A bay window, with stone balustrading in front and a portico above, jutted out from the first storey of the habitation.

When Peace had reached the lawn in front of the house, he hesitated for a short time, before he made up his mind as to which was the easiest mode of access.

He came to the conclusion that it would be best to perform on the door. He had but little difficulty in picking the look of this. The door yielded to his pressure, but he found that it was fastened by an inner chain, the end of which ran into a hollow tube.

It was impossible to effect an entrance without releasing the chain.

Peace drew from his pocket two pieces of wire, both of which were bent at the ends.

With these he believed he could push back the chain, release it, and enter.

While occupied with one arm through the aperture disclosed by the partially open door, the two French windows above were thrown open, and a woman’s head and shoulders were visible.

Peace, whose back was towards the window, was quite unaware of the fact that his movements were watched.

Indeed, so intent was he on his work that he did not hear the noise occasioned by the opening of the window.

He was not so successful as he had anticipated in pushing back the chain; and while manipulating with his accustomed skill and perseverance he was suddenly awakened to the position of affairs by receiving a terrible blow between the shoulders, which seemed to take his breath away.

He faced round suddenly, when much to his discomforture he received another blow on the side of the head, which caused a thousand lights to flash before his eyes.

“Oh, you nasty burglarious wretch,” exclaimed the old woman above, who was his assailant. “You murderous villain!”

The speaker was flourishing a long house broom, with the thick end of which she delivered another blow on the burglar’s head.

Peace was quite unprepared for this unlooked-for assault; he caught hold of the broom and swore a terrible oath.

A struggle now ensued between the two, Peace held firmly on the end of the broom, and the old woman above clung tenaciously to the handle.

“Murder! thieves! police! help!” screamed the woman, in a shrill penetrating voice, which rang like a clarion note in the night air.

“You nasty, ugly, good-for-nothing, thieving scamp!” she continued. “You hideous, murderous wretch!”

Peace was terribly bruised; a noise as of rushing waters was in his ears, and his temples throbbed and ached most terribly.

By a violent effort he wrested the broom from the hands of his assailant.

He was wound up to a state of fury, and lost his usual prudence.

To be so unmercifully beaten by a woman was positively intolerable.

In all his adventures he had never been so cruelly used.

But he would not be baffled—​he would have reprisals.

He jumped on to the top of the stone facing of the balustrade which ran in front of the house, and, broom in hand, struck a defiant attitude.

“Don’t you think to master me, you vile, dirty slut,” he ejaculated; and, with these words, he aimed a blow at his enemy, who very prudently retired into the interior of the room.

The only effect the blow had was to smash one of the front windows.

“If I can only get in,” muttered Peace, “I shall be all right. I’ll soon silence that old Jezebel. Without doubt she has been left in charge of the house. I’ll give it her, worth her money, when I do get in. Curse it, how my head aches!”

He balanced himself on the top of the stonework, as deftly as ah acrobat; then he caught the edge of the balcony with the big end of his broom, and was preparing himself for a final spring when another actor came upon the scene.

A buxom servant girl appeared at the open window. She was armed with a mop.

Seeing that Peace was about to scale the balcony, she threw out the mop much the same as a Zulu does his spear, and delivered such a terrific blow on Peace’s face that he was hurled back, and fell upon the gravel path in front in a state of insensibility.

The old woman and her maid were masters of the field. Their foe remained prostrate and helpless in front of the citadel.

Again the cries “Help! Police!” rose in the air. They resounded far and near.

The servant girl now brought to the window a pail of dirty water, which she threw over the vanquished burglar.

This bad the effect of restoring him to consciousness. He made an effort to rise, but he was so dizzy, so utterly prostrated, that he was almost helpless for a time.

The mistress and her maid had the prudence not to sally forth till assistance had arrived, for they were by no means certain as to the real state of the enemy. He might, after all, only be shamming, and it would not be advisable to risk an engagement in the open field.

They had recourse, therefore, to “sound the alarm,” by repeated screams and cries for assistance.

Much to their delight, a constable opened the garden gate, and flashed his bull’s-eye in all directions.

By the light of his lantern he discovered Peace stretched on the garden walk.

“Now, then, get up, man,” said the constable to Peace.

“I can’t,” exclaimed the burglar. “I’m all but killed by those she dragons.”

“You can’t lie here all night. Get up, I say. What have you been doing?”

“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Peace, in a whining hypocritical voice. “Those infamous women!”

“Don’t listen to what he says, policeman,” interrupted the old lady. “He was breaking into the house, but we caught him just in time—​only just in time.”

“Do you charge him?”

“Certainly. Take him in custody. Of course I charge him—​the dirty blackguard!”

Another constable now presented himself, and the two carried Peace into the back parlour of the little cottage.

He presented a most pitiable appearance. Two great bumps as big as an egg were visible on his head; in addition to this his nose was bleeding, and a scar was observable on his face; this last being from the effects of the mop which had been handled so dexterously by the servant girl.

He was, moreover, wet to the skin, from the contents of the pail.

He had never been so cruelly dealt with before.

With his head between his hands, he groaned and moaned in a most piteous and abject manner.

“You’ve got the worst of it this time, old man,” said one of the policemen. “Are you sufficiently strong to walk to the station?”

“Me strong! I feel as if about to breathe my last,” cried Peace.

The two constables conversed apart for a little time—​then one left the house. He returned with a pony-cart.

“Now, then,” said the other, addressing himself to Peace, “as you are not able to walk, my man, we’ve got a conveyance for you.”

“I’m very bad,” said our hero, with a groan.

“Can’t help that. Get up, man.”

The two policemen, without more ado, lifted up the wounded burglar, and bore him nolens volens towards the cart, which stood just outside the garden gate.

Peace was lifted into this by his captors, and the vehicle was driven towards the station. During the journey Peace whined and moaned in a most piteous manner, declaring all the way that he was an ill-used man.

After being examined and attended to by the divisional surgeon, he was locked up for the remainder of the night.

Peace had been placed in a tolerably comfortable bed; his clothes were dried and brought into his room by early dawn. He was requested to get up; and, when dressed, was conducted to one of the cells adjoining the court, there to await his turn for examination.

He found, upon entering the cell in question, that it contained another occupant besides himself.

His companion in misfortune was a tall, slim young man, apparently twenty or thereabouts. In appearance he was what some persons would call genteel; certainly there did not appear to be anything of the ruffian about him.

Peace regarded him with a searching glance, but did not offer any observation.

To say the truth, he was miserably depressed. Every bone in his body ached, his temples still throbbed, and the bumps on his head were as sore and troublesome as they well could be.

Presently the young man—​whose name was Green—​addressed Peace.

“What are you up for?” said Mr. Green. This being a slang expression for “What are you charged with?”

“I don’t know at present,” answered Peace, sulkily. “What are you up for?”

“Slinging my book”—​a professional term for picking pockets—​“but I’m as innocent as the babe unborn,” added Mr. Green.

“Oh, of course,” returned Peace; “so am I.”

Mr. Green whistled and looked up at the roof of the cell.

“You just mind your own business,” said our hero, “and speak only when you’re spoken to.”

“All right, mate,” returned Mr. Green, “there’s no occasion to be humpy with a fellow—​but there, I’ve done.”

Leaving the culprits in their narrow prison house we will enter the court. The bench of magistrates have taken their places, the night charges are as yet not over. There were the usual amount of drunken cases, assaults upon women, and others of an unimportant nature. The last assault case is being heard; two men were in the dock with bruised faces and torn garments, with unkempt hair and unshaven beards; taken altogether their appearance could not be considered prepossessing.

A tall, well-dressed gentleman was in the box giving his evidence. He had a long, aquiline nose, the skin of which had evidently been damaged some few hours before.

He told his story in a quiet, undemonstrative manner. It appeared, according to his statement, that, as he was turning the corner of a street in the neighbourhood, two men suddenly sprang upon him and tripped him up.

He fell upon his face, and his nose was seriously injured. Being under the impression that the men were bent upon committing a robbery he shouted out lustily for the police. A constable came and he gave his two assailants in charge.

“And do you believe that they intended to rob you?” inquired the stipendiary.

“I certainly was under the impression at the time that they were about to do so, but I should be sorry to say so now after what I’ve heard. They committed an assault; the effects of their violence I feel now.”

“Did they strike you?”

“No, I don’t think either of them did, but they sprang upon me.”

“Did you see them before the assault?”

“No, sir. They appeared to spring suddenly out of a narrow passage. The attack was so sudden that I am unable to say with anything like exactness where they came from.”

“What have you to say to this charge?” inquired the magistrate of the prisoners.

“Please, yer honour, it’s all a mistake,” said one of the culprits. “Quite a mistake, I assure you. Nobody ever thought of hurting the gentleman in any way. I’m very sorry for what has occurred, and humbly beg his pardon, yer worship.”

“That’s no answer to the charge. After violently assaulting a passenger in the street in the manner you have done, it is but a poor satisfaction to the injured party to beg his pardon.”

“Well, gentlemen, I’ll tell yer how it happened if so be as ye’ll listen to me.”

“I’m all attention. Proceed.”

“It happened in this ’ere way. I was a walking down King-street last night when I seed this ’ere man—​his fellow prisoner—​he says to me, says he, ‘Do yer want any o’ this?’ and with that he up with his fists, and put himself in a boxing attitude. Well, yer honour, saving yer honour’s presence, I warn’t a goin’ to be put upon like that, and so I says to him, ‘You aint the man to give it me.’ ‘Aint I?’ says he. ‘No, ye’re not,’ says I. Well, gentlemen, them words were ’ardly out o’ my mouth, when he gave me a dab in the eye.”

“And you retaliated, I suppose.”

“I landed him one on the nose. With that he strikes out, and lets me have it on the jaw. Seeing as how he was a little too long in the reach for me, I closed with him, and we were a strugglin’ and a strugglin’ like anything. He forced me down a narrow passage, and tried to bump my head agen the wall of the court, not this court, yer honour, but the court or passage as runs out of King-street. Well, arter that I gets one of my feet agen the railing, and I shoves him out of the court with all my might. Just at that time, yer honour, the gentleman was a passin’, and we both on us run full butt agen him, but it warn’t no fault o’ mine, indeed it warn’t.”

The man had told his story in such a naive manner that roars of laughter proceeded from the body of the court, in which the bench joined.

“Do you know this man? Your fellow-prisoner, I mean,” inquired the stipendiary.

“No, yer worship. I never set eyes upon him afore he sed ‘do you want anything of this?’”

“What have you to say to the charge?” said the examining magistrate, addressing the other prisoner.

“I’m very sorry, gentlemen,” returned the man. “What he’s sed is all true enough. We were having a mill, and the gentleman ’appened to be coming by, and that’s how it was. I’ve never been in trouble afore, gentlemen.”

“What are you? What’s your occupation?”

“I’m a groom, yer worship.”

“You are a pair of silly troublesome fellows, and ought to be heartily ashamed of your conduct. It seems hardly possible that two men, who are perfect strangers to one another, and who, moreover, had no quarrel or dispute to settle, should break the peace in the foolish and ridiculous manner you have done. You really deserve to be imprisoned. However, as the gentleman whom you have assaulted does not wish to press the charge, we shall discharge you upon the payment of a fine of ten shillings each.”

Upon this the men were removed.

It appeared afterwards that they were unable to pay the fines, only being able to master up twelve shillings between them.

The gentleman, however, generously made up the difference.

This case concluded the night charges.

Mr. Green was now brought into court.

His countenance was the very personification of simplicity and injured innocence. He made a most respectful obeisance to the magistrates, and looked benignly at the spectators.

Mr. Green had the misfortune to be charged with picking pockets.

It was said that he was “a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles,” but his appearance belied the accusation.

The charge was read over, and the usual formalities gone through. The prosecutor was then put in the witness-box and sworn.

He stated that a crowd was collected in consequence of an accident in the street. A horse had run away; the wheel of the chaise he was dragging came into collision with a lamp-post, the chaise was overturned, its occupants precipitated into the roadway, and picked up in a senseless condition; the shafts were broken short off, and with these the horse galloped off.

The prosecutor was looking at the broken vehicle in the road when he felt a tug at his watch, and saw it fall against his waistcoat.

Turning round he seized Mr. Green by the collar, and promptly charged him with the theft, upon which the young gentleman burst into a flood of tears, and pityfully exclaimed two or three times—

“Oh, my poor dear mamma!”

So ingenuous indeed was Mr. Green’s manner that his fervent protestations of innocence would in all probability have had their effect upon the prosecutor had not the watch itself—​such was the cruel irony of fate—​been seen at the very moment to drop from his hand.

The case was, therefore, very black against Mr. Green.

The prosecutor, however, seemed to give his evidence with reluctance, being under the impression that it was the youth’s first offence.

“What have you to say to this charge?” inquired the magistrate.

“I hope you will be merciful to me,” said Mr. Green. “I’ll tell you the truth, sir. I’ve been led away by bad company day after day, and that’s what’s brought me to this—​it has indeed, sir. I trust you will have mercy on me as this is my first offence, and I’ll take good care it shall be my last, for I would not let my father and mother know, for this would break their hearts, and get me a bad name. I hope you will have the case settled here to-day, as I have been waiting a week, for I did not have nothing to do with the watch; but I leave it to you, sir, to determine. Only I am anxious that my dear father and mother should know nothing of the dreadful charge.”

“It is quite impossible for any rational person to believe in your innocence after the evidence that has been offered,” said the magistrate. “Still you are young, and may have been led into crime through bad associates, but that is no excuse.”

“Oh, do have pity on me!” exclaimed Mr. Green. “I’ll tell you the honest truth.”

The story which Mr. Green, to use a forensic phrase, invited the bench to believe, did great credit to his ingenuity, but there were other ugly facts brought forward which went far towards prejudicing him in the eyes of all present.

Mr. Green said in continuation:

“I came to Hull a short time since upon a little matter of business. In the train I met a young man who invited me to his house. When the train got to the station all the people got out, so did me and the young man. Soon after our arrival in the town we seed a crowd of persons in the street. The young man sed to me, ‘Here, I’ll get this gentleman’s clock,’ and he went up to this gentleman (pointing to the prosecutor) and pulled it out. He wanted to give it to me, but I would not take it, and the gentleman caught hold of me. This is how I got into this. But he (alluding to the prosecutor) did not get the right one, though I was with him. Gentlemen, have mercy on me do, for I am guilty of being with that young man who got away, but who ought to be here instead of me.”

The policeman who took the prisoner into custody, and was on the spot at the time of the robbery, was put in the box, and swore distinctly that he saw the watch drop out of Mr. Green’s hand.

“Oh, Mr. Policeman!” exclaimed the young gentleman, “how can you say such a thing?” Then, turning to the magistrates, he said, “It was a young man by me, gentlemen, and he ses to me, he ses, ‘Hold this ere,’ and he shoves the watch into my hand, an’ with that the constable he catches ’old of me and ses, ses he——”

“You must ask the witness what he said.”

“Thank you, sir, I will,” returned Mr. Green. “Now then,” said he, turning to the witness, “now then, wasn’t there a young man a standin’ by me when you came up?”

“No—​certainly not; there was no young man by you.”

“Ah! Mr. Policeman,” ejaculated the prisoner, in a deprecating tone, “how can you say so? Think again.”

“There was not,” repeated the witness.

“I don’t know what my father and mother will say to this, gentlemen,” exclaimed Mr. Green, blubbering. “I would not get my father and mother in any disgrace not, for anythink. I will take good care I never get into bad company again. When I get over this I will go home and be happy with my father and mother. Gentlemen, have mercy on me, gentlemen. If I come here again you may do as you like with me.”

Mr. Green, with all his cunning and affected innocence, showed a more than usual confidence in human nature, if he imagined that he could impose upon the bench of magistrates with so hackneyed a plea.

His line of defence was as well known between St. Paul’s Church-yard and Farringdon-street, as is the Propria que Maribus at Eton.

The magistrates, after consulting together, elected to send the case to the sessions.

The prosecutor was bound over in his own recognisances, and Mr. Green, “like Niobe—​all tears,” was taken back to his cell.

Peace, who had given the name of Parker when arrested, was now placed in the dock.

He glanced round the court to see if his female assailant was there to press the charge.

To his dismay he beheld the elderly female sitting on a bench by the side of the witness-box.

She was a tall, sharp-featured, angular, bony woman; her cast of features and general contour denoted inflexible determination.

Peace presented a most rueful appearance; two plasters covered the large and painful bumps on his head.

His face gave unmistakable evidence of the blow received from the housemaid’s mop.

Mrs. Pocklington, the prosecutrix, had engaged a solicitor to conduct the case.

After the usual formalities had been gone through, the gentleman in question rose and briefly narrated the circumstances which had led to the capture of the prisoner on the preceding night.

Mrs. Pocklington was then put into the box, and gave a succinct account of all that had transpired.

“Upon my word, Mrs. Pocklington,” said the chairman, when the lady had concluded, “it would appear that you are well able to protect yourself.”

“I hope I am,” returned Mrs. Pocklington, sharply. “It is not the first time an attempt has been made to break into my house.”

“I never attempted to break into her house, gentlemen,” cried Peace. “Don’t believe what she says; she’s almost killed me.”

“What were you doing at the front of her residence, then? And what right had you to be there at all? It is clearly a case of attempted burglary, but you had better reserve your defence; we have other witnesses to examine.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Peace; “I will not make any further observations at present.”

The servant girl was now placed in the box. She corroborated the evidence given by her mistress.

The two constables were next examined. They proved that the large lock of the door had been forced open—​proved also that housebreaking instruments were found upon the prisoner, together with a bunch of skeleton keys—​“and all these facts pointed to one conclusion,” said Mrs. Pocklington’s lawyer—​“namely, that the prisoner is a professional burglar.”

Unfortunately for Peace, this was proved beyond all question. A detective was placed in the box, who said he knew the prisoner well, that he had undergone one month’s imprisonment in December, 1851.

Peace denied this in a most positive manner; nevertheless his assertions had but little effect upon the bench, who decided upon sending the case for trial.

“I’ve been punished quite enough, I should think,” ejaculated Peace, “considering I never intended to rob the house—​but—”

“If you take my advice,” said one of the stipendiary magistrates, “you will reserve your defence. Anything you say now will be given in evidence against you, and it will in no way effect our decision. If you have a legal defence, reserve it till your trial comes on at the sessions. Do not prejudice your case by offering any observations.”

“I am obliged to you, sir, for your advice,” returned Peace “I have a defence, but if you have decided upon sending it to the sessions it is no use of my speaking now. Before I go, however, I hereby solemnly declare that that wicked old woman has not spoken the truth; she has committed perjury.”

“Don’t you dare to insult me, you nasty ugly little villain,” exclaimed Mrs. Pocklington, rising from her seat and shaking her umbrella menacingly at the speaker.

“Hush! Silence! Order in court!” cried the usher.

“Sit down, madam, if you please,” said one of the magistrates.

The old lady did as she was bid, but she kept rocking herself to and fro, muttering the while to herself inarticulate sentences.

Peace was removed, and found himself once more in his cell, in company with the ill-used Mr. Green.

Another prisoner was brought in—​he was charged with horse stealing.

There were an unusual number of charges to be heard at the court on the day in which Peace was examined. A gang of poachers were charged with an attempt to murder a gamekeeper in the neighbourhood. The prisoners who had been committed were therefore removed from the cells to make room for the fresh arrivals.

Peace, Mr. Green, and five others were conveyed to a lock-up which was situated at about two miles distant from the court. They were to remain there till the prison van returned to take them to the county gaol.

The lock-up in question has long since undergone demolition, and indeed at the time of which we are writing it was only occasionally used as a temporary and supplementary prison-house for offenders.

It was part of a large building originally erected as a receptacle for fraudulent debtors.

Peace and his companions were safely deposited in the prison van which conveyed them to what was in reality only a wing of the substantial-looking building.

They were conducted into a large lofty stone-room, with windows near to the ceiling, much after the fashion of Millbank prison.

In front of these were strong iron bars.

A long massive table stood in the centre of the cheerless apartment, and around this were arranged a number of chairs.

A cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and in front of this ran some strong iron bars as high as a man’s chest. These were supported and braced by iron uprights.

When Peace and his fellow-prisoners entered this place they found several other offenders already assembled therein.

The massive door, studded with iron nails, was slammed to and looked from the outside.

“What do they mean by bringing us to a crib like this when we are committed to the county gaol?” said Mr. Green, in a tone of disgust. “I shall enter an action agen them for unlawful detention.”

“You are particular,” cried a man seated at the corner of the fireplace. “You’ll be taken to the gaol soon enough, but it won’t be till after the rising of the court.”

“You seem to know all about it,” returned Mr. Green. “Thank you for the information.”

The batch of prisoners who had but just arrived now possessed themselves of the requisite number of chairs, and arranged themselves in a group apart from the others.

There was a dead silence for some time after this.

Peace was moody and thoughtful, and every now and then regarded his companions with a furtive glance.

He did not recognise any person with whom he had been previously acquainted.

“You all of yer look confoundedly down in the dumps,” said the man who had been charged with horse-stealing. “It’s no use giving way. Make your miserable lives as happy as you can—​that’s my motto.”

The man who gave utterance to this speech was about thirty-five years of age, and five feet seven in height, with a remarkably firm-knit frame.

His face was bronzed, his hair and eyes were jet black, the former hanging in ringlets over the latter; his mouth was coarse and sensual; his legs were slightly curved, which added to the general strength of his figure.

He wore a sloped-cut, dark-green coat, with metal buttons, a striped vest, which hung half-way down his thighs, over which were broad-striped corduroys, buttoned over the top of the knees, with loose cloth leggings, having gilt buttons to match.

On the whole his appearance denoted a groom possessing great muscular power, and a bully of ferocious determination, who would not hesitate a moment to carry out any undertaking in which he had embarked. For the rest he did not appear to be depressed by the situation in which he found himself placed; he was cheerful and loquacious.

“Listen to me, mates,” said this personage, rising from his seat. “If, as our friend has said, we are to remain here till the rising of the court, we shall, I’m afraid, find the time hang heavily on our hearts.”

“If we do, there’s no help for it,” said Peace, looking hard at the speaker.

“Right you are, my lad,” returned the other, who then proceeded with his discourse. “I was just a-thinkin’,” he observed, “which among us has the honour of being the biggest rogue. We’ve all been guilty, gentlemen, of doing something which has brought the wrath of our enemies down upon us. I myself am here for taking an airing on a pad one fine moonlight night. Now, I say, I wonder which is the biggest rogue in this batch of injured gentlemen?”

“Oh, shut up; that will do,” said a voice from the further end of the room. “What does it matter?”

“Well,” returned the other, “as far as that goes, I don’t know how it does much matter; but it aint in my nature to sit still like a dummy when in such good company as I now find myself. Let us relate to each other our own lives and doings. It will amuse some on us.”

“You begin with yours, then,” said Peace. “You’ve got the jawing tackle on, and won’t stand still for want of words, I dare say. I’m quite willing. What say you, gentlemen?”

There was a murmur of many voices, and some of those present expressed their willingness to listen to the story.

“Good, then; here goes to keep the game alive. I can say I am not related to any of the hupper classes; leastways not as I knows on—​my impression being that I was born under a hedge: I am a gipsy: this I dare say you have already guessed. Well, let me tell you a gipsy’s life is not without is charms. I believe I was cradled on a horse or a donkey, but this is what I’ve heard other people say.

No. 9.

“My earliest recollections bring to my view seven or eight hooped tents on the skirts of a common, eight or ten stunted sorts of horses, and five or six donkeys with here and there a fire on the ground, kettles hanging over them hitched on a cross-stick, supported by others fixed in the ground.

“Myself with four or five other children of my own age might be seen rolling on the grass just washed and refreshed by the morning dew.

“There, aint that a picter? But, Lord love yer, them days are passed, and the honourable race of gipsies are rapidly passing away before modern improvements, as they are termed—​and be hanged to them.

“Aint it a picture—​a gipsy encampment, I only ask ye that?”

“It is, without a doubt, quite a picture,” said Peace.

“I see you are a sensible man, sir,” remarked the gipsy; “but let me proceed with my story.

“As I grow up I was reckoned the best climber and runner in the camp. My elder brother, Ralph, undertook my edication.

“‘Will,’ ses he, one day, ‘come along with me.’ He took me to a pond at the remote corner of a common when he laid me down on my face across the edge of the bank.

He then covered me with briar, and giving me proper instructions went and drove the geese all that way, quietly to the spot where I lay.

As they waddled to reach the water, I, from under the boughs, grabbed at their legs and secured two on ’em. Didn’t I have a tuck-out when I got home off one of the geese?”

There was a roar of laughter at this part of the narrative.

“After this I got on fast in life; new scenes every day opened to me, and horse-dealing and horse-stealing became part of my business.

“We attended races and fairs, where the girls of our camp told fortunes, the old women set up togs for the children to throw at three shies a penny. My brother and others followed the thimble and garter rig, while I and father at times skirted the towns and villages to job swap horses.

“Sometimes I was sent off with a horse fifty miles away from his former acquaintances, there to await the arrival of our clan.

“When I was fifteen years of age I could ride and leap a ’oss with any jockey in the kingdom. A ’oss I liked better than anything in the world, and a prad has got me into my present difficulty; but it can’t be helped.

“It happened one day, as my brother and I were taking four chopped ’osses to a fair (we never ventured into a market with a prigged prad), a pack of hounds crossed the road, and presently a lot of swells came leaping over the hedge arter them. One of the last of these, togged in a scarlet coat, came rolling over the ’oss slap at Ralph’s feet.

“‘Hallo!’ said Ralph, ‘a regular spill.’

“Over went the ’oss on the t’other side into the field. ‘She’ll gallop home,’ said the huntsman.

“‘No she won’t,’ said I, and away I goes with my pony arter her. Well, I had a good chase, but I nabbed her, and getting into the saddle slap, I gallops back and took the hedge and ditch like a good un into the road where Ralph was rubbing down the swell.

“‘Good lad,’ said the huntsman. ‘Why he can ride a bit.’

“‘Ride,’ said Ralph; ‘I believe you, master.’

“‘Try her again,’ said the swell.

“So I puts the mare over the hedge and back agen, like a buck in full chase.

“‘Well done, excellent; you’re a brave boy,’ exclaimed the swell cove. ‘Do you want a place, my lad?’

“‘I could do very well with one, sir,’ I answered.

“‘Very well; if you do come to my stables,’ said he, and with that he handed me his card.

“Well arter he had gone I thought of what he sed, and the next day I ran over to the gentleman’s stables, when I met a chap cleaning a curb chain.

“‘What do want here?’ said the man.

“‘I want to see your master,’ I replied.

“‘Do you?’ he returned, with an impudent mocking laugh.

“‘If you take my advice, youngster, you’ll just hook it.’

“‘I shan’t do nuffin of the sort,’ ses I.

“He laid hold of a long riding whip, and told me to be off.

“‘Don’t you think I am afraid of you, big as you are’ I ses.

“With that he aimed a blow at me with the whip.

“I dodged on one side, and caught hold of the lash.

“We had a tussle. I wrested the whip from his hand, and gave him a sharp blow over the legs with the butt end of the weapon.

“Arter this we had a set-to. I floored him twice, when up comes my new master.

“‘Leave the lad alone,’ said the swell, addressing himself to my antagonist. ‘You’re a deal too fast.’

“‘He tried to break my leg,’ answered the man.

“‘I’ve seen the whole affair from the garden. You were the aggressor,’ said the gentleman, who then bade me follow him into the house.

“He took me into a fine room in which were seated several gentlemen, I s’pose they called themselves; and found them to be a fast lot. But I was a little surprised to hear them ‘my lord’ my master, and he ‘Sir Edgar’ and ‘Sir Thomas’ them.

“Well, the upshot of it was that they made bets that I would lick the groom, whom they called Andrew.

“We had a set-to. The fight lasted over five and twenty minutes, and I was declared victor.

“After this I had a chair among the swells, and drank wine out of a tumbler, and the footman brought me some sandwiches, while they talked of a lot of things in slang that puzzled me.

“I understood, however, that horse-racing, steeple-chasing, and dog fighting were the main subjects of their discourse.

“‘You give a rare account of the aristocracy,’ said Peace.

“‘I’ve had pretty much to do with them,’ returned the gipsy. ‘Well, the first night I went to bed in my lord’s house I couldn’t sleep a wink, the bed was so soft and uncomfortable. I got up early, and cleaned out the kennel. About eleven o’clock my lord and his friends came down the yard.

“‘Well,’ ses he, ‘have you had a look at the stud yet?’

“‘No, my lord,’ says I; ‘your chaps wouldn’t like that.’

“‘They’ll have to learn better manners,’ said my lord. He then had ’em all turned out—​eight or nine on ’em there were. ‘Harkye,’ said he to the men, ‘this is my training groom,’ pointing to me; ‘so for the future attend to his orders as coming from me. Put up the bar, and bring out Redfern, Curband, and Beeswing. We are going to have some leaping. Now,’ he said, addressing himself to me; ‘there will be some crack steeple horses here presently, and you must see what you can do with them. Jump up, and give these a breathing before the others arrive. Have the saddle put on which you like.’

“‘I don’t want a saddle, my lord,’ ses I; and up I jumped on a grey horse, named Custard, as I afterwards learnt.

“After I had made a few leaps, I placed shillings between my knees and the ’oss’s sides, and the same under my seat, and to their astonishment cleared the bar without displacing them.

“My lord was evidently delighted. He drew me on one side, out of earshot of the rest, and said, in a whisper, ‘You shall be my steeple-race jockey, but mind, don’t show all you can do at present.’

“‘All right,’ says I.

“‘I had no idea Custard could do so much till you rode him.’

“‘Why, my lord,’ said I, ‘I knowed the grey horse when a baby. I could win all the steeplechases in the country with him.’”

“Why, how came you to know the horse?” inquired Peace.

The gipsy looked at the questioner with one eye only.

“Why, Lord bless us,” he answered, with a merry twinkle in his eye, “father and I knowed every ’oss as was worth knowing in every country we travelled in, and got money by carrying information about ’em from place to place.

“Well, a great race was to come off soon after this. My lord had taken the field twenty to one over and over ag’in against Custard for the steeplechase which was to be run on the following week, so he stood to win eight thousand if I could bring Custard in a winner, and that I felt I could make sure of.

“But I must tell you, however, that my lord and I, after being so nutty upon one another, all of a sudden on this morning began to wrangle. First he began teaching me how to ride. Well, I couldn’t stand that nohow.

“I’m for commanding a ’oss light in the mouth, riding him as with a silken rein as fine as a hair, and which you feel afraid to break. My lord, who was a yokel in the management of ’osses, though he was good at a-getting money on ’em, as you shall hear presently, always gave his lads instructions to hold their ’osses tight in racing.

“Now, if a ’oss bears on his rein in running it makes him open his mouth, and pulls his head up, which frets him, and causes him to jump with his forelegs open, and run stag-necked, locks his wind, and soon tires him. ’Osses that run sprawling, with a part of the rider’s weight in their mouth, can never win a race if at all matched. I, however, likes to keep a ’oss together with a good bridle hand, being careful not to pull on the rein, or he can’t rise to the fence when he gets up to it.

“Arter a deal of argufying for sometime, his lordship gave in, and told me I had better ride as I liked.

“Well, I did have my own way, and the consequence was that I won four races with Custard, and a rare swag of money did my lord make.

“He was entered for the fifth race. Well, you must know that a few days afore this came off a great bull-headed man, who was a bruiser by profession, and a scoundrel by nature, come and ses to me—​‘Look here, Will, can’t Custard and you lose the race that’s coming off? It’s all right; you are to lose it—​so his lordship says.’

“‘Oh, indeed; that’s to be the little game—​is it?’ says I. ‘I can’t give you an answer at present, my noble.’

“So I goes to my lord, and blows the pumping, and all about the losing game.

“‘Well,’ said my master, ‘whatever the gentleman’—​he meant, of course, the bruiser—​‘tells you to do you must consider as my orders. You will be well paid.’ I didn’t like the task, but there was no help for it, I was bound to obey. But Custard didn’t seem to see it, and he would have run the race; so at the last leap but one I tumbled off and left him to do as he liked, and of course he lost it.”

“What a dirty piece of business!” said the man by the fireplace.

“Disgraceful!” exclaimed Mr. Green. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“It wasn’t nice,” said the gipsy, “and went against the grain. When I was limping across the field as if I was hurt, didn’t my lord swear at me like a good un afore everybody? He called me every name he could think of, but I bore it all like a lamb.

“I always thought my lord looked shy at me after this, and never treated me on the same footing as before.

“The truth is, if you once make yourself a rascal to serve a rich man he never likes to see you under his nose any more.

“About a month after this the ‘bruiser,’ whom I had never seen before the race, sends a gig over for me from the next market town, and when I gets there, ‘Well,’ says he, ‘my lord is going to sell his stud, and bids me say that he shall not want your services any more. He has sent you fifty pounds as a present.’ He handed me a note for that amount, which you may be sure I collared.

“‘Well, I am sorry he’s going to part with his stud,’ said I.

“‘It’s a pity a young fellow like you should lose a good berth,’ observed the ‘bruiser.’ ‘I am, however, glad to say that I’ve got you a situation in one of the first breeders’ establishments in the kingdom.’

“Then, pointing to a thick-set man in the room, he said, ‘This person will drive you to the place with this letter, and you’ll be all right—​better off, indeed, than you were in your old place.’

“I assented, and he placed me in charge of the little man whom he called Jim. He was a well-known tool of the ‘bruiser’s.’

“‘What sort of a shop is this you are a takin’ me to?’ said I to my companion.

“‘Oh! it is as right as the mail,’ answered he in a cheerful tone. ‘Good as gold—​that’s what it is. If you mind what’s said to you, and keep your eye on the main chance, you will be made for life. You’ll find it far better than serving a lord.’

“I did not like to inquire any further, but made up my mind to wait patiently till I knew more about matters, but could not help thinking, however, that there was something in the wind. The next day I went with him about fifty or sixty miles off to my new situation, which I was told was a topping establishment—​the biggest one there was in the sporting world.

“‘What will be my duties?’ I inquired of Jim.

“‘Well, you see, old man,’ he answered, ‘you’ll only be engaged as helping groom; but what of that? The guv’nor he’s a liberal sort, he is, an’ he’ll make it up to you, so that you’ll find it as good as the situation you have just left.’

“Well, I was installed in my new office, and found things comfortable enough. I had not been there more than a fortnight when Master Jim again made his appearance. He was mighty friendly, took me and treated me to a rattling good dinner, which I washed down with a plentiful supply of wine.

“He asked me if I wanted money, and said, at the same time, that I might, whenever I fancied a horse, have part of a bet in his book; in fact, I found him most amiable and considerate. But I wasn’t a born fool, and knew perfectly well what the pretended friendship of betting men was worth.

“He kept the game up all the winter, and came to see me frequently till the spring meetings came on at Newmarket.

“I expected something was up, and I was not mistaken.

“My master had a colt and filly bred of the best promise of the season.

“He was a big card in his way, and went in heavily for betting.

“When I got to Newmarket with the colt and filly there was Mister Jim all honey and butter as usual, and now came out the murder.”

“You may well call it murder, you vagabond,” exclaimed one of the prisoners. “I know all about the villainous transaction, and lost my fortune by that and other swindles of a similar description.”

“Well, don’t fall foul of me, master,” cried the gipsy, who eyed the speaker curiously. “There’s no call to use hard words now, seeing that we are here in limbo together.”

“Go on,” said the other prisoner. “I acknowledge that it was not your fault, but those who bribed you. Go on; I will not again interrupt you.”

“Well, as I said, out comes the murder,” said the gipsy, in continuation.

“Jim followed me when away from the stables like my shadow, till late one evening he got me into a by-lane.

“I saw something was a coming from the expression of his countenance, and I was not mistaken.

“‘I want to say a few words to you upon business matters,’ said he.

“‘All right,’ ses I; ‘fire away. I’m all ears.’

“‘Well,’ he murmured, ‘this is a queer world, and there are a lot of queer people in it. Some on ’em are fools, and some are rogues. If you try to live honestly you are doomed to remain a beggar, or next door to one.’

“‘I found that out a long time ago.’

“‘Did you? Ah, I suppose so. I think we shall be able to understand one another.’

“‘Ah, I dare say we shall—​leastways, I hope so. I aint too particular, you know.’

“‘I have brought with me a hundred pounds. You may have it upon one condition.’

“‘And what might that be?’ I inquired.

“‘Your colt and filly!’ he replied, with a meaning look. ‘In my pocket are six balls. I want one given to each of them to-night, one to-morrow morning, and one again to-morrow night.’

“‘Oh!’ I ejaculated, for his proposition had almost taken my breath away. ‘That’s it, is it? You want me to poison the poor brutes.’

“‘No, no,’ he quickly answered; ‘not poison—​only opium; the animals will be all the better for it—​their legs will be saved. They will go down in character for this two thousand stake, but come out another day low in the list, to the surprise of the knowing ones.’

“‘I don’t like the job,’ I exclaimed, ‘that I tell you plainly—​I don’t like it at all.’

“‘That may be, but you’ll do it—​you must!’

“‘When am I to touch?’ said I.

“‘Immediately after the race comes off. Our people are honourable, and just in all their dealings.’”

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed half a dozen of the prisoners, simultaneously.

“In a manner of speaking,” returned the gipsy. “That’s what Jim wished me to understand. He said he would take their word for thousands.

“Well, I took the balls—​the colt and filly ran like cows, and I got the coin.

“Three times afterwards I did the physicking game while in my employer’s service. I believe he suspected something, and discharged one man after another, till it came to my turn, and I was sent adrift without a character.

“‘And serve you right, too,’ said Peace. ‘What else could you expect?’

“I had no right to expect anything else, and if I had I should have been disappointed. I was now like a fettered dog, obliged to crouch before the glance of my keeper. Jim had only to say do this or do that, and I was forced to obey.

“Duplicate keys were given me to enter stables by night, and when these did not answer I broke open the doors to hocus ’osses for those who gave out their orders, till at last I and three others had a command to poison the water from which a whole stable of race-’osses were supplied. The game was now up; my employers made a fortune and escaped all danger.

“They were, however, suspected, but as they had touched the blunt and obtained credit of being down to a thing or two they were followed more than before.

“One of their tools was grabbed and had six years of it. I and two others cut our sticks just in time.

“After a twelvemonth’s hide we came back, but we could not get anything to do. Jim told us that we had managed the thing badly, and that his employers had cut him off without giving him a ‘quid’ for his trouble.

“‘Foul deeds deserve foul play,’ said the moody prisoner in the corner. ‘It is the moral law, and grievous ought to be the penalty exacted from all who take part in them. Retributive justice has overtaken you, Bandy-legged Bill. You perceive I am acquainted with your nickname. But what became of the lord, your former master?’

“‘Why,’ replied the gipsy, ‘I knowed he was in it all from first to last, and had picked me up to serve his own ends. I dogged him one morning going down to the stables.’

“Please, my lord,” says I, coming the crawl to him, ‘I am an ill-used man.’

“‘Indeed! And who has ill-used you, Will?’ he asked, as if he had been my best friend. So I took courage, and up and told him all.

“‘And who is Jim Dempster?’ said he, when he had heard me out, looking as innocent as a blessed saint.

“‘Why, the agent of your friends who belong to the big betting firm where I was after I left you. Jim is the little man you spoke to the other day at Ascot about the running of Butterfly.’

“‘My friends, you scoundrel! How dare you call those fellows my friends?’ he cried out. ‘Perhaps you, too, are a friend of mine, as you have been my groom and rode my horses. Don’t you have the audacity to speak of such persons as my friends again.’ Then turning as serious as a barn owl, he looked me in the face, and continued, ‘You have escaped the law, my man, this time. Take my advice, quit bad company, and turn to an honest course of life. But, mark me, if ever you cross my path again, and are impudent enough to speak to me, I shall give you into custody on your own confession,’ and away he strode to the stable.

“‘Hang it all, this is cheeky for a youngster, lord or no lord,’ says I. ‘I don’t think I could have done it better myself.’

“I can’t tell you how I lived for the next two or three years. It was, perhaps, something after the manner of the dog who has no master—​to-day, I might be feeding on garbage; to-morrow, snatching a bone from a smaller and weaker dog; and a third time, waiting for the refuse of those who were over-gorged. Like a fly, I dipped into every man’s cup that came into my way; but, strange to say, all this time it never came into my head to look back on a gipsy’s life.”

“Shall I tell you why?” muttered the man in the corner. “There is a charm in a vagabond’s wayward life which none but a vagabond can appreciate.”

“What is a gipsy’s life but that of a vagabond state of existence?” inquired Peace.

“True,” returned the other. “Granted, but not precisely in the same degree as the one he had been following. He had known what a wayward life was in the country, but the town loafer’s life was new to him, and brought fresh charms—​yes, charms, I will call them. There is positively a fascinating spell in a life of monetary casualty which is a mystery to those who are well provided for in life. Even the extreme of misery does not break the spell. Sadness oftentimes twines itself around the strings of the heart, while it releases and softens them.

“I knew a corner in a tap-room of a public-house resorted to by cadgers which was called the dead man’s corner, because numbers of decayed beggars had made it their sleeping place, and in that spot one had breathed his last. The seat was frequently at a premium among aged beggars.”

“Ah, I say, draw it mild, old man,” said several voices.

“It’s a fact,” returned the man in the corner.

No two specimen of the human species could form a stranger contrast than the gipsy and the man in the corner, or the “Croaker,” as the former designated him.

The gipsy was full of robust health, of life, and animation.

The “Croaker” resembled more the skeleton of a murdered man than a living subject.

The attenuation of his figure conveyed to the mind the horrible idea of a man just terminating his life under a sentence of starvation.

His eyes resembled dirty gray glass, and a countenance, when unmoved, adorned with features cut in marble, or moulded in cast iron, impressing those who looked on him with the idea that for once nature had made a man without feelings or affections.

Warmth, ardour, sensibility, and the sentiment of friendship had all, however, reigned successively in the collapsed breast of that frame, of which nothing was left but the bare walls, lighted by the last flickerings of the vital spark of that intellect which had brought reflection and worn him to the bone.

He was a mere wreck. Remorse for an ill-spent and sinful life had eaten like a canker worm into his heart.

Peace was particularly struck with the emaciated man who sat in the corner, and who every now and then offered some observation as the gipsy shadowed forth his career. He would have liked to learn something of his history, and indeed it was understood that he was to be the next speaker.

“Get on with your biography,” said the man in the corner.

“I’ve not much more to tell,” returned the gipsy. Let’s see, where was I?

“Oh, I was down at low-water mark, and didn’t know how to get on. One cold, dark, rainy, boisterous night, the whole of which I had passed in the streets penniless and hungry, drove me almost to desperation. It had often come into my head to knock down and rob the first person I met, but every crime requires a beginning before it can be done with ease and firmness.”

“True,” ejaculated the man in the corner, “I know it well. If Jem Dempster had put you on to poisoning the trough at starting you would have backed out; but he first put you on to hocussing, and you soon came to the poison like an old un in the trade.”

“Cease moralising,” called out several of the auditory.

“The morning was dimming the already dimmed lamps when at the corner of Park-lane I saw a chap who had been in the stables with me.

“He recognised me and spoke a few words of comfort after I had told him my story; he did more than this—​he lent me a little ready cash. He informed me that he was in a good situation, being groom to a gentleman in North Audley-street. He was a right good sort and stood by me like a brick, helping me in every way he possibly could during the time I was out of collar.

“Well, to cut along story short, after this I became an ’oss dealer, in which honourable profession I remained, till one night a cunning ’oss coaxed me to put the saddle on his back, and would not be satisfied till I got into it: when he rode away with me—​for which they put me in quod instead of the ’oss.

“Now, my old ourang-outang,” said the gipsy, addressing himself to the emaciated man, “let us have an account of your times when you were in the land of the living.”

“I had thought,” responded the prisoner addressed, “that I had some weeks since achieved a victory over memory and buried all recollections of the past. I had shut myself wholly in passive resignation to the future without suffering myself to revert to the bygone events of my life, the frequent reference to which had previously worn me to the object you now behold. But that man,” pointing to the gipsy, “has broken down the barrier within which I had taken shelter. He has, in a few words, informed me of the causes of my ruin. His villainies have brought me here.

“The family of which I am an unworthy member was more distinguished for its ancestors than for its possessions.”

The speaker had got thus far when the ponderous lock of the door was turned, and a police sergeant and two constables, accompanied by a prison warder, entered.

“Now then, prisoners, this way,” said the sergeant.

The culprits rose from their seats. Peace, the gipsy, Mr. Green, with several others, were conducted to the prison van, or “Black Maria,” as it is termed by criminals.

The cadaverous-looking man was abruptly cut short in his narrative.

Most persons will doubtless remember having seen the ominous-looking vehicle called “Black Maria” going to and from the various police offices and the metropolitan prisons. It is not unlike a hearse in external appearance, and is suggestive of one of the darker phases of metropolitan and provincial criminal life.

On mounting the steps of the sable vehicle Peace was ushered into a passage running up the centre from end to end of her Majesty’s carriage. A number of dark doors were on each side, through one of which he was gently pushed by one of his janitors.

He then found himself shut up in a close box on a seat, not too well ventilated nor too clean.

This was not the first time he had been inside a prison van. He had not been much impressed with its comfort on the former occasion, when he first made its acquaintance; now he was disgusted with it, for it brought to his recollection the many ignominious circumstances connected with his first conviction.

When the outer door was shut and locked the vehicle proceeded on its journey.

His companions in misfortune or crime—​whichever of the two it might be—​did not appear to be so depressed, so moody, and so thoughtful, as our hero.

He heard the sound of their voices in his narrow compartment.

Some were calling to each other by name, it might be said, in a jocund and familiar manner. Mr. Green’s voice was distinctly audible above the hubbub of the rest.

“He’s a sharp sort of a chap that gipsy,” murmured Peace. “I should have liked t’other cove to have time to tell his tale. Ah, this is a bad business. What a spiteful, vindictive old cat!”

This last observation of course referred to the relentless Mrs. Pocklington, from whom he could not Hope to secure clemency. He was perfectly well assured that she would “prosecute to the utmost rigour of the law,” to quote the words so often to be seen on warning sign-posts.

On arriving in the court-yard of the county gaol, the prisoners were marshalled in a narrow-vaulted passage, where they were made to stand in a row.

The deputy-governor, in plain uniform, attended by a cordon of officials, was ready to receive them. He was a tall, military-looking personage, with a broad face and a large bushy beard.

He gave a short preliminary cough, and took from the conductor of the prison van a number of papers, one for each prisoner.

He glanced at these, and then proceeded to call out the names, which the prisoners answered to, some in a jaunty, and others in a quiet tone and manner.

Having satisfied himself that the requisite number of culprits were then and there present, he folded up the papers in a mechanical manner.

When this ceremony had been gone through the new arrivals were conducted to their quarters.

The cadaverous-looking man was the first to be removed. He looked so weak, so borne down, that even the officials regarded him with something like compassion. To their credit we must record that they treated him with kindness and consideration—​that is, as far as the rigid prison discipline would allow.

Peace was told to follow a warder. The bumps on his head were still very painful, and, taken altogether, he presented a most pitiable and abject appearance. He said to his janitor, as they went along, that he had been most cruelly used, and told him, moreover, that he was perfectly innocent of the charge upon which he had been committed.

The warder was so accustomed to hear statements of a similar character from prisoners that he did not take much heed of Peace’s declaration of innocence.

He merely nodded, and ushered his prisoner into a stone cellar-like place, where there were a number of small rooms with baths in them.

Peace was directed to enter one and undress. He obeyed without making any observation, knowing well enough, from his former experience of prison life, that it would be useless to offer any objection.

When he had undressed his clothes were taken from him, and underwent a careful scrutiny—​the pockets in the garments were turned out, and all prohibited articles removed.

All this was done in a methodical, systematical way. An inventory of these things was taken, and Peace was told that any of his friends, on calling to see him, might take them away.

“I don’t know why I should be stripped of all I possess, but if it’s the rule I suppose there’s no use murmuring,” said Peace.

“It is the rule,” quietly observed the warder. “You are treated precisely the same as all the other prisoners. Now you must have a bath.”

“I’ve no objection to that,” cried Peace.

The bath room was scrupulously clean; the water looked as clear as crystal, and Peace plunged in.

On re-dressing, he was conducted by the warder up a flight of stairs into a large, lofty hall, on each side of which were galleries.

In each gallery was a warder in uniform. With the exception of the halls and corridors the building was almost entirely divided into an immense number of small apartments. These were homely inside, but exquisitely clean.

Prisons at this time might be said to be in a transition state. In some the old system remained in full force. The two systems vary in their aims. Under the old, prisoners awaiting their trials were allowed to mix together in wards.

In such places as these the criminals of the olden times—​common thieves, pickpockets, burglars, and others—​had, no doubt, many of them, in their own way, a jolly time of it.

They were supplied with provisions by their pals and relatives, and were not compelled to live on prison fare.

As many as twenty would be found at times in one of these wards under the old system, which were nurseries of crime—​so it is said—​the old hardened felon contaminating the young and inexperienced.

Then, as now, the prisoners did not do any labour before trial, but after conviction they were sent to correctional prisons.

Under the new system the prison is intended to be a penal hospital for the cure of diseased and contagious souls.

The one in which Peace found himself was of the latter class.

On his reaching the first gallery a number was shouted out in a loud voice by his attendant. One of the warders came forward and conducted Peace to his cell.

He was told what to do in case he wished to speak to a warder. It was pointed out to him by his custodian that everything was clean and in its place, and that he was expected to keep it so.

He was also informed that if he liked to pay another prisoner for cleaning his cell he could, by permission of the governor, have it done for him, but otherwise he would have to do it himself.

All these matters he knew, but he did not care to say so. He also knew by heart the printed list of rules to which his attention was next directed.

He said he was too ill to clean his own cell at present, and would rather pay another prisoner to do the work.

He was very clever at shamming illness, but on this occasion he really was in a weak state.

The door was shut with a horrid discordant sound, and Peace then was fairly caged, and felt miserable to the last degree.

He remained for some time moody and thoughtful. After awhile he rose from his seat, and proceeded to examine his narrow prison house. It was a stone or brick-arched room, some fourteen feet by seven; the furniture was in no way superfluous. A bedstead, consisting of the side walls of the apartment; polished steel staples were fixed in these walls, two on each side, at an elevation of about two feet and a half. The occupant’s mattress has two short steel hooks at each end, these are hooked into the staples, so he lies across his abode. A deal table, the size of a pocket-handkerchief, also a deal seat; a bright copper wash basin, fastened to the wall, with a water tap over it so ingeniously contrived, that turned to the right it sends a small stream into the basin, and to the left into a bottomless close stool at some little distance. There were three shelves in one corner.

An iron enamelled plate, a tin mug, wooden spoon, and salt box, and a piece of soap were arranged on the two lower shelves.

“How cursedly clean and staring everything is,” exclaimed Peace, in a tone of disgust. “The things seem to glare at you. Ugh! this is about the most contemtible piece of business I ever knew; but, law, they’ll never convict upon such a trumpery charge.”

He was under the full impression that he would be acquitted.

A great many people are committed by magistrates for trial that are not found guilty. There are many cases where a magistrate will not take upon himself the responsibility of deciding a case, which he prefers being disposed of by the verdict of a jury.

It does happen sometimes that a perfectly innocent man is committed for trial, and it does appear hard, not to say unjust, that he should be subjected to the many indignities and privations which prisoners have to endure.

The law holds that every man is innocent till he is found guilty, and there should certainly be some better arrangement in respect to prisoners who are awaiting their trial.

We question much whether it is advisable for them to be sent to the same prison with others who are convicted.

Many a man at the close of his trial has left the court “without a stain upon his character.” Yet he has had to pass through a painful ordeal, which possibly he will not forget for the remainder of his life. This ought not to be.

Men untried should be treated very differently from the way they are so long as they are kept secure from escape; the main object of their detention is effected. But a man who is unjustly accused, sent to prison, and afterwards proved innocent, bears with him the unpleasant reflection that some mischievous and evil-disposed person is sure to be found who will whisper mysteriously to others “So-and-so was charged with larceny, but he was acquitted.”

With some persons the very fact of having been accused would be prejudicial, but these are things the reader may perhaps exclaim, “It is not possible for the wisest of us to prevent!”

Granted; but that is no reason why every precaution should not be taken to protect the innocent man.

These observations, however, do not apply to such hardened offenders as Peace, who is included in the category of habitual criminals, or, to make use of a stronger term, professional thieves.

Peace, as may readily be imagined, deplored having made an attempt to enter the “Gothic Cottage” in the occupation of Mrs. Pocklington. He came to the conclusion that that was one of the most stupid things he had ever been guilty of.

His first night in the county gaol was by no means an agreeable one.

The first night in any prison is generally one of bitterness and gall to the unhappy prisoners; but our hero felt humiliated at the contemptible part he had been playing to be knocked about by an old woman until he was rendered nearly senseless, and in that state to be captured without even making an attempt to escape, was most aggravating.

The more he reflected upon the matter the more humiliated did he feel.

His sleep was broken and disturbed during the greater portion of the night.

At six o’clock in the morning he was aroused by the resonant sound of a large bell. He arose and hurried on his clothes.

The door of his cell was thrown open by a stalwart warder, who passed on to make room for the deputy governor and another warder. This last-named personage carried in his hand a large book.

“Do you wish to see the doctor?” inquired the governor.

“Thank you, sir,” returned Peace. “I do not think there is any necessity for that. I am better than I was; the bruises on my head are less painful.”

“And your cell. Do you intend to clean it yourself, or procure a substitute?”

“I’ll do my best to clean it.”

The name he had given at the police-court was now entered on the list in the warder’s book.

Two brushes were then given him, with which he was directed to polish the floor of his cell; and the warder instructed him as to the regulation mode of stowing his hammock and mattress on the shelf, and folding up his blankets and rug.

All these details are easy enough to those who have been accustomed to manual labour, but they are of course very hard to one who has been gently nurtured, or moved in a respectable sphere of life.

This is why prison discipline falls with such unequal force upon different classes of culprits. To a navigator, excavator, or labourer of any description, the treadwheel is a mere trifle in comparison to the effect upon those who have never been used to manual labour.

Every morning Peace had to go on his hands and knees and polish his cell floor, as well as wash and scrub the table, stool, basin, and every article in the room.

This was not a particularly hard task to him, while to others it would have been one of infinite labour.

When the brief interview with his gaolers was over, his breakfast was served through the little trap in the door. It consisted of a pint of gruel and a slice of bread.

A starving man will eat anything, it is said; but I expect many of my readers would have turned aside in disgust at the breakfast.

Peace devoured it with something like a relish.

There can be no possible reason for denying unconvicted prisoners the luxury of a cup of tea or coffee for their morning’s meal.

We never could “abear,” as Mrs. Gamp says, gruel under any circumstances.

But, of course, all men are not constituted alike.

After breakfast he was told to prepare for chapel.

On stepping outside his cell he was directed to turn round with his face to the cell door, to take his Bible, prayer, and hymn-book in his hands, and to hold them behind his back.

This, again, is an unnecessary piece of assumption on the part of the prison authorities when dealing with an unconvicted person—​one, indeed, for aught they know, may be as innocent of the crime laid to his charge as they are themselves.

He had ample opportunity of contemplating the outside of the door, and seeing how the various mysterious appliances connected with it were worked.

Being of a mechanical and, in many respects, ingenious turn of mind, he was naturally interested.

He regarded with great curiosity the spy-hole over the trap-door, and was at no loss to comprehend how it was constructed.

It was evident enough that the inmate of the cell could not see any person on the outside, but it was equally clear that a watcher outside could command the entire range of the prisoner’s apartment.

A number of prisoners were assembled in the passage; Peace was told to join them.

Then the whole of the culprits were marched along the stone passage until they came to a large low-roofed hall.

From this they ascended a dark winding staircase, which led into the chapel.

Peace observed among the motley group the gipsy, Mr. Green, the cadaverous-looking gentleman who was about to give the history of his life in the lock-up, together with many others whose faces he recognised.

The last-named looked even more ghastly than ever.

Nods were exchanged, but not a word was spoken by any of the prisoners.

The chapel was a good-sized lofty room. In it were two large cages—​large spaces parted off with iron bars.

Over these was a gallery, with a thick curtain in front, which had been constructed for the exclusive use of the female prisoners.

In one of the cages were about sixteen, who had been tried and sentenced, and were waiting to be drafted off to the several prisons or convict establishments.

All were cropped and shaven close, every vestige of beard being removed, and their hair cut down to about an inch in length.

They were clad in rough grey jackets, trousers, and vests, with coarse blue-striped shirts.

While the male prisoners were assembling the female portion were coming into the chapel by another door, and sat in their own gallery, quite out of the sight of the male prisoners. Two female warders sat behind the female prisoners, and two male warders took their station on each side of the males.

The congregation was of a very motley character: the generality of the boys were poor and ragged; some of them were very keen-eyed and restless in their manner—​others were apparently the children of respectable parents.

Presently the chaplain entered in his white gown, followed by an elderly warder, who officiated as clerk.

During the devotional exercises most of the prisoners leaned forward on the seat in front of them.

On one side of the pulpit and reader’s desk was the governor’s pew, in which was seated that awful functionary. He was a tall, elderly man, with a partially bald head.

When the service was over and the chaplain had retired, the governor was the first to lead the way out. The door was unlocked by his deputy and down stairs the prisoners were marched in military order.

“You look very ill, sir,” whispered Peace to the cadaverous-looking man who was now next to him.

“Going home,” returned the other. “It matters not whether they convict or acquit me, my race is nearly run.”

“Silence,” exclaimed a warder.

Not another word was spoken. The prisoners went along with their hands behind them like so many schoolboys. The ceremony was humiliating to the last degree.

Peace was directed to cross over to a little office where the governor was standing.

He was then told to take off his boots and stand under a post with numbers on it, with a sliding piece of brass in its centre.

It was a machine for measuring his height.

This was recorded in a book by a clerk.

He was then asked his name, his age, where born, the date of his birth, trade or profession, married or single, together with a variety of other questions, which in most cases were seldom answered truthfully; nevertheless it was a ceremony which had to be gone through.

After it was over he was introduced to the chaplain, whose room was in close proximity to the chapel.

The manner of the rev. gentleman was kind and conciliatory. He asked Peace if he could read and write; the answer was in the affirmative.

“Have you got good legal advice?” inquired the chaplain.

Peace informed him that he had written to his mother to retain the services of an able advocate, and he felt quite sure that he should be acquitted, as he had no felonious intent.

“I hope and trust you may. I feel assured that you will have a fair trial,” said the clergyman, who then informed our hero that he could have any books he liked from the library in the prison to beguile the hours during his imprisonment.

“You are very kind, sir, and I have to offer you my heartfelt thanks,” said Peace, who was touched by the first words of consolation he had heard since his incarceration.

“In writing to your friends,” said the divine, “I must give you a warning. All letters are opened by the governor before they leave the prison.”

“Then I think it most unfair,” cried Peace.

“We will not discuss that question; it is a rule which is invariably carried out, and therefore I deem it my duty to inform you of it. I advise you also to destroy all letters that come to you as soon as read.”

“I will most certainly do so, sir,” returned Peace, who again thanked the chaplain most sincerely for his information and advice.

He returned to his cell in a much more composed state; he looked hopefully to the future. After all, things were not so bad as he had at first supposed.

Soon after he had returned to his cell he received a visit from the governor, who, like any other commander-in-chief, was attended by his aide-de-camp.

“They’re very attentive to me,” all of a sudden muttered our hero, as he caught sight of the governor, who inquired if he wanted anything, looking up and down the cell with a searching glance.

“I’m told I may have a few books to read,” said Peace.

“Certainly—​by all means you can.”

“Then I should like to have one or two.”

The prison official nodded, and before Peace had time to make any other requests he had vanished.

Half an hour after this a number of books were brought to the prisoner to choose from.

He selected two, which he was allowed to retain, with the understanding that there were more at his service when he had perused the two volumes.

The records of prison life are necessarily monotonous. The poor prisoners find to their cost their state of existence especially so; but it is impossible that it should be otherwise.

No. 10.

We have endeavoured to give as faithful a picture as possible of the treatment of prisoners while in gaol awaiting their trial.

Many an innocent man has to put up with all the indignities we have described, and has been forced to suffer in silence, for no one seems to have much sympathy for persons who have the misfortune to be wrongfully accused.

They must get out of the scrape as best they can.

The public, however, every now and then awakens to the fact that a great wrong has been done, and then an outcry is raised, and it goes to sleep again.

We have an instance of this in the case of a clergyman who had the misfortune to be suspected of having committed what is known as the Coram-street murder.

This case is of a remarkable and exceptional character, and incontestably points to what might be termed spasmodic sympathy or charity, evinced on many occasions towards foreigners by a certain section of the people of this country, who deem it expedient to close their eyes to far more deserving cases of suffering endured by their own countrymen, while they are lavish in their subscriptions to recompense a foreigner.

Many of our readers will doubless remember the particulars connected with the tragedy in Coram-street.

On Wednesday, Dec. 25th, 1873, a dreadful murder was discovered to have been committed at 12, Great Coram-street, Brunswick-square, the victim being a woman named Harriet Buswell.

She had been seen on the previous night at the “Count Cavour” hotel, in Leicester-square, with a foreign gentleman.

The woman and her male companion left the hotel together.

It appeared that two persons, one of whom was the deceased, called at a greengrocer’s shop near to Coram-street.

On the Christmas morning she was found by the landlady of the house in which she resided dead on her bed, with her throat cut under the ear, severing the jugular vein, and there was another deep gash lower down.

Life was quite extinct.

The door of the room in which she was found was locked on the outside, and the key taken away; but, strange to say, there were no marks of blood on the door, nor on the walls or bed, as if the blood had spurted from the wounds.

The face of the victim was perfectly calm, but on the forehead there was the distinct print of a thumb, and a little lower down the mark of the palm of the hand in blood, as if, after the first wound had been inflicted, the poor creature had been held down by the left hand while the second wound was inflicted.

The appearance of the man who went home with the unfortunate woman was described by the inmates of the house, but he left without any one observing him.

Suspicion fell on a German clergyman named Hessel. The waiter at the “Count Cavour” hotel and the greengrocer at whose shop Harriet Buswell called with the gentleman who accompanied her home, swore most positively Hessel was the man who was in company with the murdered woman on the night of the 24th (Christmas Eve), and that he and Harriet Buswell called at his shop and purchased some apples.

Dr. Hessel was examined at Bow-street, and his legal adviser said that he was in a position to prove an alibi, the prisoner being at an American hotel in the east end of the town during the whole of the evening in question (Christmas Eve).

He asked for a remand of eight days for the production of witnesses.

This was granted, and on the next examination Dr. Hessel was released, the alibi being deemed a sufficient proof of his innocence.

This is a brief epitome of the case. There were, however, one or two other suspicious circumstances of minor importance, which it is now not necessary to dwell upon.

The evidence of the waiter and greengrocer, both of whom had ample time and opportunity of observing the features of the accused, was so direct and positive as to justify his detention.

Many suspected persons have been remanded upon much lighter testimony—​have endured all the hardships of imprisonment without any expression of regret on the part of the executive or the public, but a loud outcry was raised at the injury sustained by Dr. Hessel.

There was a general desire on the part of the public to send the ill-used gentleman from these shores—​not only compensated in pocket, but compensated in mind and feelings.

In the cruel penitentiary called the “House of Detention,” says a daily paper, at the time of his imprisonment, he was treated as a felon; and every untried man, however innocent, obtains there a sharp foretaste of the punishment that follows conviction.

Dr. Hessel gave a vivid description of a few of his experiences in the Clerkenwell torture-house.

The pens of indignant journalists were actively at work to chronicle the sufferings of the accused gentleman.

The writers for the Press suddenly discovered that the treatment of prisoners and suspected persons generally was a scandal to this country.

Our present system has been in operation a good many years, and it was therefore the more surprising that it was not assailed before, and still more so that it has not been so since.

A general feeling of regret was expressed by all classes—​from the Queen to the artisan—​that the doctor should have been subjected to so much annoyance, inconvenience, and indignity.

What can be more “gushing” than the following document, which was handsomely engrossed and written both in English and German, and presented to the German doctor:—

“On behalf of the committee of English and German gentlemen acting for the Rev. Godfrey Hessel, pastor designate of a German Lutheran congregation of Moniz, in the Brazils, we beg to state that he was arrested in London upon a false accusation, and after a most searching investigation—​overwhelming evidence having been given establishing beyond a doubt his entire innocence of the false and cruel charge—​was, on January 30, 1873, acquitted by the presiding magistrate, amidst cheers from the court, as free from suspicion. The acute and unmerited sufferings which Dr. Hessel had to undergo by a grievous and palpable error having called forth a national subscription, the amount, consisting of £1,250, is hereby offered him as the testimony of the universal sympathy felt for him by all classes, and with the assurance that the sincere wishes and prayers of many thousands of German and English friends for his health and happiness, and a long and prosperous career, will follow him to his destination.”

Knowing as much as we do of the merits of the case we cannot do otherwise than designate the above effusion as being what our transatlantic cousins would call “bunkum.”

Upon the first examination at Bow-street Dr. Hessel’s legal adviser declared that there were ten or a dozen persons staying at the same hotel as the accused, and that they were all engaged in distributing the various articles attached to a Christmas tree.

It was not a little remarkable that some of them did not come forward to give evidence on the first hearing.

Eight days were allowed to pass over, and on the second and final hearing of the case only two witnesses were produced to prove the alibi.

One of these was the night porter of the hotel, the other being a young German, who professed to be a personal and intimate friend of the prisoner.

The murderer of Harriet Buswell has never been discovered—​indeed, upon the discharge of Dr. Hessel the matter seemed to drop; no attempt was made to arrest any other person.

As far as the unfortunate woman, Harriet Buswell, was concerned, her fate did not seem to affect people in the slightest degree, the only regret being that the reverend gentleman should have been wrongfully accused.

Taken altogether, the Coram-street tragedy and the circumstances surrounding it must be deemed of an exceptional character.

The sum of money subscribed on this occasion is without precedent in any case of a similar nature.

Some years before this a clergyman of the Church of England was convicted of indecent assault upon the testimony of two little girls.

He was sentenced to a long term of penal servitude for several years, was imprisoned in one of our convict establishments, and was forced to endure all the hardships, labour, and misery to which convicts are subjected.

It transpired afterwards that he was perfectly innocent. This was proved beyond the shadow of a doubt. The girls confessed that they had been tutored by their aunt to give false evidence, and that there was not a shadow of truth in any of their statements.

The clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Hatch, was released, the girls convicted of perjury, and there was an end of the matter.

The injury sustained by Mr. Hatch cannot be estimated with anything like accuracy—​it is incalculable; yet we never heard of a single shilling being subscribed for this cruelly used gentleman, who was as guiltless as any one of the readers of this work.

But we should bear in mind that he was an Englishman; had he been a German probably the case would have assumed quite a different aspect.

In referring to the Coram-street case, the Cologne Gazette said at the time that the English sympathy with Dr. Hessel had taken too material a shape to be altogether appropriate.

Sympathy in itself was merited, but, beyond that of repayment of costs and free fare to Brazil, no pecuniary recompense was due to the clergyman.

We expect most of our readers will endorse the opinion expressed by the German journalist.

Peace was never much of a reader at any period of his life, but during his incarceration he relieved the tedium of the hours by perusing the volumes he had selected from those brought him from the prison library.

After the Governor’s diurnal visit all the prisoners were called out, and marched off into a stone yard enclosed in iron bars on two sides—​on the other by stone walls.

In this place Peace had an opportunity of having a look at his fellow-prisoners.

All grades of society were represented by the motley group, from the City merchant to the wretched street Arab.

For nearly an hour did the prisoners go round the yard in regular order, much after the fashion of soldiers. Two warders were there to keep order, and interdict any talking between the prisoners.

On certain days in the week the detectives and warders from other gaols came to take stock, and see if they could recognise any of the newcomers.

Sometimes one would be called into the corner of the yard to undergo a closer scrutiny, and it was amusing to see how coy and bashful the hardened offenders looked while this ceremony was taking place; acquaintances were claimed that were by no means cordially reciprocated.

In some cases a photograph was produced by a detective and compared to its living prototype.

The moment the detectives came into the yard those whom they sought would either slink past in hopes of not being recognised, or else assume such a look of injured innocence that they thereby betrayed themselves at once. Many an “old bird” was detected by thus overdoing it.

It is customary for the detectives, before entering the yard, to have a good survey of the prisoners exercising from some unseen corner. They then mark the bearing and look of the prisoners, before they are aware that the detectives are near; on entering they note any change in their demeanour.

The new man—​the greenhorn—​is not aware that officers are present, for they are invariably dressed in plain clothes, but the old hand knows full well the purport of their visit, and finds it difficult to maintain his composure under such trying circumstances.

Mr. Green unfortunately attracted the attention of a tall, military-looking man, who claimed acquaintance with him, but the young gentleman’s memory was at fault; he could not and would not own to a little affair which had taken place some eighteen months back.

“I assure you, upon my honour,” said Green, “you are quite mistaken—​you are, indeed. I never was at Warwick in my life.”

The detective smiled, shook his head, and passed on.

The gipsy did not appear to be recognised by anyone; neither was Peace.

Certain days in the week were visiting days. Peace was looking forward to a visit from his mother, to whom he had written. She presented herself at the prison on the next visiting day, and was conducted by a turnkey to that part of the prison where the inmates are permitted to see their relatives, who have to converse with them through wire gratings, with a space of some three or four feet between them, in which sits a warder.

The visiting goes on for an hour or more. Those prisoners who have friends come to see them stand in a row against these railings, and their friends opposite. As a matter of course, everyone is talking at once with his own friends, and the consequence is there is a constant clatter kept up during the whole of the time.

All are too interested in their own affairs to take any notice of what is going on between his neighbour and friend.

Peace exhorted his mother to procure the services of a counsel whom he named, and in whom he had great confidence.

“Be of good cheer, my dear boy,” said his parent, “I have already seen the gentleman you name, and he has promised to do his best for you.”

“That old catamaran will swear anything, I feel assured of that,” cried Peace. “But he’ll be able to bowl her out if you tell him what sort of customer he has to deal with—​a she dragon, a very devil, that’s what she is.”

“Don’t lose your temper, Charlie. It’s no use doing that now you’re behind the bars.”

“I should like to—”

“Hush! don’t go on so—​be patient,” interrupted his mother. “There, keep up your spirits; all will be well, I dare say.”

“They treat everybody in this place as if they were convicted felons.”

“It’s a burning shame, that’s what it is, but it’s no use making any complaint. If a fellow does that he gets worse served. I’ve done nothing against the laws, but it makes no difference. The biggest rogue gets the best of it in places of this sort.”

“Well, it is only for a short time; the sessions will soon be on, and there you’ll have justice done you, let us hope.”

“Umph! Hope told a flattering tale, mother. But, hark ye! I want to see the lawyer to give him the necessary instructions for preparing my defence. Do you hear? I must see him.”

“I’ve arranged all that. He will be here in a day or two’s time. Don’t fret or worry yourself; we are doing all we can for you.”

“I have no doubt of that; but it’s hard to be cooped up here.”

While this conversation had been taking place there was a hubbub of voices from the other prisoners and their friends.

Interviews of this nature are in many cases painful in the extreme, especially when the friends or relatives of a prisoner are introduced into the interior of a gaol for the first time.

At the expiration of the time appointed for these visits, Peace and his companions returned to their respective cells.

Soon after this he had an interview with his solicitor, to whom he explained the whole of the circumstances connected with the alleged attempted burglary at the “Gothic Cottage.”

His legal adviser took notes for the preparation of his brief, and told his client that the line of defence he purposed adopting would in all probability be deemed an answer to the charge, and that he looked forward with confidence to an acquittal, unless some further incriminating evidence was presented in the course of the trial.

“You have all the facts, sir,” returned Peace, “but of course there is no telling what that infamous old woman will swear.”

“Oh! we don’t intend letting her have it all her own way,” observed the lawyer. “She’ll be subject to a searching cross-examination.”

Peace was in much better spirits after the interview with his lawyer, who had said, in the course of conversation, that it was as trumpery a case as he had ever had to do with.

The day of trial at length arrived. The prosecutrix and her witnesses were in court when Peace was placed in the dock.

After a few preparatory remarks from the counsel for the prosecution, Mrs. Pocklington was sworn.

She deposed to the facts already known to the reader, her evidence being in substance much the same as that given before the bench of magistrates.

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins rose and proceeded to cross-examine the prosecutrix.

“When did you become aware of the fact that a burglar—​as you are pleased to call the prisoner—​was endeavouring to effect an entrance into your house?”

“When I opened the drawing-room window.”

“And pray, madam, what was your reason for opening your window?”

“I heard a scraping noise at the front door, and suspected there was something amiss.”

“And you saw the prisoner at the door of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Which he was endeavouring to open?”

“Certainly—​so I imagined.”

“We don’t want to know what you imagined. Will you swear that he was endeavouring to open it? Now be careful in your answers.”

“It appeared to me that he was doing so. The door was partly open.”

“It was a dark night, was it not?”

“Rather dark.”

“And pray how long did you look at the prisoner before you struck him with the broom?”

“Oh! not long.”

“I should suppose not; but can you give us an idea how long it was—​five minutes or five seconds, or more?”

“It was not five minutes.”

“Nearer five seconds—​eh?”

“I can’t say exactly. It was not long.”

“And so, Mrs. Pocklington, you deemed it expedient to act promptly. You commenced a most vigorous assault upon the prisoner without stopping to inquire whether he was a thief or a visitor?”

“I was sure he was not a visitor.”

“How could you be sure? Did you see his face when you first struck him?”

“No, his back was towards me.”

“Is it your practice to assault persons with a house-broom?”

“I object to that question,” said the counsel for the prosecution, rising and interrupting his learned brother.

They are all brothers in a court of law.

“Upon what grounds, brother Matchley?” inquired Serjeant Jawkins.

“As irrelevant.”

“I hope his lordship will rule that my questions are relevant.”

The judge signified that question might be put.

It was again repeated.

The witness said sharply—

“No, it is not my practice to do so.”

“Then it is fair to assume that this is an exceptional case,” said Serjeant Jawkins.

“You have not told us, Mrs. Pocklington, if you heard any one calling out or shouting before you opened the window and commenced hostilities?”

“I did not hear any one call out.”

“You are quite sure you did not hear a man’s voice before you discovered the prisoner at the door of your house?”

“I did not hear any voice.”

“Is the prisoner a stranger to you?”

“I never saw him before to my knowledge.”

“Is he also a stranger to your maid-servant?”

“I believe so.”

“Really, brother Jawkins, I think you are out of order. How is the witness to know whether he is a stranger or not to the servant? Ask the young woman herself when she is in the box.”

“I thank you for your suggestion, brother Matchley. It would be the best course. I have no further questions to put to the present witness.”

Mrs. Pocklington retired, and the servant-girl was placed in the box. After she had deposed to facts connected with the case, she underwent a severe cross-examination, which took a humorous turn, eliciting laughter in the body of the court, which was, of course, immediately suppressed.

When the examination of the police was concluded, Mr. Serjeant Jawkins rose for the defence. He said—

“My Lord and Gentlemen of the Jury, I must confess that this case appears to me singularly weak, as far as the evidence for the prosecution is concerned—​in point of fact, there is no proof whatever that the prisoner contemplated committing a burglary. The pugnacious prosecutrix came to that conclusion at the outset, and she has done her best to substantiate the charge, which, however, I submit, is in no way proved. It is my duty to inform you that the prisoner declares that he had no felonious intention whatever. According to his statement, he had, on the night in question, an appointment with a young woman to whom he is paying some attention. They walked about together for an hour or so, and he was led to believe that she was a domestic in service in one of the houses in the village. After he had parted with her he went to the “Running Horse,” a well-known public-house in the neighbourhood, where he had some ale and a game of skittles. He remained at this place about an hour and a half, or it might be nearly two hours. He then left, and bent his steps homewards. As he was proceeding along he, according to his statement, observed the door of the prosecutrix’s residence partially open. He entered the garden, went up to the door, and found it fastened with a chain, which he endeavoured to slip back, being under the impression at the time that his “young woman” was inside. He called her by name several times, but received no answer. While thus occupied he all of a sudden received a blow on the back. He turned round, and was struck again on the head. It is not at all surprising to any of us that he should lose his temper. After the infliction of a third blow from his female assailant he naturally enough became furious. He wrested the broom from her hand, and strove to get at her by springing on the balcony. Would he have done this if his intentions had been felonious? Not at all likely, I should say. He was then placed hors de combat by another blow from the housemaid’s mop. A very little more and the prisoner would have been killed outright, and you would have been spared the trouble of trying him on the present charge. Gentlemen, I submit to your consideration all these circumstances, which require your consideration. I do not believe for one moment, when you have weighed over the matter in your minds, you will ruin the prospects of this young man—​blast his reputation, it may be, for life—​by returning a verdict of guilty upon such a groundless and trumpery charge. There is no proof of felonious attempt—​no proof whatever that he was actuated by any other instinct than curiosity in being at the door of the prosecutrix’s house. I admit that he acted in a most imprudent and indiscreet manner—​so have many other young men under similar circumstances—​but I emphatically deny that he had burglarious intentions.”

“Burglars’ implements were found upon him, you should remember, Brother Jawkins,” observed the judge.

“So the police aver, my lord,” returned the advocate. “Indeed, they are so prone to put the worst construction in cases of this sort, that it would not surprise me if they called a toothpick or a pencil case burglars’ tools. The prisoner denies this. He asserts that the Implements found on him are nothing more or less than tools which he uses in his business.”

“What is his trade, then?” inquired a juryman.

“From what I have been informed I am led to the conclusion that he is a sort of handy man at two or three trades—​he has worked as a smith, he has turned his attention to mechanical appliances, and is the inventor of a crane of a novel description. This is his rough draught of its form.”

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins held forth a large mechanical drawing, which the judge and jury understood as much about as they did of the Sanscrit language.

Nevertheless the diagram had its desired effect.

“It is quite clear,” said Serjeant Jawkins in continuation, “that no robbery has been committed. Nothing has been stolen from the house of the prosecutrix, and I maintain that it is equally clear that no robbery was contemplated. The prisoner has been roughly and, I may say, unmercifully used by the pugnacious Mrs. Pocklington and her valiant servant-maid. But, hardly as he has been dealt with by the relentless prosecutrix, he will, I feel assured, be recompensed by an acquittal from the hands of a jury of his countrymen.”

Mr. Serjeant Jawkins sat down. He had done his best for Peace, whom he had defended with wonderful skill.

The Judge summed up in a few words. He said, after a review of the evidence, if the jury had a doubt as to the prisoner’s intentions, they were bound to give him the benefit of it.

They returned a verdict of not guilty without leaving the box.

“I knew Jawkins would pull you through,” whispered Peace’s attorney, as his client entered the prisoners’ waiting-room. “You may think yourself lucky, young man.”

“I do; and am very thankful to you for suggesting the line of defence,” returned our hero. “Believe me, I shall be for ever grateful.”

Many of the other prisoners who were tried in the same court were not so fortunate.

Mr. Green was not successful in imposing upon the judge and jury. Unfortunately for this young gentleman, he was “well known to the police.” More than one constable came into court to claim his acquaintance.

Mr. Green’s recollection failed him. He did not remember to have met the constables before. He put on a look of injured innocence, and again burst into tears. But all this display of grief and contrition had but little weight with the court.

Mr. Green was found guilty.

He was sentenced to one month’s imprisonment with hard labour.

He cried as if his heart was about to break.

The gipsy was tried on the same day as Peace and Mr. Green.

It was not clearly established that he had stolen the horse, but it was proved that he had taken it away from its owner’s stable, and rode off with it.

His defence was that he intended to return the animal, but he utterly failed to establish this satisfactorily.

He was found guilty. But as it was his first offence, or, more properly speaking, the first time he had been convicted, he was sentenced to six months only.

“It’s a lottery, quite a lottery,” observed the gipsy to Mr. Green.

“I never thought you would get more than me.”

“I’ve been very unfortunate,” returned his youthful companion. “It’s those bobbies as did it. It warn’t of no manner of use my coming the good boy business while they were in court. But I say, old man, do you know your friend is dead?”

“What friend do yer mean?” inquired the gipsy. “I didn’t know as I had any.”

“Why him as interrupted you in the lock-up.”

“Dead—​is he? Poor chap.”

It was true enough. Two days before the assizes commenced the ill-fated man breathed his last. He was born and bred a gentleman, was of an ancient and honourable family, but in early life was afflicted with a fatal propensity for gambling and betting.

All the years of his life were wasted, his moral principles were undermined. He was, of course, a prey to sharpers.

He became reckless, lost his status in society, and ultimately, in the dire straits in which he found himself, had recourse to forgery.

His family, to save his reputation, paid the forged bills. Nevertheless, the man could not turn aside from his evil course. He had got into a vortex, a sort of maelstrôm, from which he could not release himself. His end we have already chronicled.

It is not easy to estimate the pernicious effects of betting in this country.

It affects all classes, impoverishes the wealthy, makes criminals of the middle and lower classes of the community, fills our gaols, and is, in point of fact, the ruin of scores of thousands of persons, who, but for this fatal propensity, would, in all probability, have continued to be respectable and honourable members of society.

Nothing tends to demoralise the youth of this country compared to the practice of betting.

It is quite time the Legislature should take active measures to suppress, as far as lies in their power, this widespread evil.

We now arrive at another phase in the history of the criminal whose career we are shadowing forth. Peace, after his release, returned to his native town, and resided for many months with his mother.

To all appearance he was a good citizen, and an industrious man enough, who managed to earn sufficient for his own requirements.

It was not known in Sheffield that he had “been in trouble.” Those who were interested in his welfare were in great hopes that he would turn from dishonest courses and taste the sweets of honest industry.

Certainly for a long time after the “Gothic Cottage” affair he was more circumspect in his conduct and general behaviour. For the greater portion of his life he seems to have lived on the border line of respectability and decent dulness, and at times appeared to settle down to an honest life.

But he deliberately chose evil for good—​the old craving for adventure and excitement would come over him again, and he would plunge headlong into the realms of desperate lawlessness to re-emerge shortly in the daylight as a quiet and steady young member of society.

His single-handed self-reliant way of going to work is perhaps the most notable of his characteristics.

He trusted to himself and no one else.

Whilst this saved him from the danger of weak and treacherous accomplices, it made much larger demands upon his audacity and self-possession.

Thus it came to pass that thousands for whom a vulgar career of crime and violence has no attractions are compelled to feel some interest in a man who is almost unique in the annals of crime.

It is not so much, however, for his commanding superiority in any one department of criminal activity as for the rare combination of his various talents that Charles Peace commands attention.

He was a veritable genius, who reached a high level of excellence in many branches of his profession.

There have been more daring highway robberies and more extensive burglaries than any which he is known to have committed.

But few men have caused more widespread terror, or created more profound attention by the suddenness and the brilliant success of their exploits.

It would be a great misfortune if the boldness and fearlessness of this bad man were to blind even the most thoughtless to the utter worthlessness of his character.

In shadowing forth his lawless career we are under the impression that it will act as a warning to those who peruse these pages.

It will prove beyond all question the truth of the axiom, “That a life of crime is always a life of care.”

In nothing does his baseness more transparently appear than in his miserable apologies and self-justifications with which his religious experiences are interlarded.

Assuming, as we are anxious to do, that these pious utterances of his later days are not wilfully insincere, they nevertheless betray an utter moral blindness.

He was very willing to call his past life wicked in general terms, but for his worst transgressions he had some extenuating plea, which destroyed the validity of his assumed penitence.

If he could have been turned loose upon society again, one can hardly venture to hope that his future life would have corresponded with his edifying conduct in gaol.

The curiosity of the public to know all about Peace and his life need not be regarded with too despondent an eye.

If any adventurous and high-spirited youth sees anything to admire in our hero’s career he will do well to remember that the grandest successes of a criminal course are at the best but wretched failures.

Peace had probably a far smoother life than most offenders of equal activity.

Yet he spent some considerable part of his time in prison, and in the full noontide of his prosperity hardly reaped as much fruit from his misapplied talents as those talents would have yielded in any honest walk of life.

Peace’s strongly marked preference for the revolver was fatal to the picturesque development of his talents.

The truth is, that the particular offender had no special affection for blood-shedding.

Strong as were the fascinations of a criminal life, he chiefly had an eye to business.

In the heat of passion, or with a view to save himself, he was thoroughly unscrupulous about taking life, but he was not anxious to compromise himself by any needless slaughter.

Yet for coolness, promptitude, and self-reliance he has seldom been surpassed.

He never suffered himself to be betrayed into any acts of overwhelming fatuity and oversight such as those which have often led the most skilful to their ruin.

In him there was an assemblage of qualities such as one man rarely possesses.

Peace took great interest in carving, architecture, and works of art of every conceivable description. While at Sheffield, during the few months he remained a decent member of society, he paid frequent visits to the museums and other institutions, and he promised to compete for the prize in wood-carving in the forthcoming exhibition.

But the old feeling for change and adventure came over him, and he determined upon leaving his native town for a while. Business was not very brisk with him at this time—​so he thought it advisable to shift his quarters.

He had purchased a number of cheap, showy, attractive-looking prints, together with a large collection of photographs, many of which were copyright, being reproductions from well-known pictures.

In addition to these he had a number of other photographs, which it would not have been advisable for anyone to sell, seeing that they rendered the vendor liable to imprisonment under Lord Campbell’s Act.

But this Peace did not much care about.

He felt assured that he was well able to evade the law.

Having renewed his hawker’s licence and packed up his goods in as small a compass as possible he bade adieu to his mother and friends at Sheffield and set out on his pilgrimage.

A wandering life was consonant to his general disposition and temperament.

Shouldering his pack with his stout oaken stick and his dog, “Gip,” he commenced his journey.

It was only spring time, and he had the best part of the year before him. He paid a visit to Worksop, Huddersfield, Marborough, and Barnsley, calling at several hamlets and villages of lesser note.

He made a long stay in the last-named place; he met there a young man who was a “nigger delineator,” as they term themselves in the advertisements in a certain theatrical paper. Peace found in this person a congenial spirit, and they took a commodious room in the town and gave “nigger” entertainments three nights in the week—​namely, Saturdays, Mondays, and Wednesdays. The two first were the most profitable, the working class being usually more flush of money.

Peace and his brother artist were tolerably successful, playing on most occasions to a small profit. They would in all probability have continued these performances had they not been brought to a close by Peace’s companion signing articles of engagement with a troupe who visited the town on a provincial tour.

Peace, therefore, left and proceeded to the next town with his wares.

In some of the places he visited he was tolerably successful. He sold many prints and photos, and realised a fair profit.

Sometimes he put up at a roadside inn, while at others he took lodgings in a quiet, respectable cottage for a few days.

At this time his life could not be considered in any way disreputable—​he was sober and industrious.

It is true that during his peregrinations he was in no way particular about disposing of prints and photos of a contraband nature, but he used a great amount of discretion in his dealing in goods of this description.

It was towards the close of a bright autumnal day that he arrived wearied and footsore in sight of a roadside inn, which stood half-way between two villages in Yorkshire. The sign of this wayside inn was the “Old Carved Lion.”

Over the facia of the establishment was a wooden effigy of the king of beasts. Who carved this hideous animal it is not possible to say—​it was about on a par with others one sees in houses of public entertainment in the metropolis and elsewhere.

About thirty yards off the “Old Carved Lion” stood a handpost, with its four white arms pointing down the four cross roads.

Some few years before there had been only one handpost within four miles of this spot, and that so defaced and overgrown with moss that it was impossible to decipher a letter.

But fortunately, a nobleman who lived in the neighbourhood happened to lose his way among the dark woods which encircled it, and did not arrive home till his soup was ice, his fish rags, and his sirloin of beef a cinder.

An order was consequently passed by the bench that handposts should be erected in all the parishes under their surveillance at every cross road and turning—​the expenses to be defrayed by the funds of the respective parishes.

In rural districts, before any improvements are permitted to be made or nuisances removed, a human being must die or a person of note be inconvenienced.

In the days of the defaced handpost, before railways were in vogue, the “Old Carved Lion” had been a large coaching hotel, furnished with an unbounded amount of accommodation for man and beast.

At the time we make its acquaintance the landlord had turned small farmer, and had aggrandised his stables into barns, and degraded his spare bedrooms into lumber garrets.

However, the good, dry skittle ground still remained, and the hum of voices and incessant rumbling from within proved that this scientific game did not lack supporters.

It was a low cattle-shed kind of place, with benches down the walls and at either end.

On the opposite corners were two small tables, fitted with mugs and pipes.

A portly individual in a white apron filled up the doorway as Peace arrived in front of the old village inn, in the front of which was a horse-trough, a large chestnut tree, and a post bearing at its top the sign of the house.

“Good day, friend,” said Peace to the host of the “Carved Lion.” “I’m wearied and footsore, and crave a little rest and refreshment.”

“Both are at your service, neighbour,” returned the landlord, making way for the newcomer by withdrawing into the bar.

Peace entered the parlour, and in a few minutes a mug of ale, together with some cold meat and pickles, were served him, which he devoured with evident relish.

Meanwhile those in the skittle ground were busily occupied.

“Come on, lads, another ge-ame!” cried a lusty, young fellow, with his sleeves rolled up to his shoulder. “Come on, mates, one more. Ye doant mean to say ye ha don yet.”

“I doant know ’xactly what to say about it,” replied a middle-aged man, who was also in his shirt sleeves. “I tell ye what it be, ye a deal too good for me, a doubt.”

“Noa—​noa, come on,” returned the other, with the mellifluity of a Whitechapel skittle sharper. “Never fear, guv’nor, luck will be sure to change. Doant be so quavery mavery over it. Let’s have one more pint for I’m jolly dry.”

“You start first, then.”

“Get out of my way some of you chaps, and make yourselves look less,” said the young man, in a voice prophetic of victory.

Taking from the ground a wooden missile in the shape of a cheese, he poised it between his fingers as if it had been a pebble, and, casting the whole weight of his body, pitched the ball towards the upright pins.

It struck the front pin on the left shoulder, and, pirouetting round the ring, knocked all down.

“Brayvo—​brayvo!” cried the rustics, knocking their great mugs against the table. “A floorer.”

“That was a squiver,” said one of them. “Nothing like a flat ball to tiddle ’em over.”

“Fust hoss to Bill,” cried another, chalking down one on the table.

“You’ve got your Sunday play on to-day,” said the other, as he took the ball in his hands.

His throw was less fortunate.

Only one pin fell, which, after rolling among the others and creating a false interest for awhile, calmly subsided in the dust.

“There, I give ’ee the game and the pot. There’s no tackling ye at skittles to-night, that’s sartin; and I can’t make no how of it either.”

“Who’s next—​next?” cried the victor. “Will e’er a one of ye have a shy for a pot, or wont ye? I’ll tak two to one I gets the three fronts, and I’ll take it even I floors ’em.”

“I’ll back Billy agen ’ee for a gallon, if ye like,” cried a man.

“Nay, nay,” cried a loud but not inharmonious voice; “if old Nick were here——”

“Hoosh! hoosh!” shouted out half a dozen of the throng.

“Who cares about your hooshing? I beant afeared of no mortal thing; no immortal, for the matter of that; neither man, beast, or sperrit.”

The voice came from a young woman, who was finely, though perhaps almost too lustily, formed.

“Ye’ere all a pack of fools!” said she, giving her head an indignant shake. “A frightenen yourselves about Mother Brickett’s ghost. Who is there as has seen it, I should like to know?”

“I ha’,” said a man. “I wer a walking across the common here, when I found a somethink white and ghastly walking by my side.”

“How big was it?”

“About my height, as nigh as can be. An’ it never sed a word. An’ just as I was ready to drop, it fanished away.”

“And then we all knows,” said another, “as only t’other night her voice was heard in the passage by the tap-room where she called Brickett three times by name, and many bein’ by. An’ it was only yesternight as she came and patted the white cow while Clara wer a milkin’ on it.”

“This be very sartin,” said a tall, pale woman, with a child in her arms: “if she could come back arter she’d gone she ’ould. Her mind was all here when she died. When she was in her last hour her little darter came up to see how she was agoin’ on. ‘Mind the bisness,’ said she, quite sharp; and when Brickett came up, she sent him down pretty quickish. ‘Don’t mind me, mind the customers’—​them were her last words. And she were an audacious woman after money, sure alive.”

There is hardly any country place in the United Kingdom but owns some superstitution, which many of the inhabitants have full belief in.

At all ages, and in every place, there have been found many who have entertained the belief that at certain periods the dead are permitted to revisit the earth for a brief period; and it was said in the neighbourhood that the deceased landlady of the “Carved Lion” could not rest in her grave without, in disembodied spirit, occasionally hovering about the old hostelry.

She had been a hard-fisted, money-loving woman in her time, and the frequenters of the inn were wont to talk about her ghost being seen on the common, in one of the dark lanes or elsewhere, in the “witching time of night.”

“She must have growed a good bit since she died,” said the woman, who had been called Nelly, “for she was a good deal shorter than that gawk there when she wur here. It’s all nonsense, I tell ’ee. If people goes to a better world they don’t want to come back to a place like this, and if they go to another place——”

“Hoosh—​hoosh!” exclaimed several voices.

“Get along with ’ee with yeer hooshing. It’s only the truth that I am speaking,” exclaimed the young woman.

Doubtless an altercation would have ensued, but the subject was dropped upon the appearance of a stranger.

This was Peace, who had finished his repast in the parlour, and strolled into the skittle-ground.

“Your sarvant, sir,” said one of the rustics to Peace.

“Give you good evening, friend,” said our hero. “Good evening to one and all.”

The villagers made room for him on one of the forms which ran by the side of the building, and Peace sat himself down.

“Ha’ the first drink of the new pot,” said a broad-shouldered man to a companion by his side, “an’ don’t ’ee cuss and swear. I hate to hear a man swear for nothing.”

“I’m not going to drink your froth for ’ee,” returned the other. “I’ll ha’ some. An’ you’ll find it as thick as molasses, I’ll warrant. Bricket poured a lot of beer into a barrel without clearing out the dregs, and a prutty mess he’s made of it. The way business is done here now would make his dead wife walk if anythin’ could.”

“What, yer grumbling agen as usual?” said another of the company. “Don’t be a runnin’ down Bricket, for he’s a good sort.”

“Who says he aint?” cried Nelly; “but some people are never satisfied.”

“Right you are, lass!” exclaimed several, for it was evident enough that the young woman was a general favourite.

“Aint nobody seen nothin’ of never a hat nowhere?” inquired a thin old man in a querulous voice, twisting in and out of the crowd like a ferret in a rabbit burrow.

“One ’ud think your silly old head were inside on it a wanderin’ about like that there,” said Nelly.

“Don’t ’ee say much to him,” whispered the woman with a child in her arms. “Poor Nat Peplow has aged wonderful these last three years. He don’t seem like the same man.”

“Ho, ho!” guffawed a rustic. “There aint much left of Nat now—

“Ah! ye may laugh and sing,” said Nat, shaking his head and his voice quavering. “I mind the time when I used to troll that same ditty to grey hairs. It’s right it should fall back on me now.”

“Poor old hoss!” chanted Nelly.

“But when I wur young I was as lissom as ever a young man here. I baint so strong now as I should be, though when my feyther wur eighty years old he could carry a sack of wheat up a ladder into a granary; and my mother’s hair when she wur an old ’ooman was as black and shiny as jet, and growed over her shoulders like a wild colt’s mane.

“I don’t know rightly what mak’s me weaker than they. My arm be a’ withered up like a burnt piece of pig’s flesh, an’ my poor chest do hurt me when I breathes. I think the beer can’t be so wholesome and nourishing as it yoosed to be.”

And Nat, taking his half-pint mug from the table, peered into it and found it empty.

“Why it’s run out!” he cried.

A hoarse giggle from a sun-burnt country lad pointed out the culprit.

“All run out a’ the top, I s’pose,” he added, resignedly. “Now, Bricket, let’s have another half-pint o’ twopenny, and draw it thickish, ’cos I aint had my supper.”

Nat always liked his beer by instalments of half-pints, because he thought that he got more that way.

Sometimes he drank as many as eight half-pints, on which occasions he would chuckle gravely in his sleeve, and persuade himself that he had cheated the landlord of a noggin.

No. 11.

Peace had by this time become familiar and on friendly terms with many of those who were assembled in the skittle-ground. The young fellow who had been playing when we first made the acquaintance of this establishment, asked Peace to have a game.

“Don’t ’ee play wi’ him, master,” said Nelly; “he be’s too much for any on ’em here, and ye won’t ha’ much chance wi’ him unless you are a good hand at the game.”

“I’m not much of a player,” returned Peace, “but what matters that? We are only going to play for amusement or for a mug of beer. It don’t much matter who wins or loses.”

“Please yourself, then—​it aint any business of mine.”

“Let ’em alone, Nell—​there arnt no skittle sharpers here,” said a man at one of the tables. “Let ’em be, lass.”

Nell shrugged her shoulders, and sat herself down on one of the forms.

The players went to work in good earnest. Peace succeeded in knocking all the pins down at one go.

This exploit was greeted with loud bravos.

His antagonist, however, was equally successful, and the game resulted in a draw. Another game was played; this Peace lost.

“I’ve done better than I expected,” said he, “and I think I had better leave off now. I am evidently no match for you.”

“Come,” said Nell, “if ye’re done skittlin’ let us be going in doors, and ye can finish yer ale there.”

Many of them now left, those that remained repaired to the parlour.

Peace bent his steps in the direction of the bar of the establishment.

As he was proceeding along, a voice shouted out—

“Yer’re beant a goin’ to leave us, sir, be’est thou!”

“No, no, friend,” returned our hero. “I shall join you in a minute or so.”

“Aye, that be right,” exclaimed the same voice.

Peace went in front of the bar, and said to the landlord—

“I don’t want to go any further to-night. Can I have a bed here?”

“Ah! surely,” answered the host; “for as many nights as thee likes. The more the merrier.”

“Good. Then that’s settled.”

He returned to the parlour. Over the mantel-piece of this was a smoke-bleached board, on which was inscribed, in dingy yellow letters—

However a scrawl of chalked hieroglyphics on the bar door proved that the practice of the publican was less resolute than his professions.

“I think I’ll ha’ another half pint,” said the old man, who had been called Nat. A little girl, who served the beer and tobacco brought in the liquor the old man ordered.

“Ye’ve travelled a greatish distance, maybe?” said one of the company to Peace, glancing at his boots, which were begrimed with mud and sand.

“Pretty well, as far as that goes. I can’t say exactly how far I’ve walked, not knowing the ground.”

“Ah! I see. A stranger to these parts.”

“Yes. I’m on a tour.”

“For pleasure?”

“Well, no, not altogether pleasure—​business. I’m a picture-frame maker by trade, and deal in prints and photos. Would you like to see some of my wares?”

“Ah! that un should,” said several.

“Well, then, so you shall.”

He was about to open his pack when a noise of footsteps was heard descending the stairs, and in another moment the broad form of Farmer Wilmot filled the doorway.

“Here, my lads,” said he. “It isn’t often I give you a treat; but as I’ve sold my whate and got a good price for it, and as, moreover, this be my son’s birthday, I’ll give ’ee somthing to drink his health.”

He placed several pieces of silver in the girl’s hand, and said—

“Give it ’em out in the sixpenny, my little maid, and then what they do drink will do ’em good.”

The rustics gave a loud cheer and thanked him again and again for his generosity.

He appeared to be well known to all present, with the exception of Peace, who never remembered to have seen him before.

“Good-by, lads, and don’t mek beasts on yourselves. Ale, in moderation, won’t hurt anyone; but too much on it is good for no man. Good-night to all.”

And with these words the honest farmer mounted his gray mare, which was standing at the door of the hostelry, and trotted off in company with two friends, similarly mounted.

“I be downright glad he’s sold his whate,” said one of the rustics. “He aint all eyes and ears like some measters, and he knows how to let a poor man off his first fault.”

“He was one of us once, ye see, sir,” said another, addressing himself to Peace. “He’s bin taught to eat poor man’s bread and to do poor man’s work, and he knows what it is as comforts a poor man’s heart. It is only such as he as pities the poor. The rich and idle don’t pity, know not what hard work, nor hunger, nor sufferin’s loike.”

“Aye-that be true enough,” said Nat. “He’s as good as gold, an’ his ’art be in the right place.”

“I hope he’ll get home safe and sound,” said Peace; “but I suppose there aint many robbers about this part?”

“Lord, love ye, no—​never a one,” cried several voices.

“You’ve forgotten young Measter Boucher,” quavered the aged Nat. “I be an old man, but I mind things better nor you do, seemingly. He was a drivin’ home from Bilstoke Fair, and just as he was agoin’ up a bit of a hill, with trees on both sides, he felt heavy on his chest, as if he had a fit comin’ on, only instead of a fit it was a stout rope, which two men held across the road, and tiddled him over out of his gig. And when he was down they was on him in a minnit, and plundered him of his watch and ten yellow sovereigns.”

“That’s the story he went home and told his mother,” said Nell, scornfully, “but I can pretty well guess how it was. Some of them flaunting hussies got and colly-fogled him into the booths to dance with ’em, and while he wer a thinkin’ how pretty he wer a doin’ his steps, whip! goes his money and watch out of his pocket into theirs.”

This speech was greeted with roars of laughter.

“Ah, Nell, thee beest a knowin’ one,” cried several.

A portion of the beer the farmer had paid for was now brought in by the little waitress. It was handed round in brown mugs to the company. The farmer’s health was drunk, also that of his son.

Peace opened his folio of prints, plain and coloured.

Several were spread out upon the table, and regarded with curious and inquiring eyes by the occupants of the parlour.

Peace had pictures to please persons of different tastes. Some were bits of rustic scenery, farm-yards, horses ploughing, hay-making; others consisted of highly-coloured sporting subjects, such as hunting, ratting, and deer stalking; but, as it would never do for an itinerant dealer in these commodities to confine himself to one particular class of art, he had specimens of every conceivable variety, suitable to persons of opposite tastes; pictures addressed to persons of a devotional turn of mind formed a large element in his stock in trade. The Holy Family, the head of our Saviour, together with three young gentlemen in surplices, casting up their eyes, were there in abundance; also a young lady clinging to an impossible-looking cross, her garments dripping with wet, was another. This fine specimen was called “The Rock of Ages,” the title of the young gentlemen in surplices being, “We Praise Thee, O Lord.” He had also large photos of the “Light of the World,” together with a variety of others of a similar character. These subjects went down with some of his customers, while others would not honour them with a cursory glance.

One print, entitled the “Labourers’ Best Friends,” was greatly admired by the frequenters of the “Old Carved Lion.”

The subjects represented were a substantial piece of fat bacon, a quartern loaf, half a cheese, a foaming tankard of ale, and a clay pipe.

“Ah, that be summut loike,” exclaimed several, “I call that wonderfully natural, as real as life itself; I should loike to ha’ that. How much be it, measter?”

“Cheap enough,” answered Peace, “only half-a-crown.”

“Umph, I wish it was in a frame.”

“I’ll undertake to frame any of my prints at cost price.”

“Do un, now?”

“Yes, you can have a frame from a shilling to a sovereign-according to the quality.”

“I’ll come and sit by you,” said Nell to Peace, “because you are a clever man, I’m thinking.”

“I am very much flattered, I am sure,” he answered with a smirk.

“So un ought to be,” said another of the company, “it aint many as Nell condescends to flatter.”

A young peasant and peasantess as Mark Twain would say, making eyes at one another after the approved fashion, attracted the young woman’s attention.

“Now I call that a wonderfully well done picture,” said she.

“Do you like it?” asked Peace.

“Yes, very much.”

“Well then I shall beg of you to accept it.”

The girl coloured up, not rightly understanding his meaning.

“What be hesitating about, Nell?” said old Nat, “Don’t ye understand it’s given to you as a present?”

“Oh, I cannot think of having it without paying for it.”

“But I desire you to do so—​nay, I insist,” cried Peace, rolling up the print in a sheet of paper, and handing it to the young woman.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to beg it of you,” said she.

“I know that—​I give it to you of my own free will; so say no more about it.”

This act of generosity produced a favourable impression on all present, and Peace became very popular. Several present bespoke prints, and after the whole of them had been inspected they were packed up and put aside for the rest of the evening.

The whole of the company then sat down to enjoy themselves, and, to say the truth, in their homely way they did so, very much more so than many of their betters.

“Ah, I yoosed to be mighty fond of picturs,” said old Nat, “but, lord, I don’t seem to ha’ the taste for anything loike I had formerly. When a man gets old and well nigh worn out he’s not so easily pleased as the young uns—​be he, measter?”

“Well, I suppose not, friend,” returned Peace, “but we shall all get old and worn out if we live long enough—​we ought not to forget that.”

“Now none of your croaking Nat,” said a lusty young fellow. “You’re good for many years yet. Come, jest give us a song, old man. Nat’s been a foine singer in his time,” observed the speaker in a whisper to Peace.

“Oh, I dare say.”

“Fond of music, sir?” enquired another.

“Yes, I’m a bit of a musician myself. If our friend will oblige I’ll give you a tune or two upon the fiddle.”

This seemed to have a magic effect upon the villagers, who thumped the tables till the pots and glasses danced on the board.

“Will ’ee, though? Oh, that be grand!” exclaimed several. “Now, Nat, just mek a beginning.”

“You must excuse me, sir, if I break down,” said the old man, apologetically; “I aint what I yoosed to be.”

“He’s never satisfied unless he’s telling us that,” cried a voice. “Come, old man, fire away.”

Old Nat cleared his throat with one or two preliminary ahems, and then, in a high treble, trolled a nautical ballad—​the first verse of which described the loves of a youth and village maiden, who plighted their troth under a linden tree; the verse ended with a mournful refrain, which was as follows:—

The words of the ballad described the anguished feelings of the forlorn and broken-hearted girl, who wanders about her old haunts in the village in a half demented state—​for never a word does she hear from her cruel and heartless lover.

There is, it would appear, very good reason for this, for the ship in which the young man sailed foundered at sea, and Jack was cast upon a tropical island, where he remained for three years.

At the expiration of that time he was taken on board a passing vessel, and returned home to find his Sall dead beneath the turf in the village churchyard.

The pathetic ditty concludes thus. The young sailor is supposed to be addressing some villagers assembled in the churchyard:—

It was evident enough that old Nat must have had at one time a sweet and sympathetic voice, and even in his decline there was something of it remaining.

Any one who has travelled through the rural districts of England and paid an occasional visit to old roadside inns cannot fail to have been struck by the quaint and curious ditties that are trolled by the villagers.

Many of them are singularly characteristic.

Where these extraordinary specimens of musical composition all come from—​for their name is legion—​is perfectly surprising.

In most cases the singers never had a copy of the song they sang; and, indeed, if they had, they would in all probability have been none the wiser, seeing that they were quite unable to read the notes.

They learnt it from some one, and he or she learnt it from somebody else, and so on till the original source of the melody is lost in the deep “backward abyss of time.”

When we consider with how easy a transition we may pass from the accents of speaking to diatonic sounds, when we observe how early children adopt the language of their amusements to measure and melody, however rude—​when we consider how early and universally these practices take place, there is no avoiding the conclusion that the idea of music is co-natural with man, and implied in the original principles of his constitution.

The principles on which it is founded, and the rules by which it is conducted, constitute a science.

The same maxims when applied to practice form an art; hence its first and most capital diversion is into speculative and practical music.

Go where you will, and you will see how wonderfully music and song are blended with the most laborious occupations of humble life, not only as the natural breathing of cheery thoughts and gladdening hopes, faiths, and feelings, but as giving nerve, measure, and harmony to the physical forces of men bending to the most arduous toil.

We will say nothing here of the influence of martial music on the weary battalions of an army on a forced march.

That illustration would not be apposite to the point we are considering.

Anyone who has travelled by sea and land, and visited different countries, must have been struck with the variety—​the use and universality—​of the songs of labour.

Who that has crossed the Atlantic, and been awakened at night by the “Merrily, cheerily,” of that song with which the sailors hoist the great mainsail to the rising breeze, can ever forget the thrill of those manly voices?

There they stand in the darkness, with the salt sea spray in their faces, and the tarred rope in their hands, holding the long and ponderous yard against the mast, until their rollicking song reaches the hoisting turn, and all their sinews are strung to the harmony of a unison to the telling pull.

Everywhere and in all ages, the week-day music of the world has been the songs of labour by men and women at their toil, and by the birds of heaven singing to them overhead and around them.

And no ear drinks with richer relish the melodies of these outside songsters—​no home more safe and welcome does the swallow find than under the eaves of the poor man’s cottage.

Go through the densest courts and lanes of Spitalfields, and see what a companionship of bird life the silk weavers maintain in their garrets, even when the loaf is too small for their children.

The papers recently published a touching and beautiful illustration of the fondness which workingmen show for singing birds.

When the first English lark was taken to Australia by a poor widow, the stalwart, sunburnt, hard-visaged gold diggers would come down from their pits on the Sabbath to hear it sing the songs they loved to listen to at home in their childhood.

An instance still more interesting has been noted lately in connection with one of the large manufacturing towns in North Wales.

The men, women, and children employed in the factories, not many times a week heard the lark’s song, or the music of the free birds of heaven.

These loved the bright air and the green fresh meadows too well to sing many voluntaries in the smoky atmosphere of the furnace and factory.

Thus the cheap concerts of these songsters cost the operatives of the mills long walks beyond the brick and mortar mazes of the town.

But thousands thought them cheap at that price.

“Ah! I mind the time when I sang that very song in this room, more than twenty years agone,” said Nat.

“Aye—​better than that,” said a middle-aged man. “It was on the very night that Lord Ethalwood lost his son—​the last on ’em as was left. He aint bin the same man since.”

“And who might that be?” enquired Peace.

“Well, his lordship,” returned the other—​“the owner of the foine estate on the top of the hill, called Broxbridge Hall.”

“Ah! a fine place, is it?”

“Yes, surely—​a should think it was.”

“Well, never mind about that, his lordship aint half so happy as we are, I’ll bet a crown,” said another of the company. “Who’s for the next song? Come, Nelly, can’t you give us something soft and sentimental, eh?”

“Nay; I must be for getting home,” answered the girl, “an’ leave you men folks to yourselves.”

She was about to depart, but as Peace had commenced a preliminary flourish on his violin, she sat down again.

The violinist played a fantasia, introducing a number of popular airs which seemed to delight his audience amazingly.

When he brought this part of his performance to a close he was encored.

He then imitated the noises of animals in the farm-yard; this sent the rustics into perfect ecstacies of delight.

“They had never heard anything so perfectly natural in their born days”—​so they one and all declared.

“Well, thee just does know how to handle the fiddle,” said one.

“And mek it speak like a Christian,” said another.

“It be a gift,” observed another.

Nell now rose to go, but she was not permitted to do so, until she had favoured the company with a song. In a rich contralto voice she sang the following:—

“Excellent! Admirably sung!” exclaimed Peace. “I’m quite delighted with your voice and your manner of singing.”

“I must not stop any longer,” said the girl; “I expect I shall catch it as it is. Good-night to all!”

And with these words she tripped out of the room.

The landlord now entered.

“Ye be making merry to-night, friends,” said he.

“Ah, surely it’s a poor heart as never rejoices. Sit down, Brickett, we ain’t goin’ to let ee off.”

The host of the “Old Carved Lion” did as he was bid.

“Yo’ve got a bit o’ a musician here, among ye,” he observed with a merry twinkle in his eye as he glanced at Peace.

“Yes,” said old Nat; “another Paganini—​that’s what the gentleman be.”

“How do you know? You never heard Paganini,” returned the landlord.

“Aint I? that’s all you know about it. I remember my poor feyther a taken me to the theatre when the great fiddler gave a morning performance, and there was a sight of people there surely—​and that be a few years ago.”

“And what was it loike?”

“Oh, wonderful—​never heard anything equal to it. Not but what our friend here is very good and plays a deal in his style. Any more beer to come in, Mr. Landlord?”

“Yes, the farmer’s money aint all run out. Will ye ha’ the remainder in now, or stop till you get it?”

This venerable joke seemed to be relished by the customers.

The beer was brought in, which was relished still more.

“Now, Nat,” said a young fellow. “Here’s a pot o’ beer for ’ee if yell sing another song. How will ye have it, hob or nob?”

“Hob” is beer placed on the hob to warm; “nob,” beer on the table.

“None of your warm beer for me,” cried Nat. “Dont ’ee know what my uncle used to say? When my back wont warm my bed, sed he, and when my belly wont warm my beer, sed he, it’s time I were gone, ’cos I aint no yoose to the world, and the world aint no yoose to me.”

“That’s a good saying, I don’t doubt, but pitch us a stave, old man.”

“The landlord’s got more staves than any on us here. Ask him.”

“Ah, let’s hear Brickett,” cried several.

“I aint a goin’ to make any fuss about the matter,” said the landlord; “I’ll do my best.”

“Brayvo, brayvo!”

“So here goes while my head’s hot—

“That’s something like, Bricket. You’ve sung it better than ever, and it’s a rattling good ditty,” cried a voice. “Here’s your health, and long life to ’ee.”

A large amount of “brown October” had been consumed by this time, and some of the company were giving indications of being nearly “Three sheets in the wind.”

There had not been such a merry-making at the “Carved Lion” for many a day; this was attributable in the first place to the liberal supply of beer furnished by the farmer who had sold his wheat, and in the second by the presence of Peace, who fraternised with the rustics in a free and easy manner, which to them was quite charming.

Bricket knew pretty well when his customers had had enough, and he was, therefore, somewhat anxious for some of them to make a move.

Peace was asked to favour them with a little more music—​a request he at once acceded to. When he had concluded the landlord touched him on the shoulder, and Peace followed him into the bar parlour.

“They’re a merry set of fellows,” said he, “but it’s almost time for them to give over for to-night.”

“Certainly,” returned our hero. “I’m quite of your opinion. We’ve had a very pleasant evening—​let it now be brought to a conclusion.”

“They’ll never go away as long as they hear the fiddle going. I know ’em too well for that.”

“Then I wont play any more. Enough is as good as a feast; besides I’m tired, and shall be glad to get rest.

“I’ll go in and wish ’em good night, and then retire to my bedroom.”

“Don’t do so on my account.”

“No, but I shall upon my own.”

Peace went back into the parlour, and told the company that he needed repose, and was about to retire; he wished them all good night. There was a vast amount of shaking of hands, and reiterated expressions of gratitude and friendship, after which Peace was permitted to take his leave, with the understanding that he was to join them on the following evening.

In less than half an hour after he had retired the parlour of the “Carved Lion” was tenantless.

Our itinerant print-seller did not want any rocking that night; he had walked many miles in the course of the day, and was dead beat. He did not wake until morning.

Upon leaving his bedchamber he found his breakfast laid in a large apartment on the first floor, called the club-room.

In this place the members of two or three clubs were accustomed to hold their weekly or monthly meetings. The room was large, with a bay window at one end and a smaller one at the other. The walls were covered with pictures and prints of various descriptions in dingy and faded frames.

Peace was shown into the room by the little maiden who officiated as waitress. She was a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed girl of about fifteen or sixteen summers.

A substantial breakfast was served; this our hero did full justice to, after which he arose and examined the pictures on the walls. While thus engaged the landlord entered to pay his respects to his guest.

“The top of the morning to thee, friend,” said Brickett, “I hope you had a good night’s rest.”

“Yes, thank you, excellent,” returned Peace. “You’ve got some fairish things here in the way of art,” he added, carelessly.

“Some on ’em are not bad—​so I’ve been told. My poor father took great delight in picking up pictures and such like at sales. He was a better judge nor what I am.”

“Some of them are very good indeed, and some of them, of course, but indifferent. This one must always expect in a miscellaneous collection, but the frames are little the worse for wear.”

“I’ve bin goin’ to have ’em done up ever so many times, but, lord, it ed run into money, I fancy.”

“Not much,” returned his visitor, musingly; “not a great deal, I fancy. If I stop here for a while I’d give you an estimate.”

“And don’t you think of stopping?” enquired the landlord, who was much taken with our hero.

“Well, that depends upon what business I am likely to do in the neighbourhood. I shall be able to tell you more about it to-morrow or next day.”

“Good, I hope un ’ill be successful; we’ve got a goodish many well-to-do folks about here.”

A thin, short man, in a rusty suit of black, with dark rimmed spectacles, now ascended the stairs and entered the “club-room,” as it was termed.

This personage was the parish clerk.

“Your servant, sir,” said the landlord to the newcomer.

“We shall want the room on Monday next, Brickett,” said the clerk.

“It is at your disposal, Mr. Overton.”

Brickett now introduced Peace to the gentleman in rusty black, and made him acquainted with his occupation.

“From London, sir, I presume?”

“Yes, from London,” answered the print-seller. In expeditions of this sort he invariably gave people the idea that he had come direct from the metropolis. As a rule country folk paid greater attention to one hailing from the great city.

“Show Mr. Overton some of your goods. He be a judge of such like commodities,” said the landlord, who at all times displayed a willingness to further the interests of his customers.

Peace’s stock, or rather a considerable portion of it, was at once brought forth.

The parish clerk’s attention was directed more especially to the sacred subjects. He inquired the price of the large photo of the “Light of the World.” It was Peace’s practice to lay it on a bit, as he termed it, when he found the fish bite; and he did not neglect to do so on this occasion.

Mr. Overton had made up his mind to have the photo, but he shrugged his shoulders, and said he was a poor man.

“Well,” said our hero, “I want to do business. “Is there any other you would like?”

After a deal of consultation the clerk chose another.

“Well, I’ll let you have the two for eighteen shillings. That’s the lowest I can say for them,” cried Peace.

“Then I’ll have them,” said Mr. Overton.

“And would you like them framed?”

“Oh, of course I must have frames for them.”

“Of an ecclesiastical character?”

“It would be all the better.”

“I will do you the frames cheaper than anybody—​that is, if I can get enough orders to make it worth my while to stop in the neighbourhood for a few days.”

Mr. Overton paid for the prints, and the framing of the same was a matter to be considered hereafter. He then took his departure.

“Bagged one bird!” exclaimed the landlord, slapping familiarly on the shoulder. “You mark my words—​it’ll bring ’ee luck, an’ ye won’t regret stopping at the ‘Old Carved Lion.’

“I should like to stop as long as possible, seeing that its landlord is such a good sort.”

“You’ll do a decent stroke of business afore you leave.”

“I hope so.”

Peace now shouldered his pack, whistled to his dog “Gip,” and sallied forth. He paid a visit to some of the shops in the neighbourhood, and disposed of some prints and photos.

The prices he obtained for them were so low that he did not get much profit, but it was better than nothing, and kept trade moving.

He called at several private houses, and at some he was very successful. He returned to the “Old Carved Lion” in the afternoon, deposited his pack, and had a late dinner.

Taken altogether he came to the conclusion that matters were by no means unpromising.

Towards evening he went for a stroll to learn a little more of the neighbourhood.

As he was taking his way through a long lane he met the girl whom the occupants of the parlour had called Nelly.

There was of course a mutual recognition.

“Well,” said our hero, “how did you get on last night? Did you get scolded when you returned home?”

“No,” answered Nelly, tossing her head contemptuously. “It was only my fun. Aunt seldom scolds me; she knows I wont stand it.”

“Oh! you live with your aunt—​do you? Ah! I wish I was your aunt.”

“Why?”

“Then I should have a merry, cheerful companion.”

“Get out, talking such foolishness,” cried the girl.

“I’m not joking—​I am very serious.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, anything but that. But I am glad we’ve met. You’ll be able to tell me all about the people in the neighbourhood, and can be of great service to me if you will.”

“If I will. What do you mean?”

“Why, in the way of business, you know.”

“Oh, I didn’t understand you; but what does that matter? Are you going to stop here—​at the ‘Lion,’ I mean?”

“I’m not going away just yet. I want to see a little more of you.”

“You are such a funny man, and tell such droll stories. Where did you come from?”

“London, my dear, from London. Did you like the print?”

“Oh, yes, ever so much.”

“You’ll like it better when it’s framed. Bring it to the ‘Lion’ and I will frame it for you.”

“What will it cost?”

“Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll tell you if you’ll pay for it now. It will cost just this.”

He put his arms around the damsel’s neck, and imprinted on her lips a kiss. They were ripe and ruddy, and he felt that he was amply paid.

“Oh, you wretch,” exclaimed the girl; “you’ve got the impudence of the old gentleman, you audacious fellow. I don’t like you at all, not a bit! How dare you?”

“Now don’t be angry, my pretty Nell,” said Peace, in a wheedling tone. “For the life of me I could not resist the temptation. Forgive me.”

“You’re a nasty, impudent fellow, that’s what you are.”

While Peace had been indulging in this little innocent flirtation a lusty young fellow had been watching the two from an adjacent meadow. He ground his teeth with rage, and clenched his fists in a threatening manner, but both our hero and the girl were ignorant of his being near the spot.

“Now,” said Peace, “whither are you going?”

“What’s that to you?”

“There’s no harm in the question. It deserves a civil answer.”

“It’s no business of yours where I’m going.”

“Perhaps not; but I say, Nell—​I call you Nell because I don’t know you by any other name—​let me accompany you for a little way.”

“I don’t want your company, and wont have anything to say to you.”

“But tell me where you live.”

“I shan’t.”

“Ah, yes, you will.”

“I tell you I wont.”

“You’re very unkind. I thought we were friends, but unhappy is the man who places trust in a woman.”

The girl looked surprised. Peace spoke in such a mournful tone that she hardly knew what to make of him.

Was he in earnest, or only jesting?

“Well,” he added, “if you won’t have anything to say to me, so be it—​these things are hard to bear.”

“Get along, man,” exclaimed the girl. “What on earth are you talking about? Are you daft? I’ll go my way and you go yours.”

“So be it, then, but you’ll bring me the picture to frame. I have another and a better one for you, remember that. Good evening—​good-bye, Nell.”

“You’ve got my name pat enough. Good night.”

She held out her hand, Peace grasped it with ardour, and again bade her good-bye.

She passed through the lane with rapid steps—​he watched her as she proceeded along.

When she had gone a couple of hundred yards or so, he followed at a respectful distance.

“She’s a charming creature, so impulsive—​so ingenuous, but I wont bother her any more just now. She’s a little nettled, but she’ll come to, I don’t doubt that. She’s not one to bear malice, or to sulk either, if I read her character rightly.”

He let her go her way, and turned out of the lane into a bridle road which ran at right angles with it.

At this time he had not the remotest idea as to who and what she was, but he knew there would not be much difficulty in ascertaining all about her, either from Bricket himself, or one of the frequenters of his house.

Peace walked about the locality for half an hour or more after the girl’s departure, and noted all the leading residences in the neighbourhood. Although but a village he had passed through, it was a long straggling one, and was more densely populated than he had first supposed.

He now returned and bent his steps in the direction of the “Carved Lion.”

When within a couple of hundred yards or so of that well-known “house of entertainment for man and beast” he was suddenly confronted by a powerful-looking rustic who sprang out of an adjacent copse.

The fellow was an ugly-looking customer, and the expression of his ill-favoured countenance denoted that he meant mischief.

“Well,” said our hero, “what might be your pleasure?”

“You be’s the man I ha’ bin a waitin’ and watchin’ for, and now I’ve got ’ee.”

“Much obliged, I’m sure; and pray, now that you have got me, as you are pleased to term it, what may be the nature of your business?”

“I’ll dall soon let’un know that,” returned the rustic, turning up his cuffs. “I intend to ha’ it out wi’ ’ee.”

Peace was puzzled to understand the man’s meaning or his intent. He was at first under the impression that he meant robbery.

“If you are a footpad I must tell you that you are much mistaken in your man. I’m as poor as a church mouse—​so let me pass without more ado.”

“Noa I wun’t let ’ee pass, not afore I give ’ee somethin’ for yerself. Ye be a pretty varmint to be a takin’ liberties wi’ my gell.”

“Now, look here, my man,” said our hero, in a much more serious tone of voice. “I’ll tell you frankly I’m not going to submit to impudence from an ignorant yokel like you, and if you don’t get out of the way I’ll mark you, big as you are. Your girl, indeed, and who is she I pray?”

“Ye know well enough. Don’t ’ee think ye can gammon me? I tell ’ee yer’re a dirty blackguard—​that’s what ’ee be.”

“You’re an impertinent fellow. Are you drunk, mad, or what?” said Peace.

“I’m neither, but ’ee doen’t come betwixt me and her, not if I know it.”

“If you give me any more of your impudence I’ll chastise you on the spot.”

“Oh, oh,” exclaimed the other, mockingly, “you chastise—​well dang it, that be a good un; we’ll soon see who’s the best man of the two.”

And with these words the speaker up with his fist and delivered a straightforward blow. It was as strong as a horse’s kick, and had it taken effect as the countryman intended, it would certainly have gone hard with our hero.

The blow was well meant, but like many other well-meant things it missed its mark. Peace, who had been expecting the attack, warded it off, and sprang back some three or four yards; he then ducked his head and ran with all his force full butt at the chest of his powerful antagonist.

The effect was magical; the man was sent reeling, and fell on his back full length on the hard road.

He was never more astonished in the whole course of his life.

Peace, who was wonderfully agile at this time, had given him no time for reflection, and to say the truth the rustic had never counted on this novel mode of attack.

He was partially stunned by the fall, but recovering himself a little he rose to his feet. Peace did not give him time to pull himself together, but again ducking his head and running forward with all his might he again laid his foe prostrate.

“Now then, my fine fellow, that will teach you to be a little more cautious. You are too great a coward to hit one of your own size.”

Once more the man regained his feet, but it was evident enough from his staggering that he had been seriously injured.

Wild with fury at being mastered by so insignificant-looking man as Peace, he rushed forward to annihilate if possible his active and cunning adversary.

He let fly with his right and left, but Peace was far too artful to allow him to get within reach; he again sprang back and, whirling round the stick he carried, he delivered a terrific blow therewith on the countryman’s right temple.

Peace’s dog “Gip” now sprang at the man and laid hold of one of his legs.

The countryman cried out “Murder!” several times.

“Call yer dog off—​call him off! It bean’t fair.”

“If you’ve had enough I’ll call him off,” said Peace.

“Call him off then. Drat it, he’s got hold of my leg. Do’ee call him off.”

Peace did as he was bid.

Then, panting, bleeding, and fairly cowed, the village athlete stood for awhile humiliated and crestfallen.

“You’ve brought this on yourself, my fine fellow,” said our hero. “You’re a big strapping chap, but you see size and strength aint everything. Take my advice, and think twice before you commit an assault upon those who have never done you any harm, and with whom you have no just and reasonable excuse for quarrelling.”

“Didn’t you meet Nell in the lane? Answer me that.”

“I am not bound to answer every fool’s question,” returned Peace. “What if I did meet a young woman in the lane, or anywhere else for the matter of that, am I to be called to account by a fellow like you? You must be little better than a born idiot to suppose such a thing for a moment.”

“I’ll ha’ it oot wi’ ’ee some other time.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Look here, my friend,” said Peace, “you may think yourself lucky in being let off so easily this time. The next time you attempt to lay hands on me I’ll put a bullet in your brain. I’m in earnest, and mean what I say. I will shoot you if you endeavour to again assault me. So now beware.”

The man rubbed his eyes and looked hard at the speaker.

“Do you comprehend?” inquired the latter.

“I hear what you say.”

Strongly built and muscular as he was, the countryman was by this time as weak as a rat; his knees seemed to give way under his weight, he felt giddy, and was fain to cling to the gate by the side of the road for support.

He was fairly mastered.

“Why, Giles, what be the matter wi’ ’ee?” inquired two young fellows, who had seen the affray three fields off, and who now arrived on the scene of action.

“Has the little’un bin too much for ’ee?”

“He’s a devil, that what he be—​a devil!” exclaimed Giles, nodding towards Peace.

“You will understand,” said the latter, addressing himself to the newcomers, “that he attacked me in a violent manner without any reasonable excuse. I never saw the fellow before in my life—​have had no quarrel with him until he chose to abuse and assault me, and I desire you to distinctly understand that what I have done has been only in the way of self-defence.”

“Why, he’s big enough to eat ’ee,” observed one of the men, “and ought to be ashamed on himself.”

“Go on,” exclaimed Giles, “hit a man when he be down, it’s the way wi’ ’ee all.”

“You’re simply a blundering fool, and ought to have a month or two on the mill to tame ye,” cried Peace. “I’m not at all certain that you didn’t intend to rob me.”

“Ah, no, he aint one of that sort. Don’t ’ee think that, sir,” returned the other rustic.

“Well, I hope I’m mistaken. Let it pass. I am mistaken, put it in that way, and so good night.”

With these last words, Peace proceeded on his way, and in a few minutes afterwards was safely ensconced in the snug parlour of Bricket’s hostelry.

When the time came for the regular frequenters of the establishment to arrive, the topic of conversation was the encounter we have briefly described.

The man Giles was an ill-tempered, overbearing fellow, who was not liked by the village folk, and his discomfiture at the hands of Peace was deemed a good joke by most of them.

The only wonder was with them all, that such a slight-built little fellow could have secured so easy a conquest, and, as a natural consequence, Peace was the hero of the hour.

It was not the first time he had made use of his head as a weapon of defence.

It was a trick he had learnt in early youth—​a trick he never forgot. He had, as we have already seen, great coolness and self-possession when in any situation of danger. He was always remarkably active and quick in his movements.

His victory over the village athlete was more attributable to the swiftness and suddenness of his attacks than aught else.

The countryman was as strong as an ox, but he was slow and awkward, and was knocked out of time by his agile and cunning adversary before he had time to recover from his first surprise.

Peace was received by the company in the parlour in a way which was most friendly and flattering—​indeed he seemed to be a special favourite with the frequenters of the “Carved Lion,” and of course he took good care to make himself as agreeable as possible.

He told a number of amusing stories, played his violin, and was a sort of oracle in the old hostelry. Bricket was greatly pleased with him since he drew customers to his house, being, indeed, a sort of “lion” for a time.

For some days after the incidents which have been chronicled in the preceding chapter, our hero was actively employed in search of fresh customers. He was by no means unsuccessful, for in a short time he had contrived to obtain a very fair connection.

The orders for frames flowed in apace, but as yet he was not able to execute the commissions for want of a workshop.

He consulted the landlord of the “Carved Lion,” who was well acquainted with the neighbourhood and its surroundings.

“I’ve got a fairish amount of orders,” said Peace; “and it’s likely that others will follow; but there is a little difficulty in the way.”

“And what might that be?” inquired Bricket.

“I can get all my materials easily enough,” returned Peace; “but how about a place—​a workshop?”

“Ah, I see, of course. You want a snug crib in the neighbourhood?”

“Yes.”

“I think I can arrange that. You know Charlie Styant?”

“No indeed, I do not.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Not by name perhaps, but you’ve seen him, an’ he knows you well enough.”

“Well, what of him?”

No. 12.

“He’s a carpenter and cabinet-maker, and has a big workshop just at the end of Dennet’s-lane. I dare say he’ll be but too glad to let ’ee have part of his shop?”

“Do you think so?”

“Of course I do; nay more I’m pretty nigh sure o’ it, and ye’ll find him a nice young fellow in the bargain. He’ll do anything he can to oblige a fellow-tradesman, I’m sartin sure o’ that. Shall I speak to him?”

“I wish you would; but I’m giving you a great deal of trouble about one thing and another.”

“Dall it, what’s the use of a man being in the world if he can’t mek hisself useful to a fellow creature? Besides, we all on us want to make it worth your while to stop as long as possible.”

“You are very good, I’m sure. Just speak to this young carpenter and see what he says about it.”

“Right you are. It shall be done this very morning.”

Peace shouldered his pack and went round to his customers.

Upon his return in the afterpart of the day his landlord informed him that he had spoken to Styant, who expressed his willingness to let part of his shop for a few shillings a week.

“And you can have a bench all to yourself,” observed Bricket.

“Nothing can be better. How far is it from here?”

“Not a quarter of a mile; but we’ll go round and have a look at it,” said the landlord, putting on his hat. “Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot is an old motto of my father’s.”

The kind-hearted landlord conducted Peace to a long low building built of wood, with a slate roof, at the end of Dennet’s-lane, as it was termed.

He introduced his companion to a young man whom Peace recognised as one of the frequenters of the parlour of the “Lion.”

“Now ye two are to be better acquainted. Just cast your eyes round, Mr. Peace, and see if this place will suit ye.”

“It will suit well enough if I am not incommoding our young friend.”

“Ye can have this bench and this end o’ the shop all to yerself,” said Styant. “I aint got so much business at present as to want the whole shop.”

“I don’t know how long I may want it,” observed Peace; “that all depends upon what orders I get, but it will certainly be for two or three weeks.”

“If it’s two or three and twenty ’twill be all the better,” observed the carpenter, with a smile.

This little matter being satisfactorily arranged, the landlord and his guest bent their steps in the direction of the hostelry.

“Yer had a tidy old scrimmage with Master Giles t’other evening, hadn’t ’ee?” observed the farmer, as they took their way along.

“Yes,” answered his companion.

“Short and sweet, wa’nt it, like a donkey’s gallop?”

“It was short, but there was not much sweetness about it.”

“About the girl Nelly, eh?”

“So he said. Is he a lover of hers?”

“Lord love you, no! not a bit on it; but he’s spooney on her, so I’ve been told. But she won’t ha’ anything to say to’un. Nell knows too much on him for that.”

“He’s an impudent, ruffianly fellow.”

“But ye tumbled him over like a sack of whate.”

“I didn’t give him much time for reflection.”

“So I heerd,” exclaimed the landlord, bursting out in a loud laugh.

“It was as good as a play. The fellow aint liked by any o’ his mates; he’s a sulky, ill-tempered hound.”

“Is Nelly in service?”

The landlord shook his head.

“In business?”

“Partly so.”

“Does she live near here?”

“Yes; hard by.”

“With her parents?”

“Noa, she aint got none. She’s an orphan.”

“Oh! An orphan?”

“Yes.”

“Does she live by herself, then?”

“No; with an aunt. The old lady keeps a shop in the next village, and does a little in the market gardening line. She has a large strawberry ground, which is pretty well frequented during the season. Oh, she drives a tolerable trade, what wi’ one thing an’ another.”

“And Nell?”

“Well, yer see, she’s a clever lass, and makes herself generally useful; but she’s been a bit spoilt.”

“In what way?”

“Her aunt lets her do pretty much as she likes, but Nell’s a good sort and a general favourite, although she is sometimes a little uppish. Is there anything more ye want to know?”

“No—​oh, no,” said Peace, colouring slightly.

The two walked on in silence for some minutes after this.

“She was a great favourite with my missus,” observed Bricket—​“she who is dead and gone now, an’ she wasn’t a woman to take a fancy to everybody. It was not many as pleased her.”

“Ah! I don’t wonder at Nell being a favourite.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s something so genuine and ingenious about her manner, and she appears to me to be singularly straightforward for a woman.”

“I’m glad you sed for a woman,” observed Brickett, coming to a sudden halt and looking hard at the speaker. “I be very glad you sed that.”

It was now Peace’s turn to laugh.

“You’re a bit of a philosopher,” he said.

“I mind the time when I wanted all the philosophy I was possessed on; so would you, if you’d been in the same position as I was; but, lor’, it bean’t no use looking back. We none of us know what we’ve got to go through in this world, and it’s a blessing we don’t; leastways that be my opinion, ’cos yer see, Mr. Peace, if so be as we did we should sink down and fall as flat as stale beer afore our journey was half over. We’ve all our trials an’ our troubles, an’ arter all I s’pose happiness is pretty well distributed among us. It bean’t the richest or the most fortunate as are the happiest. Look at my lord at yonder foine estate, who’s a rollin’ in wealth; he be a miserable man—​much more miserable than either on us.”

“I don’t know whom you are referring to.”

“Why, Lord Ethalwood.”

“Ah! I don’t know him.”

“But you’ve heerd on him, I ’spose.”

“No, I’ve not.”

“Well, that be strange.”

“You seem to forget that I am new to the neighbourhood and its inhabitants.”

“Ah, true, I did not think of that. At some other time I’ll tell ’ee all about him, but may be ye’ll hear from somebody else afore long.”

Having made satisfactory arrangements for his workshop, Peace sent orders to a wholesale house in London to forward him several books of gold, together with some lengths of maple wood and German gilding, which would serve his purpose for the manufacture of cheap frames. When the parcel of goods arrived he set to work in earnest; the orders he had received for the inexpensive frames were much more numerous than his commissions for the better class of goods; he, however, managed to do pretty well with both class of customers.

One morning as he was leaving the “Carved Lion” to betake himself to the workshop, he observed at the bar a powdered lacquey, arrayed in all the paraphernalia of dazzling garments appertaining to persons of his class.

Peace was struck with his appearance, as well he might be; for he was a finely formed man, over six feet in height, with a broad chest, huge limbs, and a proud bearing.

He was decked out in the most gorgeous of liveries, with plush breeches, white stockings, and a large shoulder knot and tags falling over his shoulder.

This radiant individual was conversing with the landlord, who treated him with great deference.

Peace honoured the lackey with a cursory glance as he passed out of the inn.

Upon his return later in the day, Brickett called him into the bar-parlour and said—

“Did you see our swell footman as you passed out this morning?”

“I couldn’t help seeing him,” returned our hero; “he was so big, and was, moreover, so dazzling, that it was impossible to pass by without noticing him. Who is he?”

“One of Lord Ethalwood’s servants—​that’s all.”

“Humph! Well, he’s a credit to the establishment, as far as appearance goes, that’s quite certain.”

“Yes. Well, now just listen to me a moment or so. He came here this morning to order some chartreuse, some bottles of seltzer and soda, together with many other things. It appears that the servants are going to have a party all to themselves. His lordship is in London——”

“And they take the opportunity of enjoying themselves during his absence. Quite right and proper.”

“No, not altogether that; his lordship knows of the little affair, which is to come off in a day or two—​has given permission, in fact. The butler, who has been in the family for the last thirty years, is a great favourite with his lordship. The butler’s fellow servants purpose presenting him with a watch and chain, as a token of their respect and esteem.”

“Also very right and proper, I suppose.”

“Now, don’t be satirical, old man,” observed Brickett, with a smile. “Just hear me out. Henry Adolphus——”

“Who is he?”

“The footman.”

“Ah! I see; the footman.”

“Yes. Well, as I was a saying, Henry Adolphus told me this morning that they were, in addition to other festivities, going to have a bit of a dance. But how about the band?”

“Have Weippert’s from London.”

“Hang it, don’t be so contrary! Two or three musicians will be all they will require. Will you be one?”

“Me! Most certainly, if you desire it.”

“You won’t lose anything by it.”

“Oh, dear, I should suppose not.”

“Henry Adolphus has heard of you, and asked me if you were stopping here. I sed yes, in course; and I also sed I was certain sure you would be ready when they required your services.”

“You’re as good as a father to me,” observed Peace, with a smile.

“An yer know, although they are but servants, they are big people in their way at the hall, let me tell ’ee that. And they can do a chap a good turn when un loike.”

“I shall be most delighted to make their acquaintance—​of that rest quite satisfied. Make what arrangement you like with regard to me—​I will do my very best to fulfil it.”

“Right you are, old man—​leave the matter in my hands.”

Two days after this the footman again made his appearance at the inn; he had more orders to give to the landlord—​more arrangements to make.

Brickett conducted him into the parlour and introduced him to our hero, who was at the time having his mid-day meal.

“This is the gentleman I wer a speaking to ’ee about Mr. Peace, sir,” said Brickett—​addressing himself to the flunkey.

“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” said Henry Adolphus.

Peace bowed.

“I am very glad to meet you, sir,” said he.

The footman gave a dignified bend of his body, and handed our hero a card.

It was an invitation to the party to be held at the servants’ hall on the following night.

“An you’ll have no objection to oblige them with a tune or two?” said the landlord.

“Certainly not, that’s understood. Are there any other performers to be there besides myself?”

“A cornet player and a gentleman who plays bass,” answered the footman.

“I should like to see them, so that we may know what we are going to do together.”

The landlord and his visitor conversed together apart for a minute or so, after which Henry Adolphus said—

“If you see them ’ere to-night or to-morrow morning, will that suit you?”

“Yes, that will do very well.”

In the evening of that same day a pale-faced young gentleman, with weak eyes, and a military-looking young man with a heavy moustache, presented themselves at the “Carved Lion,” and inquired for Peace.

The first named was the bass-viol player, the other being the gentleman who performed on the cornet.

The three performers repaired to Peace’s workshop, where they had one hour’s hard practice. This enabled them to keep together—​certainly well enough for a beginning. They had another turn at their instruments on the following morning.

The eventful evening arrived. Peace was not permitted to sally forth from the “Carved Lion” without an escort. The landlord and several of his parlour customers insisted upon accompanying him up the hill, on the brow of which was situated the noble mansion known throughout the county as Broxbridge Hall.

Brickett, who had received a card of invitation, was to come later on. He, however, went up to the great gates and lodge at the entrance, and rang the visitors’ bell. The porter made his appearance in answer to this summons, whereupon Bricket explained to him in a few words who Peace was, and the reason of his visit.

Our hero was then left in charge of the porter, who conducted him into the servants’ hall.

Peace was perfectly astounded at the grandeur and beauty of the place, which had been decorated with flags, garlands, rare and choice exotic plants, and presented all the appearance of a baronial hall of the olden time, such as Nash and Cattermole knew so well how to depict.

The place was crowded with throngs of visitors; the servants, relatives, and friends, together with a vast number of the tradesmen in the neighbourhood, formed on contingent.

In addition to these the parish schoolmaster with some of the elder boys, a few agriculturists, who rented small farms under his lordship, and last, not least, was the girl whom we have known as “Nelly.”

Peace had been under the impression that he was going to a sort of “high life below stairs,” about which he had heard so much.

He was, however, of quite a different opinion when he beheld the vast throng of gaily-dressed persons, surrounded with all the appliances which wealth and art could furnish.

He felt perfectly bewildered at the grandeur of the scene, which at this time was lighted up by the rays of the setting sun, which found their way through the many coloured diamond-shaped windows of the apartment.

Henry Adolphus, who was at the further end of the hall, caught sight of our hero as he first entered. With courtly politeness the prize flunkey hastened forward to give him welcome.

“It’s vary good of you, I’m shaw,” said that personage, after the usual greeting, “vary good to do us the ’onour of being present this hevening. Will you keindly step this way?”

Peace was conducted by his host towards one of the side tables; here he was introduced to a quiet, sedate, bald-headed, respectable-looking man, whom Henry Adolphus informed him was Mr. Jakyl.

This was Lord Ethalwood’s butler.

Had he not been informed otherwise Peace would have concluded that it was his lordship himself.

Mr. Jakyl was reticent by nature; the few words he did utter, however, were courteous and patronising enough.

The butler, however, had so many persons to see, and such a number of little arrangements to make, that he did not remain many minutes in one place.

He was constrained to leave Peace rather abruptly.

“What wine will you take, Mr. Peace?” said Henry Adolphus.

“None at present, I thank you,” returned our hero.

“You must ’ave one glass with me. What say you—​champagne?”

“Thank you, yes.”

Two glasses of champagne were filled, and the burglar and the flunkey hobbed and nobbed. Presently the latter’s attention was called to another part of the room.

Soon after his departure Peace caught sight of Nelly threading her way through the throng. He hastened towards her.

“You here!” said he in a whisper, when he had reached her side.

“Me—​yes. Is there anything surprising in that?” returned she, with a toss of the head.

“Well, I don’t know that it’s surprising; it’s gratifying to me, at any rate, and makes me feel supremely happy.”

“Does it?”

“Of course, you know it does. How is it you have never shown up since that night? I’ve been watching the hours.”

“There, that will do. Spare yourself the trouble o’ talkin’ like a booby. That sort o’ thing won’t go down here.”

“You are a most extraordinary girl,” returned Peace. “Hang me if I know what to make of you. At one time I thought I was a bit of a favourite, but now——”

“Well, what are you a sayin’?”

“Now you positively flout me at every turn. Of all the persons in this assembly you are the only one I know.”

“Ye doesn’t know much on me, do ’ee?”

“Not much, but I want to know more. I wish to become better acquainted with one who has made so great, so favourable an impression on me.”

“What brought yer here if yer doesn’t know any on ’em?”

“Because I was invited.”

The weak-eyed bass-viol player and the military-looking cornet performer now came forward and offered their hands to Peace, and his conversation with Nelly was therefore brought to a premature close for awhile.

Peace discovered in the course of conversation with his two fellow musicians that an addition had been made to the orchestra—​a harpist and a flutist had volunteered their services.

“But positively I tremble,” observed the young gentleman with the weak eyes.

“What at?” cried Peace.

“Well, you see, in case there should be any mistake. We certainly ought to have been introduced to the flutist and harpist, so that we might have had a little practice.”

“We shall manage well enough, I dare say,” observed the bass-viol player.

A cold collation had been spread out on the huge table in the adjoining room, into which the assembled guests were now conducted.

Mr. Jakyl was to have taken the head of the table, but he had been throughout his life a modest, unobtrusive man, and at his earnest request the village schoolmaster, Mr. Magnet, consented to occupy that place of honour.

He was supported by the bailiff on one side and the head gardener on the other.

All these arrangements had been duly weighed and considered. To many the sitting down at the table was a mere matter of form so far as partaking of the repast was concerned; there were some, however, who did ample justice to the viands placed before them.

After the meal was concluded and several toasts had been drunk, Mr. Magnet rose, and, in a sonorous voice, spoke as follows:—

“Ladies and gentlemen, you will, I am sure, give me your attention for a few minutes. I will not make any large demands upon your patience, but will explain in as few words as possible my reason for my addressing you on this occasion. I am deputed by the members of Lord Ethalwood’s domestic establishment to speak on their behalf, and my only regret is that the task was not assigned to a more efficient representative. (“No, no.” “Hear, hear.” “Can’t be in better hands.”) That may be your opinion, but it is not mine; however, I will do my best. I think we shall all agree upon one subject, that being the regard and esteem in which our worthy friend, Mr. Jakyl, is held. For nearly thirty years he has had the honour of enjoying the confidence and good opinion of his lordship, and in addition to this his urbanity and kindness cannot fail to have been duly appreciated by all members of this establishment. It is, therefore, with feelings both of pride and pleasure that I present to him, on behalf of the members of this household, a gold watch and chain, as a token of their respect and friendship.”

The article in question was now brought forward, enclosed in a handsome case, and laid before the butler by the page.

“Before concluding,” said Mr. Magnet, “I shall call upon you to join me in a toast. I need hardly indicate what it is—​‘Long life and happiness to Mr. Jakyl.’”

This was of course the signal for vociferous applause, which made the servants’ hall reverberate to the very echo.

The butler rose in some precipitation, and said he could not find words to express his feelings, but that he was duly impressed with the honour which had been shown him; and that, in short, the company were all kindness, and he was all gratitude.

Several other healths were proposed and drunk, and the company now began to assume that of a highly festive character.

There was a vast amount of wine-taking, of mixed conversation, and a noise as of many tongues speaking at once.

One of the young farmers sang a hunting song, with a “tally ho!” chorus, which was rendered vigorously, if not musically.

People had evidently come to enjoy themselves, and they did so to their hearts’ content.

Henry Adolphus had been constrained—​from the force of circumstances, of course—​to partake of wine with so many persons that he was in an effervescent state.

All of a sudden, to the surprise of everybody and the dismay of a few, he rose to his legs for the purpose of addressing the assembly.

“Sit down—​don’t be so foolish—​do pray sit down,” cried one of the female servants, frowning at the footman.

“Ish all right, I know what I’m ’bout!” exclaimed Henry Adolphus—​“have a dooty to perform.”

“Are you mad?”

“Mary Hann, don’t be personal. Be quiet, my girl, be quiet.” Then in a louder voice he shouted out, “Mr. Charman!”

“Order, chair!” said Mr. Magnet.

“Mr. Charman and gentlemen,” said the footman, “I need not tell you that I’m unaccustomed to public speaking, but I cannot let this hevening pass hover without—​without doing what I consider to be a justice to our worthy charman. Gentlemen, Mr. Magnet has put himself out of way to oblige us. Every one of us can lay our ’ands on our ’arts and say that he has expressed our feelings a deal better than we could have done ourselves. (Hear, hear.) Now, I want to tell you that we ought to be grateful, and I cannot let the hevening pass hover——”

“Henry Adolphus, do sit down.”

“Mary Hann, shut up,” said the footman. “I will have my say.”

“Oh, it’s dreadful. Do get him to sit down.”

“We have a little interruption here, Mr. Charman, but that does not matter. I cannot and will not let the hevening pass hover without doing what I consider to be my dooty. Gentlemen, one and hall, my hobject in addressing you is easily expressed, and I intend to keep the hobject in my heye. I’m going to ask you to drink the ’ealth of Mr. Magnet, and at the same time I want you to join me in thanking ’im for all his kindness.”

The health of the charman was drunk with enthusiasm, and, much to the delight of those around him, the pertinacious flunkey sat down.

He had by this time imbibed enough to float a four-oared cutter, and the only wonder was that he did not make a greater fool of himself.

The chairman responded in an amusing speech, and the hilarity was very soon at its height.

It was intimated that everything was ready for the dance, the next room had been cleared, and the musicians were playing some lively strains.

There was a general exodus, most of the company betaking themselves to the ball-room.

Peace and his coadjutors comported themselves very well—​the music was bright, crisp, and inspiring.

The musicians were stationed in a gallery at the end of the room, and Peace had no opportunity of mixing with the throng of dancers beneath.

He commanded, however, an excellent view of all that was going on, and was by no means consoled by seeing the girl Nelly dancing with one partner after another, without even condescending to regard him with a passing glance.

This, of course, was irritating to a man of his choleric temperament, but there was no help for it; he was compelled to submit with the best grace he could.

There was a number of young and pretty women among the throng, and, as a matter of course, a vast deal of flirtation took place in the course of the evening.

Mr. Jakyl was evidently anxious that neither his fellow-servants nor his guests should overstep the bounds of prudence.

Some of the young farmers were far too demonstrative and noisy to please the discreet and prudent butler, who, to say the truth, would in all probability feel greatly relieved when the festivities of the evening were brought to a termination.

Those who lived some distance from the hall now began to take their departure, and, in the course of another hour, more than half the visitors had left.

Mr. Jakyl came up into the gallery and personally thanked Peace and his confederates for their services. He at the same time placed wines and other refreshments before them.

He was certainly a well-behaved, considerate man, who never failed to look after the comforts of those who came within his sphere of action.

The guests at the hall now began to leave rapidly and the evening’s amusements were brought to a close. The musicians were thanked once more by the butler, Henry Adolphus, and many others of the household, and our hero returned to the old “Carved Lion,” in company of its genial landlord, who had been footing it merrily for an hour or more.

For some four or five weeks after this Peace was busily engaged in executing the orders he had received from people of almost every denomination. It was evident enough that he did not intend to shift his quarters for some time, as orders were falling in pretty fast, and he had promised Bricket to regild his frames before he left the village.

Lord Ethalwood returned to Broxbridge Hall. Before introducing him to the reader, we must, for the purpose of our history, give a brief chronicle of past events. He had the reputation of being proud and haughty to a fault. Austere and inflexible as he was in outward appearance, he was not deficient in the softer and more tender promptings of the heart; but he was proud—​this fact his best friends could not deny, and therein, perhaps, lay the secret of all his trials and troubles.

He was proud of his name, of his lineage, of his unsullied honour, proud of the repute in which he was held, of his high standing in the county.

As a river gathers force and strength from every tributary stream, so he made every gift heaven had bestowed upon him tributary to his pride.

It was a grand old place he owned, in the county in which he was born. Broxbridge Hall had everything to recommend it. Situated on the summit of a hill, with acres and acres of land spreading out on all sides, fine old woods, fertile land, through which a silver stream wound its sinuous course, and a house of the old Elizabethan type, together with a princely income. Nevertheless this man was not happy.

Nay more, he was supremely wretched.

No wonder a shadow had crossed over his house—​a shadow deep and sinister.

The misfortunes that had befallen him and his were, to a certain extent, attributable to circumstances beyond his control; but he had added to these misfortunes by his own indomitable pride.

People, in speaking of him, said he was just and generous, but very proud.

He was a rigid observer of class distinctions. He paid all persons the honour due to them, and he expected the same in return.

“The Ethalwoods came in with the Conqueror,” he would say. “Had fate ordained them to be kings, they would have known how to reign. Old as the line is, there is not a blot on the escutcheon. No Ethalwood ever forfeited his honour.”

It is an axiom as old as the hills—​much older, it may be, than the honoured line of the Ethalwoods—​that pride must have a fall.

Never, surely, was the truth of this more terribly exemplified than in the life of the nobleman now immediately under our notice.

Bertram Lord Ethalwood, married a young creature of surpassing beauty. She was nobly born, but vivacious and volatile. She bore him three children—​two sons and one daughter.

The first blow that fell upon our nobleman—​a blow which fell upon him “even as a flail falls upon the garnered grain”—​was the elopement of his wife with an officer attached to the Indian army.

The injured husband did not show externally any signs of the sorrow which weighed so heavily on his heart. He sued for a divorce, which he obtained without opposition.

His wife, shortly after this, died in Calcutta. It was a relief to him when he was apprised of her death.

He did not marry again, but he loved his daughter and was proud of his sons. His children were the delight of his heart—​the very light and brightness of his home was his daughter.

A beautiful, gay, high-spirited girl, who had all the Ethalwood spirit with its attendant pride. Her father literally worshipped her; he watched her beauty as it developed day by day; he pleased himself by fondly imagining what a glorious future was before her.

He could not bear to part with her, and would not upon any consideration be persuaded to send her from home.

He had governesses and masters for her—​he did his best to ensure her a good education at home, but it was, perhaps, the most imprudent thing he could possibly do. He made no allowance for girlish gaiety or exuberance of spirits, and the result of this was that the girl began to look upon her home as a sort of prison.

She loved her father, had the greatest respect for his character, but still at the same time she looked upon him as a sort of gaoler, and gloried in evading his rules.

Her brothers she did not see a very great deal of. They spent very little time at Broxbridge Hall; they went to Eton and from thence to Oxford, and were principally under the charge of tutors.

Lord Ethalwood had impressed upon them in a most marked manner the nobility of their race and the obligation they were under to keep their name unsullied and honour unstained; he left the rest to their teachers.

The name of Lady Ethalwood no one in the household durst mention; his lordship had given orders to that effect. Even his sons and daughter never once alluded to their dead mother.

Whatever they knew or had heard about her they had the prudence to keep to themselves.

The years flew by and the Honourable Miss Ethalwood was approaching her eighteenth summer, and her father was looking forward to the time when she would be presented at Court and take her place among the ladies of the fashionable world.

He almost dreaded this ordeal, for he felt that she would, as a natural consequence, become hurried on into a vortex of pleasure, and be constrained to keep up an incessant round of visits; but a greater evil, a more serious estrangement, was destined to take place before the dreaded time arrived.

When his lordship took up his quarters in his town residence he left his daughter at the old ancestral home, where, during his absence, she reigned supreme. This just suited her, for, like her father, she was immensely fond of having her own way.

With all his intellect and acquirements, how blind was the haughty nobleman to the common affairs of life—​how little did he reckon upon the danger which beset his daughter’s path at this time!

An Italian professor taught her music and singing. He was, as many Italians are, a remarkably handsome young man, and he had a voice which was simply magnificent.

Bending over the piano, and turning over the leaves of the music, he had ample opportunity afforded him of coming in close contact with his fair pupil.

His visits—​or lessons would be the more correct term—​were much more frequent during his lordship’s absence than they were when he was residing at Broxbridge; even the servants could not help noticing this.

A thought came into the head of the music-master—​indeed, it had been there for a very long time; it was this—

“What a grand future I shall make for myself,” he murmured, “if I woo and win the Honourable Miss Ethalwood!”

To do the Italian professor justice, he was really not actuated by mercenary motives. He had conceived a passion for his pupil, and, as a natural consequence, she became aware of this without his uttering a word relative to so important a subject.

The professor had all the qualities to captivate one of the opposite sex.

He was light-hearted, animated, had no inconsiderable amount of passionate eloquence, and was, in short, a very dangerous man to hover about a thoughtless and inexperienced girl.

The Honourable Miss Ethalwood inherited much of her father’s pride, but that was not much protection when her heart was touched.

In a very short time she became infatuated with the handsome young Italian.

To make use of a common phrase, she was over head and heels in love, or, as Mr. Artemus Ward would say, “I cannot tell you how muchly she loved him.”

Meanwhile, while all this was going on, Lord Ethalwood had not the faintest notion of the coming storm, and even if a suspicion had crossed his mind he would have dismissed it, for it would have seemed as probable to him that his daughter would fall in love with one of his grooms as with her music-master.

He returned to Broxbridge Hall, and demonstrated all his old fondness for his daughter, and did not observe at this time that her manner was at times constrained.

The professor’s visits were now few and far between, but the love between the two grew stronger—​the Italian grew bolder—​he asked his fair pupil to meet him at an appointed spot in the neighbourhood.

She foolishly consented, and on one occasion when her ardent admirer told her in passionate accents how dearly he loved her she owned that the feeling was reciprocal.

It is not easy to determine whether it was love or ambition that prompted the Italian to make the declaration—​it might be both.

It was, however, a base betrayal of trust and a cruel fraud—​a most unpardonable deception, a most dishonourable deed.

They plighted their troth. The professor asked the young lady to broach the question to her father.

She drew back a pace or two, and exclaimed—

“Mention it to my father! You must be mad to make such a proposition.”

“He would never consent?”

“Consent! He would die first. Oh, you do not know him.”

The Italian shrugged his shoulders, and looked on the ground in a desponding manner.

The lovers parted.

A day or two after this the Italian went to Broxbridge Hall for the purpose of giving his usual lesson. He met his lordship in the passage, who bowed stiffly and passed on.

“Can he suspect anything?” murmured the professor, “or is it the natural pride which all the English aristocracy have, more or less? Ah, she’s right enough! It will never do to mention the subject to him. Ha, ha, we must elope!”

He told his pupil of the meeting, and informed her also that her parent was stiff and haughty in his manner.

“That is not unusual with him,” she answered. “It’s his way. Do not take any notice of it.”

“Does he suspect aught?”

“No. Oh, dear no!”

While this love-making had been going on there was one in the house who had her own private reasons for suspecting something was amiss—​this was the housekeeper in the establishment.

She was under the impression that a little harmless flirtation was taking place, but she had no idea of its nature or extent. Had she been aware of this, in all likelihood she would have mentioned the subject to her young mistress or his lordship.

She, however, deemed it expedient, for divers reasons, to remain silent.

The very last person in the whole establishment to suspect the state of affairs was the master of Broxbridge.

He had unlimited faith in the integrity of his daughter, and, indeed, to say the truth, there was not much excuse to be made for her, save that she was charmed with her lover’s handsome person, his musical voice, his fascinating and engaging manners. She was infatuated—​so much so, indeed, as to be heedless of the great wrong she was doing, but she had now gone too far to retract.

She consented to elope with her music-master, who had repeatedly suggested a clandestine marriage.

She persuaded herself that he was a gentleman, although a poor one. He was an artist, a man of polished manners, and equal in many ways to her father’s friends and companions—​in some respects he was their superior.

Poor, giddy, thoughtless girl, she knew but little of the world. Had she mixed more in society she would have hesitated before she took the first false step which led to untold misery both to her and hers.

The end came. She stole one afternoon from the time-honoured walls of Broxbridge, and eloped with Signor Montini.

It would be impossible to describe the despair of Lord Ethalwood when he heard of his daughter’s flight. He was frantic for a time, after which he was preternaturally calm; but a storm raged within more terrible than any sudden burst of passion. She had written to him avowing her love for Montini, and informing him at the same time that she took it for granted he would never give his consent. Hence it was she had consented to a clandestine marriage. She implored him to forgive her, to pity and pardon her for her disobedience.

No member of the old Inquisition could have looked more relentless and spectral than did the lord of Broxbridge when he read this epistle.

“She has passed from me, even as did her mother,” he ejaculated, in a low deep whisper. “Even as did her mother,” he repeated, like the burthen of a song. “Fool that I was, I never counted on this blow.”

He took an oath never to look upon her face again. Dear as she had been to him, he was resolved upon thinking only of her as one dead.

This terrible oath he kept unbroken.

He knew but little of Montini, and, strange to say, he was not so embittered against him as might have been supposed. The full measure of his wrath fell upon the head of his undutiful thankless daughter. His love for her had changed to the most deadly hate, which neither time nor circumstances would change.

He was relentless. As far as he was concerned, the noble sentiments conveyed in the words of a celebrated poet, “To err is human; to forgive, divine,” never for a moment passed through his mind.

She had brought disgrace upon him. She had sullied the name of Ethalwood by running away with a low-born foreigner, a miserable teacher. The thought was agony. He never would acknowledge her—​never more.

It was something fearful to witness the inexorable determination of the injured and unforgiving father, who never for a moment reflected that he was in some measure responsible for the misfortune which had befallen him. Had he been less exacting, given her a wider sphere of action, the chances would have been she would not have been forced into the error which brought with it so much misery.

The two sons of Lord Ethalwood were perfectly astounded when the news reached them of their sister’s elopement with Signor Montini.

They might and, indeed, ought to have taken her part; but they knew pretty well the hopelessness of any appeal to their father, who was not a man to give way when he had once made up his mind.

They had, indeed, seen so little of their sister, had been so estranged from her for so long a time, had left her so entirely to their father’s disposal that they did not hold themselves responsible for her actions.

Nevertheless, they found it difficult to comprehend how she could have so forgotten herself.

Lord Ethalwood made no loud complaints.

To all appearance he was as calm and impassible as of yore.

If any one attempted to condole with him he held up his hand in a deprecatory manner, which enforced silence.

His sorrow—​his anger lay too deep for words.

He did not interrogate any of the household about his daughter’s mode of life, or make any inquiry about Montini.

Servants as a rule are loquacious enough with regard to the movements of their superiors. His gamekeepers could, and, indeed, would have told him of rambles in the woods of Broxbridge, of stolen meetings in the grounds, but their lord and master at once repressed them.

He forbade them ever to mention the names of either the Italian or their young mistress.

The men of course deemed it expedient to keep silent.

The housekeeper began to open her mind to his lordship.

“I do not desire, madam, to enter into the question, and therefore beg that for now and hereafter you will hold your peace. The past has passed away; let it be forgotten.”

The housekeeper made a curtsey and retired.

In a few days after this she received a notice from his lordship, who was then at his town residence, to quit his service.

He did not return till the notice had expired, and she had taken her departure.

She was sagacious enough to understand the cause of her dismissal.

His daughter’s lady maid and two other female servants were also discharged.

Upon Lord Ethalwood’s return to Broxbridge, he summoned his butler, Mr. Jakyl, to his presence. He was sitting alone in his library at this time, and before him rose, like so many ghosts, all the hopes he had centred in his beautiful daughter. He remembered her as a lovely laughing child—​as a merry and artless girl. His brow was dark, and his eyes were red with weeping.

Despite his pride, his sternness, his terrible contempt and scorn, there was something pitiful in the proud man’s silent, solitary despair.

Never again was he destined to hear the gay young voice—​never more to watch the beautiful face. She was worse, ten thousand times worse, than dead. If she had been snatched from him by the icy fingers of death, he could have loved her still—​could have visited her grave—​he could have spoken of her, but she was dishonoured and disgraced—​she had brought scorn and contempt down upon the very name of Ethalwood.

“Ahem! did you ring, my lord?” said the butler, who had crept so quietly into the room that his master was not aware of his presence. It was a way he had—​he was so very soft and gentle in his movements.

“Ah, it’s you, Jakyl.”

The butler bowed.

“Yes, I rang—​let me see, what was it for? Ah, I remember. You know the handwriting of your late mistress?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“For the future I desire you to look carefully over all the letters addressed to me before I see them, and, should there be any in the handwriting of your late young mistress, destroy them.”

“Destroy them?”

“Yes, sirrah; burn them—​that’s what I mean.”

“Yes, my lord,” returned the butler with another bow.

He was surprised, but was too discreet a man to let any expression of it be seen on his countenance, which was as inexpressive as that of a wax doll.

He withdrew from the apartment in the same noiseless way in which he had entered.

After this time Lord Ethalwood lived as if he had no daughter.

Mr. Jakyl was the only person who knew how many heart-broken letters came to Broxbridge Hall; he never referred again to the subject to any living creature. He knew very well the uncompromising nature of his master, and knew, moreover, that it was more than his place was worth to be outspoken on so painful a subject.

So time passed on, and the name of the young girl who had been his idol in days gone by was never even mentioned; all trace of her had disappeared, and she was as one dead, and to all appearance even the fact of her having had existence was entirely forgotten.

His two sons he took great pride in. He hoped and expected that they would do honour to his name.

Reginald, the eldest, was proud and haughty like his father. The younger one was soft and womanly; he had not by any means so robust a constitution as his brother, but he was a general favourite, being especially kind and considerate to all who came within his influence.

He was his father’s pet, for he never thwarted his parent in any of his whims and fancies; indeed it might be said that he was obedient and yielding to a fault.

Lord Ethalwood could not conceal from himself that this young man had a hectic flush at times, and showed decided symptoms of weakness, or it might be of early decay, and he was seriously concerned when the family physician informed him that his second son required the greatest possible care.

His lordship trembled at the thought of losing one who was so endeared to him, and he could not bear him out of his sight; he was therefore his constant companion, either at Broxbridge or his town residence.

Reginald took great delight in athletic sports, was a member of a yachting club, was a daring rider, and attended most meets in the county and elsewhere.

His father did not much concern himself about him, leaving him to do pretty much as he liked; for he used to say, with a smile, that Reginald was strong enough for anything, and was well able to take care of himself.

Judge of his horror, however, when, one afternoon, he received the sad intelligence that his son, Reginald, had been thrown from his horse while following the hounds in a distant part of the country; and that when picked up the young man was found to be dead. His neck was broken, and he never moved after the fall.

This blow fell with a deadening weight upon the miserable and despairing father.

He could not at first realise it, and it was not until he saw the body of his dead son that he could be brought to believe in the irreparable loss he had sustained.

There were people who at this time, and indeed afterwards, said that he was justly punished for his indomitable pride; and many averred that he had brought most of the troubles on himself.

Such is the charitable construction some people put upon the misfortunes of others.

But the cup of his sorrow was not yet full.

No. 13.

A terrible change came over the unhappy and ill-fated nobleman about this time. Long years of toil could not have aged him as his sorrow did. His hair grew white, his face became livid, his eyes lost their wonted fire; and albeit he bore himself bravely under the deep affliction which had fallen upon him, it was easy to see that he was no longer the same man. A shadow had fallen upon him and his, and he was constrained to suffer in silence.

Reginald was interred in the family vault. A noble scion of the house of Ethalwood was gathered to his fathers with all the pomp and ceremony usually accorded to the illustrious dead.

His only remaining son, Herbert, was now his father’s chief, and indeed it might be said only, care. He had no other prop for his declining years, no other to look to as the direct inheritor of his title and estates.

His anxiety about his son, Herbert, was almost pitiful to witness; he was for ever by his side, watching with a jealous care.

It was pretty generally understood by all that the young man was acutely sensible of the loss he had sustained by the death of his brother, Reginald, to say nothing of the mystery in which the fate of his sister was enveloped.

He durst not make any inquiries about her, and even if he had he would have been none the wiser, seeing that nobody knew aught about her. He therefore mourned the loss of each in silence.

He was, physically as well as mentally, incapable of bearing any great affliction, and it is likely enough that the untoward events which had taken place in a measure tended to hasten his decline.

Nothing, however, could have saved him, so his medical attendant declared, for he was suffering from the worst form of consumption.

This fact, however, was kept from his father for as long a time as possible.

Lord Ethalwood hoped against hope. He could not, and would not, up to the very last, believe that his only remaining son was slowly but surely passing away.

“Remember, Herbert, you are the last of the Ethalwoods, my son, the last of our name. Our race all depends upon you. It behoves you, therefore, to take great care of yourself. Live, live, for my sake.”

Then he would sit down and watch the thin features of the young man with the deepest anxiety.

Whether he believed in the possibility of his recovery, or whether he clung to hope as a last refuge, it is not possible to say.

It was perfectly evident to all the inmates of Broxbridge Hall that their young master was daily becoming weaker and weaker, and the end most of them guessed, and even hinted at.

There were many who said the father’s excessive care helped to kill him.

Observations of this nature are cruel enough under any circumstances. In this case they were most unjustifiable and unpardonable.

Busybodies who came to the house declared that the young man had too many doctors, too many nurses, and had taken too many remedies. Those who knew best, however, were perfectly aware that his death was inevitable.

The fiat had gone forth, and no medical skill could arrest the approach of death—​Herbert sank to his last sleep in his father’s arms. Lord Ethalwood was left alone in the world.

The melancholy series of events which we have recorded in the two preceding chapters occurred long before the period in which the action of our story takes place.

Let us now follow the thread of our narrative.

We have already signified that Lord Ethalwood returned to Broxbridge Hall very shortly after the servants’ party, at which our hero had played no insignificant part.

In a small room, called the study, “a thin, tall, aristocratic man, of three-score years and ten,” is seated; around the walls of the apartment are ranged glass bottles, crucibles, together with a variety of other articles, emblematical of a chemical laboratory. The solitary occupant of the studio might be taken for a necromancer of the middle ages, so spectral and weird-like is he in appearance; and at times his deep-sunken eyes seem to light up and flash with unwonted fire, while at others they are cold, inexpressive, and passionless.

His long bony fingers are busily occupied in reaching ever and anon some ponderous volume, the pages of which he scans with a curious and absorbing interest.

This old man is Lord Ethalwood, who, despite his years and the sorrow they have brought, is still firm and vigorous—​still full of active intellectual life.

He is a philosopher—​a searcher after truth—​a solitary and silent worker in his old ancestral home.

To him the wonders revealed by scientific research have been a solace and a comfort in the hours of his affliction.

He has pursued his studies with unwearying industry; has never relaxed, but has worked as hard—​and, indeed, harder, perhaps—​than many men whose means of existence depended upon their own exertions.

There is good reason for this: the recluse at Broxbridge needed some occupation to drive away the miserable thoughts which at times took possession of him.

Without some such employment his life would have been one long sorrow.

He had made chemistry his study, he had also dipped deeply into the science of astrology, and when wearied of these he followed up his train of observations in astronomy.

At the top of his palatial residence he had erected an observatory.

This was furnished with a large telescope, which was said to be the finest in the country. He had always had a taste for scientific pursuits; in the later years of his life it was a passion with him.

He had little else to occupy his thoughts, for he had long since withdrawn himself from society, and with the exception of a few choice friends he did not much care about mixing with what is called the fashionable world.

Nevertheless he was not altogether a recluse: with those who knew him best he was the same genial, courtly, high-bred gentleman, whose presence was deemed an ornament in any fashionable or aristocratic coterie.

But a deep shadow had fallen on the house of Ethalwood—​a shadow which no ray of sunlight dispelled.

For an hour or so the master of Broxbridge remained in his studio, working out some difficult problem in chemistry. Presently he arose, passed out of his laboratory, and made his way to the observatory.

To reach this he had to pass through the picture gallery, on the walls of which were ranged in chronological order portraits of his dead ancestors.

He seldom passed through the picture gallery without taking a glance at the long line of portraits, the very contemplation of which seemed to take him back to brighter and more glorious days.

He was proud of his ancestors, many of whom had been identified with the history of the country.

A miserable sense of depression and loneliness came over him as he contemplated the time-honoured works of art. He thought some of his race looked reprovingly on him out of their dingy frames.

At his death there would be an end to the unbroken line of the Ethalwoods. He had no son to inherit the title and estates, which would go to a distant relative, whom he held in utter aborrhence. This thought was perfect agony to him.

He turned abruptly away and made for the observatory, and strove to drown his sorrow in the depths of science.

In a short time, however, he again sought the laboratory. As he arrived at the door of the picture gallery he was startled by a loud noise, a sort of clatter and crash—​so it seemed to him—​which reverberated through the whole apartment.

He hastened forward, and beheld a cloud of dust.

When this had cleared away he was enabled to ascertain the cause of the strange sounds. The portrait of Gervase Lord Ethalwood, with its massive oak frame, had fallen to the floor.

The master of Broxbridge was greatly affected. His pale face became a thought paler, and his limbs trembled.

A superstitious fear seemed to creep over him.

He looked upon the circumstance as an ill omen.

Had fate in store for him any greater trial?

For awhile he stood motionless and spell-bound, his eyes being all the while riveted on the fallen picture.

His ancestor, Gervase Lord Ethalwood, was deemed the most honoured of his race. He had distinguished himself both in the field and in the senate—​had enjoyed the confidence of his Sovereign.

“This is a most remarkable circumstance—​the more so since it happened while I was at the entrance of the picture gallery,” murmured Lord Ethalwood. “Most remarkable—​and—​and significant.”

As he was hesitating how to act he observed at the other end of the gallery the well-known features of Mr. Jakyl, who was advancing in his usual quiet and unobtrusive manner.

“Oh, it’s you, Jakyl!” said his lordship, walking up to the picture. “Do you know of the accident?”

“I heard a noise, my lord,” returned the butler, “and hastened to ascertain the cause.”

“The picture, the likeness of my great ancestor—​it has fallen.”

They both looked at the object in question.

“The rings have given way,” observed Mr. Jakyl, pointing to the rings through which ran the cords which supported it.

“Strange, most unaccountable!” ejaculated the nobleman. “Most incomprehensible.”

“Well, my lord, it is not so surprising after all,” returned the butler. “The wood is decayed.”

“Umph! You had better lift it up and place it against the wall, then get the steps and hang it up in its place.”

The butler gave utterance to an expression of surprise.

“What’s the matter?” enquired his master.

“The wood on which the picture is painted is perfectly rotten. I am afraid to touch it in case it should fall to pieces.”

This was found to be the case. The picture of Gervase Lord Ethalwood was in such a decayed state that the panel on which that marvellous man had been painted was like touchwood, which had been so worm-eaten that it threatened to tumble to pieces.

“I dare not touch it, my lord,” said Mr. Jakyl, in evident concern.

“The only wonder is that it should have hung so long in its position. How long has it been painted, my lord?”

“More than three centuries. What do you propose to do? Send up to London. Telegraph at once to a frame-maker to come immediately. I would not have the painting injured by unskilful treatment, not on any account.”

“Send to London?” repeated the butler.

“Of course, that will be the best plan.”

A bright idea occurred to the butler, who said in a half apologetic tone, “We have a very clever young man from London working in the neighbourhood, who, I think, would be able to make a good job of it.”

“What is he, and who is he?”

“He’s in the picture line, my lord and is very clever, so I’m told. His name is Peace.”

“Do you think he is a skilful workman?”

“Oh dear me, there’s no question about that.”

“Very well. Send for him at once; there will be no harm in hearing what he says. Send for him, Jakyl.”

And with these words Lord Ethalwood returned to his laboratory.

Peace, who was at work at his shop in Dennet’s-lane, was surprised to receive a message from the Hall, commanding his immediate attendance, upon a matter of urgent business.

He put on his best attire and presented himself at Broxbridge.

He was at once taken into the picture-gallery by the prudent and well-behaved Mr. Jakyl.

Mr. Peace made a careful examination of the picture.

“It’s all to pieces,” he observed to the butler, “and if you attempt to move it it will crumble into dust. I never saw anything so gone. The wood on which it is painted is literally powder. It will require all my skill to make a job of it.”

“Do you think you can restore it? Don’t undertake it unless you see your way clear, for I must tell you frankly that his lordship sets more store by this than anything else in the whole establishment.”

“If I can’t do it, nobody can,” returned Peace; “but don’t let me get you into trouble. If you have no confidence in me send to London.”

“I will consult his lordship,” observed the butler, proceeding at once to the laboratory.

He returned with his master.

“Well,” said the latter, addressing himself to Peace, “how about this picture? Can anything be done with it? I don’t mind the price—​only I want it made sound.”

“And it is no easy task, my lord,” answered our hero, “seeing that it is so old and decayed; but I will do my best with it.”

“Tell me how you intend to proceed with your work?”

“The surface of the picture is not much injured. The dry rot, as it is termed, has not affected the painting, but it has left the wood like a honeycomb. What I purpose doing is to make a plaster of Paris bed for it. When the face of the picture is once safely deposited in this bed of plaster it will be then my business to make the panel upon which it is painted firm and secure.”

“And, pray, how is that to be effected?” inquired his lordship.

Peace smiled, and said—

“By a process I use in cases of this sort. It is an invention of my own, and I think when the work is completed your lordship will acknowledge that it is a very ingenious one.”

Lord Ethalwood looked hard at the speaker.

“It may be, but I am still in ignorance as to your mode of operation. I understand chemistry, and should like to hear something more definite about your process.”

“The panel on which the portrait is painted is so decayed that you might put your finger through it with the greatest ease. I intend to fill up all the interstices with a solution, which, when set, will make it stronger than ever. When done it will last for centuries, but the difficulty will be in effecting this without injury to the surface, and before I begin I must inform your lordship I cannot be answerable for any injuries to the painting which are at present not discernible, but which may present themselves in the course of the restoration.”

“You seem to be intelligent enough. Do your best—​only I charge you to use the greatest care. You will bring your materials with you and work here, I presume.”

“I cannot do otherwise, my lord; any attempt to remove it would be attended with positive destruction.”

“Very well, Mr. Jakyl, you will see that the picture-restorer has all he requires,” said Lord Ethalwood as he left the apartment.

Peace returned to Dennet’s-lane with the understanding that he was to commence operations at the Hall on the following morning.

He was in some trepidation as to the success of his enterprise, which, to say the truth, required all his skill and care to ensure a satisfactory result; but he was not a man to be daunted by trifles.

On the following morning, therefore, he proceeded to the picture gallery with several bags of plaster of Paris.

His first proceeding was to see if he could with safety remove the panel from the frame, which was almost in as bad a state as the panel itself.

He found that he could not do this with safety; the panel would not bear forcing with the chisel. He therefore prepared a bed of plaster for the frame as well as the picture.

He oiled the surface of both, and, with the assistance of the young carpenter, in whose shed he worked, he succeeded in placing the picture and frame in its bed of plaster.

This was effected happily without any mishap.

His next process was to work into the wood with a fine soft brush a solution formed of oils, resinous gums, and driers. After he had saturated the worm-eaten wood with this, driving it well home to the back of the oiled surface, he left it to dry till the following day, when a similar process was gone through, with the addition of a little cement.

What remained of the honeycombed rotten wood had by this time become fixed and firm—​there was no fear of its crumbling into powder.

On the third day he mixed up his patent solution as he termed it. This consisted, like the first coating, of oils, resinous gums, driers, and a larger proportion of cement. Warming the whole in an iron ladle he poured its contents on the back of the picture.

This, like the rest, was left for some hours to set, and on the following day he poured on more of the same composition, until the whole of the injuries to the wood were filled up.

This last process was witnessed by Mr. Jakyl and the footman, both of whom professed to be deeply interested in the proceedings.

Lord Ethalwood himself examined the work after Peace had left, and expressed himself well satisfied with it as far as it had gone.

In a day or two the composition was set as hard as a rock, and our hero lifted up the frame from the plaster bed, not, it must be confessed, without some anxiety.

As he expected he found a number of small holes, about the size of a pin’s head, made by his composition on the painting itself.

Luckily these were chiefly in the background of the picture, only two being observable on the face of the dead Gervase Lord Ethalwood.

Peace removed the panel from its frame—​it was as firm and solid as a piece of slate—​he placed it on an easel and looked carefully at its surface.

“Well,” said Mr. Jakyl, “it’s all right, with the exception of those ugly spots.”

“It was impossible to avoid showing these; the fact is the decay in another year or so would have gone so far as to destroy entirely the whole of the picture. We may think ourselves lucky it’s no worse,” observed Peace.

“Yes, I suppose so, but his lordship will think them a great disfigurement,” observed the butler.

“You had better ask his lordship to have a look at it.”

“I am very well satisfied with the work.”

Lord Ethalwood was communicated with. He accompanied his butler into the picture gallery.

He glanced at the portrait of his great ancestor, whose features were as dingy and faded as they well could be; this was more especially observable as the representation of the old nobleman was brought to the light.

“I hope your lordship will be pleased with my work,” said Peace. “It has been one of the most difficult tasks that I have ever undertaken; but you wil find, I think, my lord, that you have now a picture more endurable than any in your gallery.”

“Yes, it does you great credit,” returned the nobleman; “great credit, I admit. But these spots, they are sad blemishes.”

“They were holes in the painting itself, which, in another year or two, would, in all probability, have become like a colander.”

“Ah, yes; I see. I suppose so.”

“But, with your permission, my lord, I will make the work perfect—​so perfect, indeed, that no human eye will be able to detect the slightest fault or injury to it. Will your lordship trust me with the picture for a few days?”

“What, take it away? Oh, dear no. I should not like that.”

“I cannot very well do it here.”

“And why not, I pray?”

“Well, in the first place, I shall require assistance. These spots must be carefully gone over with colour, and—​besides, several other things will have to be done to it.”

“All of which, I presume, can be done here? If not, it must remain as it is, until such time as I meet with a good restorer.”

“Then, as you wish it, I will endeavour to do it here,” returned Peace.

It was so arranged. In the course of a few days, our hero sent for a well-known man in the trade, who was an adept in that branch of the profession.

The effigy of the valiant Gervase Lord Ethalwood was subjected to the restoring process. The dirty brown—​or black varnish would be the more correct term—​was removed by means of powdered cuttle fish. Then the spots were carefully picked out with colour, which had to be matched with that already on.

After this the face of the old earl was glazed, and when this had been done, the transformation was positively magical.

Lord Ethalwood was delighted. He ordered a costly frame from our hero. In this the restored picture was placed, and then hung up in its original position in the gallery.

He inquired of Peace what he was indebted to him; the answer was twenty pounds. Lord Ethalwood wrote a cheque for fifty, which he handed to our hero.

Nothing could be more satisfactory than this little stroke of business.

Peace returned to the “Carved Lion,” and told Brickett of his success, and there was a general rejoicing at the hostelry on the following night. Peace at this time had no reason to complain of fortune’s favours; he was doing a good business, had been singularly fortunate—​had made a number of friends, and had every reason for pursuing an honest course of life; but he, nevertheless, soon began to be restless and dissatisfied. It must, however, be acknowledged that for a long time after his introduction to Lord Ethalwood’s palatial establishment, he continued to lead a respectable life.

He was much taken with the girl, Nelly, but she did not seem to offer him any encouragement. This not a little vexed him, for when they first met she appeared amiable enough. He did not very well know what to make of her.

But what concerned him the most was the mysterious disappearance of Bessie Dalton; this he could not in any way account for. He would have given anything to clear up that mystery.

Very soon after the events had taken place which have been described in our last chapter, Peace, much to his astonishment, had a rencontre with a person who was perhaps the very last in the world he would have expected to meet.

Our hero had to take some work home to a customer who resided at about a mile-and-a-half’s distance from his workshop. One fine bright sunshiny afternoon he bent his steps in the direction of the habitation in question.

As he was proceeding along a bye road he discovered in the distance a miserably-clad, cadaverous-looking man, whose features he remembered to have seen before, although they were, to say the truth, strangely and sadly altered.

At first he was in some doubt as to the identity of the traveller, but as he approached nearer he was surprised in no small degree to find that the miserable-looking man was none other than John Bristow, whom the reader will remember as Peace’s fellow-lodger in the town of Bradford.

Peace was fairly taken back when he recognised Bristow; he would if it had been possible have avoided a meeting, but as this could not very well be compassed, he determined to put the best face on the matter.

What could have brought Bristow to this part of the country was his first thought?

“Was he in search of anybody? Had he any communication to make?”

These were questions he could not answer satisfactorily.

Bristow was in a most miserable plight; his clothes were ragged and torn, and hung upon his attenuated frame like those of a scarecrow; he looked the very personification of squalid misery. Peace never remembered to have seen such a sudden alteration in anyone.

“Is this the right road to Saltwich?” said Bristow, addressing Peace, whom he evidently did not at first recognise.

“You’ll have to turn round to the right when you reach the finger-post at the end,” returned Peace.

The man started.

“Good luck to you, mate!” he ejaculated. “Why hang it all, if it isn’t Charles Peace.”

“You are right, and pray, in the name of all that’s wonderful, what brings you to this part of the world, John Bristow?” enquired our hero.

“One place is the same as another to me now,” returned his companion. “It matters little where I go or what I do. Everything goes wrong with me—​has been going wrong ever since I last saw you. It appears likely to go wrong for the remainder of my life.”

“Why, mercy on me! you are so strangely altered,” said Peace, “that positively I hardly knew you. What has brought you to this? You look twenty years older.”

“Do I?” he exclaimed, with one of the jerks or nods which were habitual to him. “Do I? Well, I suppose I do. Anyway, I feel more than twenty years older. I’ve had a bad time of it—​have been in the infirmary—​and am next door to starving, that’s how I am.”

“And have you left the old shop?”

“Left it? Lord, love ye, long—​long ago! Haven’t had any regular employment for ever so long. They gave me the sack soon after you left Bradford. I get a job when I can, and that’s not very often. I’m on the tramp now to see and find something to do, and haven’t a blessed mag about me.”

“All this is very sad. And your wife?”

“My wife? She took her hook without giving me an hour’s warning.”

“Where is she?”

“Umph! I should like to know, but I never shall now, I suppose. Oh, she’s turned me up. You see, we had a bit of a quarrel, and——”

“You were always having quarrels when I knew you, but whose fault was it—​not hers?”

“That’s true enough—​it was mine. Well, I bear her no ill will. I hope she’s happier now. But look here, Charlie, we had some words. I’m sorry for what I said. You don’t bear malice, I suppose—​there’s my hand.”

“Let bygoes be bygones,” said Peace. “You’ve been your own enemy more than anyone else’s. I’m sorry to see you so down, but——”

“I know what you are going to say—​it is my own fault. Well, if it is I am the sufferer; but, I say, do you happen to have a trifle you can spare an old chum? Something to help me on my road. I hope to get a job at Saltwich, and if I do I will return you what you may be able to lend—​upon my soul I will, and no gammon.”

“I am a struggling man myself, but still I’ll do something—​here’s ten shillings. When you have the means to pay it me back do so.”

“You’re a right down good fellow, Charlie,” exclaimed Bristow, in evident delight, “and I am sorry I said what I did, but you know well enough that I didn’t mean it.”

“That will do—​enough upon that head. Pull yourself together, and keep away from that cursed drink; it is that alone which has made you the wreck you are.”

“Ah, I am a wreck—​you are right enough! I am a wreck, that is true enough. I’m not the Jack Bristow you knew some three or four years ago.”

“And what about Bessie?” said Peace. “What of her? She left her old quarters about——”

“About the same time as the missus. Ah, they both took their hook at the same time. I don’t think the old woman would have had the heart to go by herself. I’ll never be brought to believe that. She wouldn’t ha’ gone had it not a’ been for Bessie.”

“And have you no idea where they went?”

“Said they were going abroad, that’s all I know. Gone to America, Australia, or some such place. But, lord, I’ve given over thinking about ’em. What’s the use?”

“I don’t know that it is of much use, but I cannot understand the reason for so sudden a flight.”

“Oh, there’s good reason for the matter of that, leastways as far as my old woman is concerned. I don’t believe she ever cared a great deal about me, and that’s the honest truth. Well, latterly you see, she got fairly sick of me.”

“You have nobody but yourself to blame for that.”

“So you always told me. Well, one thing is quite clear, I can’t afford to keep a wife now—​can’t keep myself.”

“You ought to be able to do so with common prudence. You are a skilful workman, and, with ordinary care and attention, might earn a respectable livelihood.”

“At it again,” exclaimed Bristow with a coarse laugh. “The same old game—​moralising. What man was ever made sober by preaching I should like to know?”

“And do you never intend to reform?”

“Me? Ha, ha! I’m afraid I’m too far gone for that.”

“Then I should be ashamed to acknowledge it, if I were you—​that’s all I have to say about the matter, Bristow; you are positively incorrigible.”

“You’re a good fellow, Charlie, but curse your preaching. I never could stand that; but there, I don’t mean to offend you.”

“Oh, you don’t offend me. What I say is for your own good. It is no business of mine, you may answer. Perhaps not, but nevertheless it is my duty to offer you some advice, however unpalatable it may be.”

“You ought to have been a parson, Charlie, upon my word you ought. You’d ha’ made your fortune in the preaching line.”

“Well, say no more upon the subject. I have business to attend to, and so we must part.”

“Where am I to send to you? Where do you hang out now?”

“I am constantly on the move, am travelling, but if you want to communicate with me, address a letter to the post-office, Sheffield, and it will be sure to reach me.”

“You’re a good fellow. There’s no house near where we can have a parting glass? Just one, you know, to show there’s no animosity.”

“There is no house near, and so think of what I have said, and farewell till we meet again.”

“Good bye, Peace, and good luck attend you,” said Bristow, shaking his companion by the hand, and so the two parted.

Peace proceeded with his picture frames towards the house of his customer, and John Bristow went in the opposite direction.

“Strange, remarkably strange, my meeting with that man,” he murmured, as he walked along. “And so he knows no more about Bessie and his wife than I do myself. It is altogether most mysterious and incomprehensible, but there’s something in the background which has not yet come to light.”

After delivering his frames he returned to his workshop, where he was occupied for an hour or two. He then sought the hospitable parlour of the “Carved Lion.”

On the following morning, while he was at breakfast in the club-room, Brickett came in and said with much concern—

“This is a sad business at Saltwich.”

“What is that?” inquired Peace, looking up from his smoking and fragrant cup of coffee.

“Ah, of course—​I forgot you haven’t heard.

“No. What is it?”

“A poor fellow has been found in the road in a dying condition.”

“Who is he?”

“No one seems to know. He is a stranger to these parts and is supposed to be a tramp.”

“Indeed!—​is he in any way injured?”

“Most seriously, they say—​skull’s fractured. They have taken him to the workhouse.”

“Is nothing known about him?”

“Well, it appears that he had been drinking heavily for some hours, and the last house he called at the landlord refused to serve him. He became so violent that he had to be ejected. After that he offered to fight everybody; at length he was persuaded to go away. The last time he was seen alive was in Bedhall’s-lane; and at the end of this, near the high road, he was found in a dying condition.”

“Dear me, how very terrible! Has he been subjected to violence? Has anyone attacked him?”

“They seem to say not. When last seen he was running like mad. The supposition is that he stumbled and fell, his head striking against a heap of stones near to where he was found.”

Peace began to be seriously concerned.

“What sort of a man was he?” he enquired.

“I don’t know, but there’s a carter outside who saw him.”

Peace rose at once, and proceeded to the front entrance of the house.

A man was giving his horses some hay and water in front of the hostelry.

“Here, Jem,” said Brickett, “tell the gentleman what kind of man it was who was found on the Saltwich-road in a dying condition.”

The carter scratched his head and remarked—

“What sort o’ man? Well, un seemed a tallish chap, looked like a tramp.”

“Pale or dark?”

“Dunno. Ye see his face were smothured in blood, so un couldn’t say.”

“Had he dark bushy whiskers?”

“Yes, sticking out on the side on his cheeks.”

“Had he on a ragged fustian coat and moleskin trousers, much the worse for wear?”

“Yes, un ’ad.”

“And short cropped dark hair?”

“His hair was a bit short.”

“Ah, thank you. Will you have a mug of ale?”

“Aye, thank ’ee, zur, I will.”

The ale was drawn and drunk with evident relish by the carter, who was apparently not much discomposed by the sight he had witnessed some hour or two before.

Peace returned to the club-room. He was followed by Brickett.

“Well,” said the latter, “how about the description? Do ’ee know aught about the stranger?”

“I am afraid I do,” returned Peace, who then proceeded to make his companion acquainted with his rencontre with Bristow.

“And it is just possible,” he said, in conclusion, “that the miserable besotted wretch spent the money I gave him in drink. I say it is possible—​nay, more, it is most probable.”

“If I were you I’d just run over to Saltwich and see if it be he—​that is, if you can spare the time.”

In less than half an hour after this Charles Peace rang the porter’s bell at the workhouse.

He was conducted by the master into a small apartment. An iron bedstead was in this, on the mattrass of which was stretched the dead body of a man.

One glance sufficed.

It was the last mortal remains of John Bristow.

The whole affair had been so sudden, the denouement to the tragedy so swift, or it might be said electric, that Peace stood appalled.

“You know him, then?” said the master of the workhouse.

“I did know him years ago, but never dreamed it would end thus.”

“There will be an inquest,” said the workhouse official.

Peace nodded.

“If my attendance is required you know where to find me—​at the ‘Carved Lion.’”

And, with these words, he left the chamber of death.

An inquest was held on the body, and the conclusion arrived at was that the unfortunate man had stumbled, and fallen head foremost on a heap of granite. Blood was found on one of the pieces of granite.

He had evidently afterwards crawled to the end of the lane, where it was assumed that he had sunk from exhaustion and loss of blood. He must have remained in a helpless and senseless condition for some hours.

Death resulted from injuries to the head and exposure, joined to a shattered constitution, the effects of drinking to excess.

The jury returned a verdict of “Accidental death.”

Unhappily for society, John Bristow’s is not a solitary case of the but too frequent indulgence in this fatal propensity.

Within the last week or so the papers have recorded a fatality at the Alexandra Palace which, in most of its features, resembles the wretched end of John Bristow.

The increase of intemperance in this country in the present day is an inexhaustible theme for moralists, economists, and philanthropists.

Drunkenness is the parent of crime, of pauperism, and of misery and degeneracy. It is not possible to calculate the evils that ensue from the pernicious and demoralising effects of a maddening propensity for drink.

The wretched and careworn doubtless fly to it as their only solace. For a time their spirits are raised, but a reaction soon takes place, and at any cost they must procure more stimulants. The end of this may be readily imagined.

How to deal with this gigantic national vice, on which, as yet, no impression has been made, is a question not so easily answered.

If there is one thing more certain than another, it is that, as wealth outstrips culture, sensuality outstrips refinement.

The illiterate millionaire who feasts his guests on turtle and champagne is about the counterpart of the ignorant artisan, who, out of his week’s earnings, treats a less fortunate comrade to a bottle of whiskey or gin.

England for many a day has been brought up in the worship of Mammon and Bacchus, and we are afraid, despite the efforts of the Legislature, intemperance is a vice which we must lay to our account for many years to come.

This, it must be admitted, is very sad to reflect upon.

A return, which was moved for by Mr. Henley last session, has recently been issued, showing the population and number of persons taken into custody for drunkenness and disorderly conduct in each city and town in the United Kingdom, for the years 1851, 1861, 1871, and 1876.

The number of arrests in each of the three countries shows a steady increase in the years named.

In England, in the year 1851, 70,097 persons were taken into custody, of whom 44,520 were males and 25,597 females; and each successive period shows a marked increase, until 1876 the total was 104,174—​67,294 males and 36,880 females.

The returns for Scotland and Ireland showed an increase in a still greater proportion.

Education, we are told, is to effect a change; it will convert intemperate, improvident, and demoralised millions into sober, frugal, and independent citizens. It has not done so as yet, that is very certain, but we must wait till it does.

Let us return to the halls of the rich and great. In the library at Broxbridge are seated two venerable-looking gentleman; the first of these is Lord Ethalwood, his companion being the white-haired old vicar. They are both students, only in different ways. The rev. father in God, Canon Lenthal, was a special favourite with the master of Broxbridge.

“But you will pardon me, my lord,” he observed, in his soft, mellifluous voice. “The time, I think, has arrived when it is your bounden duty to look to the future. I have no desire to allude to painful subjects, but I really think your worldly affairs should not be forgotten.”

“My children are dead, sir,” returned the earl—​“have been dead for very many years—​and every hope of my life has been destroyed. I bow to the decrees of Fate; but the last thing an Ethalwood lays down is what the world is pleased to term his pride.”

“My dear and very excellent friend,” said the vicar, “that may be true enough—​without doubt it is absolutely true in every sense of the word; but, nevertheless, that is no reason for you not turning your eyes towards the future, which is to one and all of us inevitable. Look around you and consider who is to succeed you—​who is to carry on the glories and the honours of your grand old race?”

“I have no next of kin save a headstrong, wild, dissipated nephew, who is unworthy for a place of honour—​unworthy to represent the ancient and honoured line of the Ethalwoods.”

“The more reason, then, is there for you making an effort while there is yet time.”

“Make an effort!” exclaimed the Earl. “Can I restore the dead to life?” he added, with supreme bitterness. “Can I call back the loved ones who have passed away?”

“Assuredly not.”

“Then what do you mean by an effort?”

“My dear Lord Ethalwood, I have no desire to offend you, but assuredly you can be at no loss to divine my meaning?”

There was a pause. The nobleman made no reply. Like Othello, he gnawed his nether lip, and looked persistently at a large silver salver that blazed on the sideboard beneath the rays of the midday sun, which found their way through the oriel window of the apartment.

The vicar felt that he was treading upon forbidden ground. He, however, determined upon proceeding.

“I think you have not duly considered the matter, Lord Ethalwood,” he observed, in the same quiet tender way. “Nay, I am sure you cannot have done so. You have a daughter.”

“I have no daughter—​she died years ago.”

“Died?”

“She has been dead to me—​dead—​for full five and twenty years.”

“True, she may be dead. But, even assuming this were the case—​assuming it for argument’s sake——”

“Well, what then? We will assume it for argument’s sake.”

“She may have left children—​may have left a son and heir to the title and estates. You have said that her offence was an unpardonable one.”

“So it was. No living man will dare to dispute the point with me.”

“Do not be so choleric, my very dear old friend. I grant what you say. Her offence is perhaps unpardonable, but that is no reason for the innocent being similarly punished. You really must allow me to be plain-spoken when a subject of this nature——”

“You are plain-spoken,” exclaimed Lord Ethalwood, as his pale face became still paler, “very plain-spoken.”

He arose from his chair and walked with rapid strides up and down the room.

“You are moved,” said Canon Lenthal. “The subject is a painful one, without doubt, but it may appear like egotism on my part when I express a hope that you might possibly be induced to listen to me more complacently than you would to any other. Now sit down, my lord, and view the matter in a better and more becoming spirit.”

Lord Ethalwood made no reply, but again took his seat at the table in front of the vicar.

“How could I,” he muttered, “bring the child or children of that base, low-born Italian within the walls of Broxbridge?”

“They are his children, no one will for a moment deny, that is, assuming there are any. Should there be issue of his marriage with your daughter they belong to your race—​they may even resemble you in features, and in disposition also.”

“I hope not.”

“Do not say that, my dear friend—​let us hope they do. They may even have the grand old Ethalwood spirit, the force, the nobility, and honour of the race from which they descend in a direct line. In a direct line, mark you—​you cannot deny that.”

“I do not seek to deny it.”

“Very well, they have a greater right to succeed to the title and estates than any other living person. You may be proud, but that is no reason why you should not be just and reasonable, and I maintain that it would not be right to pass over your lineal descendants. After all there is something in a rightful claim which the best and worst of mankind generally acknowledge. It would be manifestly unjust to set it aside.”

“Really, my esteemed and reverend sir, I must tell you plainly that your argument is based upon no foundation whatever; you are jumping at a conclusion. My undutiful daughter may have no children.”

“That I admit. She may not. I am only suggesting that some effort should be made to find her. She may be dead—​life is, at best, held but on a frail and uncertain tenure, but that is no reason for your remaining persistently in the dark.”

“Ah! so many years have elapsed that the task would not be likely to turn out satisfactory in any way, even if I were disposed to consent.”

“But you will give your consent. Let me prevail upon you to do so,” observed the good old vicar. “Some effort must be made to find out whether your daughter is alive or dead—​that is the first thing to be done.”

“We have not the faintest clue. Five and twenty years have passed over. You seem to forget that.”

“No, indeed, I do not. I have thought over this matter more often than you can possibly imagine, for I must tell you it is a subject which has troubled me much for years past. I have abstained from breaking it from feelings of delicacy, as I felt that I had no right to interfere between father and child; but it has occupied my mind very much, nevertheless, and it has, moreover, caused me the deepest anxiety.”

“Pray say no more. Accept my best thanks for your kindness and consideration. I will think the subject over, and then determine upon my course of action.”

“No time like the present.”

“You are very persistent,” observed the earl, with a smile—​it was the first that irradiated his features for many a day.

His companion looked upon it as a good omen.

“I have one or two calls to make at the other end of the village, and, upon my return, will call in again,” said the vicar. “Think over what I have said. In less than an hour I will see you again.”

“Good. I shall look for you, then, at the expiration of that time.”

The rumbling of the wheels of the vicar’s chariot were heard on the hard dry road, and Lord Ethalwood was alone once more.

He did think the matter over after the departure of Canon Lenthal, and his heart softened.

“He is right—​oh, he is quite right! I am childless—​have no kith or kin that I know of. I must and will take active measures, and see if she be still alive.”

He sat down at the table, and buried his face in his hands.

The hour sped by, and the vicar returned, agreeable to his promise.

“I have taken your advice, and have thought the matter seriously over,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“And what is your ultimatum?” inquired Canon Lenthal.

“To institute inquiries without further delay.”

The two friends sat down once more, and began to discuss details in a serious and business-like manner.

To the great surprise of the vicar, he learnt from Lord Ethalwood that he had never heard a word of his daughter after she left Broxbridge.

“Most singular,” murmured the good pastor. “But did she never write to you?”

“I believe so, but all the letters have been destroyed.”

“Where were they addressed from?”

“I don’t know. I never saw them. I gave orders to my butler to destroy them. Oh, we shall never be able to learn anything of that, I am convinced. Nevertheless I will endeavour to do so.”

“How will you proceed?”

No. 14.

“Place the matter in the hands of my lawyer—​he will know how to act.”

“I am most delighted to find that you have listened to my advice, and hope and trust that you may be successful,” exclaimed the vicar. “In a few days’ time I hope to hear good news. Farewell, my friend, and that your efforts may be crowned with success will be the earnest prayer of your old friend.”

The two shook hands, and Canon Lenthal left Broxbridge in much better spirits than when he entered.

Mr. Chicknell, the earl’s lawyer, who had been telegraphed for, arrived about noon on the following day.

He was at once shown into the library. Lord Ethalwood had by this time become excited and restless. He explained the whole business to his legal adviser.

“Oh,” observed the latter, when his client had concluded. “You now desire to find her out?”

“If it be possible. It seems to me to be most hopeless.”

“Nothing is hopeless in the hands of efficient persons,” returned the man of parchment. “Leave the matter in my hands. I know a clever fellow belonging to the detective department at Scotland-yard.”

“Detective department!” exclaimed the earl, in evident disgust. “Is my daughter to be traced by a man whose business it is to hunt down common thieves?”

“My lord, I pray of you not to be so hasty. Detectives are employed by all sorts of people for all sorts of purposes, and for this reason they are especially qualified to deal with cases of this sort. They’ll find out in a week probably more than I could in months.”

“Well, as you please. You know best.”

“I will do my best for you, rest assured of that,” said Mr. Chicknell. “The very moment I obtain the least scrap of information I will either write or wire to you without delay.”

The active little lawyer returned to London that very afternoon.

Weeks passed over after this. Mr. Chicknell wrote several letters, but they contained but little intelligence.

At last one came which was more cheering. The Italian professor and his wife had been traced first to London, where they had lived some months, and in all probability had spent what little ready money they had. From the metropolis the Italian had gone to Leeds, where he earnt a living by teaching. He and his wife had taken lodgings in that city, and there a child was born.

From what could be gathered it would appear that Montini found it a hard task to maintain a lady brought up in the lap of luxury, and the young couple had to submit to a number of privations.

There were persons residing in Leeds who remembered both the professor and his young English wife.

Indeed, some of the Italian’s pupils, now grown up to middle-aged people, attested to the fact that Montini’s wife presented her husband with a little girl, and the register of her birth and baptism was obtained in the town.

Matters, therefore, looked a little more promising, and the old earl watched for the post each day with the greatest anxiety.

From Leeds they went to Harrogate. In this place they were supposed to be struggling for some time in adverse circumstances, and while there the professor became seriously ill—​so bad indeed that his life was despaired of.

A doctor who attended him, and who still practised in this fashionable watering-place, gave a very sorry account of the Italian’s health, which, he said, was much broken while Montini was under his care. His impression, at the time, was that he could not live more than three or four years.

Mr. Chicknell, in his letters to the earl, informed the latter of all these facts; at the same time he expressed his sincere regret that there did not seem to be much chance of obtaining more information, as the clue seemed to be lost after the professor and his wife left Harrogate.

The supposition was that they returned to London, but this was merely surmise; there was no direct proof of them having done so.

For some time after this the matter remained in abeyance, and the anxiety of the bereaved nobleman increased as the weeks flew by.

He proceeded up to town, and waited upon Mr. Chicknell at his chambers, Paper-buildings, Temple.

“Can nothing more be done in the matter?” he inquired of the lawyer.

“I fear not, my lord. Certainly not at present,” answered his legal adviser.

“Surely, Mr. Chicknell, you do not intend giving over making further inquiries. The case is a most serious one as far as I am individually concerned, and we must not let the matter rest. I do not care what expense is incurred, but you must do your best to clear up the mystery,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“We appear to have come to a dead lock, but that is no reason for our abandoning the search as hopeless,” returned his companion. “Mr. Wrench, of Scotland-yard, has had the case in hand, and has striven as hard as any man possibly could have done to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. I think the best plan will be for him to wait upon you at Broxbridge, and you can then hear what he has to say. You will find him a most intelligent officer.”

“I wish you would communicate with him at once, then.”

“He is not in town this week, but the moment he comes back I will convey to him your expressed wish, and he will hasten at once to Broxbridge.”

“I shall be anxiously awaiting his appearance,” said the earl, who took his leave, and returned to his country seat.

In a few days after this a gentleman presented himself at the outer gate of Broxbridge Hall, and told the porter that he desired to see the earl upon important business.

“Show Mr. Wrench in at once,” said Lord Ethalwood to Jakyl; “of course I want to see him.”

The detective entered, and introduced himself to the nobleman, who desired him to be seated.

“Well, Mr. Wrench, my solicitor informs me that there is a dead lock in this business; can nothing more be done?”

“Oh, we can do a great deal more, my lord,” observed Wrench; “but you must acknowledge that I am furnished with such slender material, and then there’s the lapse of time, and many other things against us.”

“Admitted—​still you do not give up all hope.”

“Well, no, I’m not accustomed to do that. I am glad we have met, my lord, for many reasons—​you will, I am sure, pardon me if I am plain-spoken.”

“Certainly, speak as openly and frankiy as possible. I desire you to do so. Up to the present time I am free to confess we have been baffled.”

“I have done all that man could do, but my efforts have not as yet been crowned with success; I expect you to give me all the information you can.”

“Certainly, that is but a just and reasonable request.”

“You will not be offended, therefore, if I inquire about one or two little matters? Just tell me if you have any of your daughter’s letters, which she might probably have sent here after her departure?”

“I have never seen any of them,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“That’s most important—​did anybody else?”

“I gave orders to my butler to destroy them.”

“Do you think he would remember any of the postmarks?”

“I never thought of that,” exclaimed the earl, with a start.

“Probably not, but it is the very first thing that occurred to me. Did any letters arrive?”

“That I cannot tell you.”

“Where is your butler? Is he in your service now?”

“Dear me, yes—​he has never left it.”

“Will you be kind enough to summon him?”

Lord Ethalwood touched the bell. A servant entered.

“Tell Mr. Jakyl I desire to speak with him,” said his master.

In a minute or so the butler entered the library.

“Will you leave it to me to put the necessary questions?” inquired the detective, addressing his lordship, who felt a mere child in comparison to the sagacious officer.

“Certainly,” he answered, without hesitation.

Mr. Wrench cleared his throat, and focussed his eyes upon the smooth and placid face of the butler.

“I have one or two questions to put to you,” said the detective. “In the first place, did any letters arrive here from the Hon. Miss Ethalwood after her departure from Broxbridge?”

Mr. Jakyl stood aghast—​he could hardly believe that he had heard aright.

“Did any letters arrive?” he paused, and glanced nervously at his master.

“Go on. Answer, Jakyl, you have my permission.”

“Yes, sir; several arrived after the departure of my young mistress, but——”

“You were told to destroy them,” observed the detective. “Did you do so?”

“I would rather not answer the question,” said the butler, in evident trepidation; then, turning to Lord Ethalwood, he murmured in an under tone—​“If I have done wrong, my lord, I hope you will pardon me. I did not destroy my young mistress’s letters.”

“A very discreet and sensible man,” ejaculated Mr. Wrench. “And pray why did you disobey his lordship?”

“Because I hoped that at some time they might be useful.”

“You have displayed great wisdom in your course of action—​you cannot be too strongly commended, Mr. ——. I don’t know your name.”

“Jakyl.”

“Well, Mr. Jakyl, you have acted in a very proper manner. I hope his lordship is of my opinion.”

“I am,” returned the earl, with undisguised pleasure. “I think Jakyl has been most prudent. To say the truth, I have always had the greatest confidence in him.”

The butler bowed, and hardly knew how to comport himself under the praise which was so lavished on him.

“I must tell you frankly, Mr. Jakyl,” said the detective, “that I am engaged in instituting a rigorous search for your master’s daughter; so if it be in your power to give me any information which may aid me in my inquiries, it will be a boon to us all.”

“I wish I could, sir.”

“Well, not now. I don’t mean at present, but if anything occurs to you, out with it at once.”

“I will.”

“Now, my friend, let me have the letters without further delay.”

The butler looked again at his master.

“Fetch them at once, Jakyl. You have heard what Mr. Wrench has said. The matter is in his hands.”

The servant left the library, and in a minute or so returned with a packet of papers tied with silk cord. He handed them to the earl, who pushed them towards the detective, saying, as he did so—

“I have not the courage to open them just now. You can do so.”

“I will not open them,” answered Mr. Wrench; “but, with your permission, will take a note of the postmarks and dates.”

He sorted them, placed them on the table in chronological order, pulled out his note-book, and made entries therein. Then he closed the book, and said—

“This looks a little more promising. I have some material now to work upon. At your leisure, my lord, you can peruse the contents of the epistles, and possibly there may be something which may be of service to us in the pursuit of this inquiry.”

“I will go carefully over them when I am a little more composed,” observed the earl.

“Good. I shall not return to London just at present, for special reasons. I deem it expedient to remain in this neighbourhood.”

“Will you take up your quarters here?”

“No, I thank you, my lord. It would be best, I think, to put up at an inn. There will be more chance of my picking up information in a place of public resort. We have our own way of doing business,” observed Wrench, with a smile.

Lord Ethalwood bowed and smiled also.

The very last thing he thought of doing was to dictate to the sagacious officer, who, in affairs of this sort, was so much his superior.

“From the postmarks on the letters I see your daughter and her husband have paid a visit to several other towns besides those in which I have made inquiries.”

“Other towns—​eh?” exclaimed the earl.

“Yes, one is Sheffield and another Bradford. I shall make it my business to visit both places. Ah! the case is not so hopeless as Mr. Chicknell seems to imagine.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. Pray Heaven we may be successful; it will remove a weight off my heart.”

The detective looked at the speaker and observed, quietly—

“You ought not to have let the matter go so long without ascertaining something respecting the young people’s whereabouts.”

“Of that you must allow me to be the best judge,” said Lord Ethalwood, with all his old pride and hauteur.

Mr. Wrench saw at once the mistake he had made in hazarding an observation which sounded very much like a reproof.

“But you have a duty to perform, sir,” observed the earl, “and I doubt not that you will not shrink from carrying it out to the best of your ability.”

The detective bowed and answered in the affirmative.

He then rose and took his departure, promising his patron to wait upon him again in a day or two.

Mr. Wrench inquired of the butler the most convenient house in the neighbourhood for him to put up at.

Mr. Jakyl, as a matter of course, recommended him to go to the “Carved Lion,” and he at once bent his steps in the direction of that well-known hostelry.

Lord Ethalwood had not sufficient fortitude to open his daughter’s letters in the presence of any one, more especially that one being a detective.

It was a task he had reserved for another occasion.

Soon after the departure of Mr. Wrench his lordship mustered up courage to break the seals of the epistles.

As he did so a tremour seemed to pass through his frame.

A deep sigh escaped from him as he opened the first letter. In this the letter referred to her elopement as a playful piece of diplomacy, never for a moment assuming that it would be deemed an unpardonable offence by her parent.

She asked him to forgive her, and not be angry with his pet, as she had done that which had made her happy for life.

Lord Ethalwood tossed the epistle on one side with something like contempt or disgust.

The second letter was a little more serious in tone. In it she was lavish in her praise of Montini, who she said was the kindest and must considerate of husbands, he was so good, so clever—​in short, there was no one like him.

She besought her father to write, if only a few lines. She would not and could not believe that he intended to cast her off.

“The infatuated senseless girl!” ejaculated the earl. “I never would have believed she could have so forgotten her position in life. For the life of me I cannot understand it.”

These two communications were followed by imploring letters, in which she told him how hard the world was using them, and what miserable struggles they had passed through.

But in this as in all others she spoke in the highest terms of her husband, who she said did his best to maintain a respectable position in the world; this was done for her sake more than his own, “and if,” she said in conclusion, “you only knew him half as well as I do, you would admire and esteem him; nay, more, I believe you would be proud of him.”

“She must have taken leave of her senses,” ejaculated the earl. “The wretched Italian must have bewitched her, the silly, senseless girl. Oh, but all this is hard to bear!”

He remained for some time after this lost in thought.

Presently he opened another epistle.

This announced the birth of a daughter; it was, of course, a fine child, and was, so the writer avowed, “the very image of its mother, and was an Ethalwood,—​this everyone would acknowledge upon the first glance, and she will be named after me,” wrote the ill-fated wife. “Some day I hope you will see the little dear, and when you do I hope you will forgive me for your grand-daughter’s sake. She, at any rate, has not done anything to offend you.”

“It all seems to be like a dream,” murmured the earl, as he broke the seal of another. This came from Harrogate, and its tone was both melancholy and despairing. Montini was dangerously ill—​he was not able to follow his avocation, and his unhappy wife implored her father to hold out a helping hand and send them money without delay, as they were reduced to the greatest possible extremity, and positively wanted the common necessaries of life.

Lord Ethalwood dashed the letter down on the table, smote his forehead with one hand, and uttered an expression indicative of the most poignant agony.

“I never thought it would come to this,” he muttered, rising from his seat and pacing the apartment restlessly. “Poor girl, she must indeed have changed to beg for assistance! Oh, what would I give now to have her here by my side, in—​in the winter of my life—​in my old age!”

He fell into his chair and burst out into a passionate flood of tears.

Retributive justice had overtaken the proud, uncompromising, relentless nobleman, who cried like a child.

*   *   *   *   *

Mr. Wrench wended his way along till he reached the well-known house of entertainment for man and beast, kept by the equally well-known Brickett. The detective was not a man to make himself common by mixing up with any knot of strangers—​not unless he could make it answer his purpose to do so—​he therefore requested to be shown into a private room, and, after partaking of some refreshment, he proceeded to glance at the memoranda he jotted down in his notebook.

“Humph,” he murmured. “The young couple seem to have visited a good many towns; I suppose things were running cross with them. It’s a queer business, take it altogether, and the earl is a starchy sort of customer, as unforgiving as the devil, and as proud as a peacock. Well, I wouldn’t change places with him for all his wealth and title. He’s what I call a stunner. No two ways about him. But ‘he’s down among the dead men’ this time, it would appear—​is what our Transatlantic friends would call ‘cornered.’ I must find out all about his daughter for him, that’s certain—​that is, if it be possible. The question is, how it is to be accomplished.”

Not being able to answer this question with anything like satisfaction to himself, Mr. Wrench lighted a cigar, rang the bell, and ordered some brandy cold.

He had not indulged in many puffs at the “fragrant weed” before Brickett made his appearance.

“Oh, your pardon, sir,” said the landlord; “but be your name Wrench?”

“Yes, my friend, it be.”

“A servant from the hall wishes to speak with you.”

“Let him come up then.”

Henry Adolphus made his appearance.

“His lordship told me to call and see if you were comfortable ’ere, as if not a bed will be provided for you at the hall.”

“I’m all right, my man. Shall do very well here. Give my respects to his lordship, and say that I am quite comfortable. Anything else?”

“No; I b’leve that is hall.”

Henry Adolphus retired.

The sounds of music and merriment in the parlour reached the ears of the detective.

“You appear to have a merry set of people below,” said he to Brickett.

“Yes, sir, they enjoy themselves in their own way.”

“Somebody’s playing the violin.”

“Yes; it’s a gentleman who’s stopping here for a short time, and he generally gives my parlour customers a tune or two after working hours—​after the day’s work is over.”

“He does not handle the instrument badly. Is he a professional?”

“Well, partly so, I believe. He is in the frame and picture line of business—​a traveller.”

“Ah, indeed! A traveller, a picture dealer, and musician all in one—​he’s a good sort.”

“Yes, he’s a very good sort—​there aint much doubt of that; has seen a deal of the world, and has visited pretty well every town in the three counties.”

“Oh! is that so?”

“Would you like to go downstairs into the public room?” inquired the landlord.

“Not now, I thank you—​some other evening perhaps. Did I understand you to say that this violinist and picture-frame maker was stopping here?”

“He is for the present, until his orders are completed. Why, Lord bless us, he’s done wonders at the Hall, and has been highly complimented by Lord Ethalwood himself.”

Brickett now put his customer in possession of all the facts relative to the restoration of the decayed portrait of his lordship’s great ancestor.

“Ah, he must be a smartish sort of chap. Thank you,” observed the detective, who very shortly after the foregoing conversation was conducted to his bedroom.

In the morning he was shown into the clubroom where breakfast was served. Peace was partaking of his morning meal.

The detective bowed and sat down on the opposite side of the table. He looked at our hero with evident curiosity, but did not remember to have seen him before.

During breakfast the two conversed upon several topics, which were however not of a personal nature.

Peace did not know who his companion was; neither did he take the trouble to inquire. He concluded he was some commercial man who had rested there for the night, and the probability was that he should not see any more of him.

In this, however, he was mistaken.

Our hero went to his workshop, and Mr. Wrench remained behind.

He reflected for some little time, and then rose from his chair and went downstairs.

Brickett as usual was behind the bar.

“Is that the violinist and picture dealer—​the one I had breakfast with?” he inquired.

“Aye, surely that be he.”

“He’s a sharp customer, a downy sort of card—​isn’t he?” said Mr. Wrench.

“He’s got his head screwed on the right way if that’s what you mean,” returned the landlord, a little sharply.

“Yes, that’s precisely what I do mean. Where does he hail from?”

“Hail from? I dunno.”

“He’s been travelling about the country, you say?”

“That ’im has—​been to every mortal place, so I’ve heerd.”

“Ah, just so. Where is he to be found now?”

“Found! He works in Dennett’s-lane.”

“And where is that?”

“Not a quarter of a mile from here. Why?”

“I will give him a call. What might be his name?”

“Peace—​Charles Peace. Be you going to call on ’im now?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll show ’ee where his place is.”

The landlord went to the door of the house, and pointed out the lane in question to his customer.

“There at the further end of that,” said he, “you will find a wooden shed, and in that you will see ’im at work.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Wrench, who at once proceeded in the direction pointed out by his host.

Mr. Wrench was a man who pursued his inquiries with the greatest pertinacity; he was not accustomed to let the “grass grow under his feet.”

It was a maxim of his, and one indeed the truth of which had been made manifest, that “you sometimes obtain the most valuable information from a source which appeared at first glance the most unlikely to be fruitful.”

It occurred to him that it would be quite as well to interrogate our hero before he (the detective) proceeded to the other towns visited by the missing pair. Possibly the itinerant frame-maker might have some knowledge of the person or persons of whom he was in search; anyway there would be no harm in putting the question to him.

“Who knows—” murmured Mr. Wrench, as he took his way along the lane—​“who knows but this fellow—​who, it would appear, is a sort of Admirable Crichton, in his way, if one is to believe the landlord of the ‘Lion’—​may not have come across someone in his various wanderings who may have been acquainted with the Italian professor, who was a musician? It is certain that, to a certain extent, the picture chap is a musician—​so here goes for it.”

He was by this time at the door of Peace’s workshop, at which he gave a modest knock.

It was opened by our hero.

“Good morning again,” said the detective. “I want to have a little conversation with you; but you are busy, perhaps. Some other time will do as well.”

“Oh, come in—​you won’t hinder me,” returned Peace. “I can go on with my work, and you can have your say. Be seated.”

He handed his visitor a ricketty Windsor chair, which, to all appearance, had been put together in the last century.

Mr. Wrench sat down, and Peace, with his book of leaf gold in one hand and the pad in the other, went on with his work.

The detective cleared his throat, and then said, carelessly—

“I understand that you have visited a number of towns—​of course you naturally would do so—​in the exercise of your vocation. Am I right?”

“Yes; I’ve been about a goodish bit.”

“Oh, yes, so I hear. Well, now, I must be candid with you. I am in search of an Italian professor and his wife. The former was a teacher of music; but it is more than twenty years since anything has been heard of either.”

“Twenty years!” exclaimed Peace. “It is, then, not at all likely that I should know anything about them. I was but a child at that time.”

“True, but they may be alive now, you know.”

“Ah, that’s another matter. What might be the gentleman’s name?”

“Montini.”

Peace shook his head.

“Never heard of such a person,” he ejaculated. “Don’t know any one of that name.”

“Ah, I was afraid it would be before your time,” observed Mr. Wrench.

“Therein consists our greatest difficulty—​the lapse of time.”

“That’s a remarkably beautiful frame you are gilding—​just my sort.”

“Not bad,” returned our hero, “but I have had a deal better under my hands; but I’m sorry I can’t help you to find the persons you are seeking. What town did they reside in?”

“Ah, several. I will read you over the names.”

Mr. Wrench drew out his pocket-book, and ran over the list of places which he had copied from the postmarks on the letters at Broxbridge Hall.

“You know,” he said, when he had finished the list, “I don’t want any information from you without paying handsomely for it. It is most imperative that I should find these people, if they be still alive.”

“Oh, is it?” cried Peace. “Well, look here, I can’t tell you anything about them, and if I could——”

“You wouldn’t, is that what you mean?” said his visitor, sharply.

“Don’t be quite so fast. I know nothing about you, and don’t even know your name.”

Mr. Wrench drew a case from his pocket, and gave our hero his card. On it was—

Mr. Detective Wrench,

Scotland-yard.

“Ah!” ejaculated our hero. “That’s it—​eh?”

“What?”

“A criminal affair. Some poor crow is wanted.”

“Nothing of the sort. I pledge my word as a gentleman, and——”

“A detective,” added Peace. “Go on, governor.”

“I tell you it is nothing of the sort. The facts are simply these. The lady eloped with her music master. Her relatives cast her off—​now they are anxious to find her. Let me disabuse your mind of a false impression.”

“I never knew or even heard of such a person as Montini, and am therefore unable to assist you; but have you no clue to them—​no letters?”

“Oh, yes, we have letters. That is how we know the different towns they visited. The last one is from the lady. She announces the birth of a daughter, who is named after herself.”

“What name might that be?” inquired Peace, carelessly, removing the superfluous gold from the frame.

“Aveline,” returned the detective.

“Aveline!” exclaimed Peace, in a tone of surprise, which he found it impossible to suppress.

“Yes. Have you ever met with one bearing that name?” eagerly inquired Mr. Wrench, who was at no loss to comprehend that one chance shot had told.

“Yes, I think so. The name seems familiar to me.”

“My dear sir,” exclaimed the detective, rising from his Windsor chair, and approaching nearer to his companion, “if you can let me know about this person you shall be rewarded handsomely. It is a most uncommon name, and it may furnish us with a clue to the missing person.”

“It is not a very common name, I admit; but then there may be hundreds of persons who bear it.”

“You know one, it would seem. Can you tell me where she’s to be found?”

“You take me by surprise,” observed Peace; “and I cannot quite call to mind just at present where I met with such a person. I know it must be a long time ago. I will think the matter over, and see if I can assist you.”

Mr. Wrench saw plainly enough that Peace was not to be caught tripping—​he was too wary a customer for that; he therefore deemed it advisable not to press the question further at that time. He therefore said, in an off-hand manner—

“Well, you will see what you can do for me, like a good fellow, as I am told you are, and so farewell for the present.”

“Aveline!” ejaculated our hero, when he found himself once more alone. “What can be the meaning of this inquiry? He cannot be in search of the Aveline Maitland I knew—​and loved,” he added in a tone of dejection; “but no, that is not possible.”

Peace was fairly puzzled. He had no predilection for detectives. They were a class of men whose acquaintance he had no desire to cultivate.

When his day’s work was finished he returned to the “Carved Lion.”

“The vicar has been here inquiring for you,” said Brickett. “I told him where you worked, but he said he would call here again later on.”

“The vicar—​and what might he want? Going to give me an order for some Oxford frames, I suppose—​eh?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s private business, I believe. You see, old man, people are beginning to take notice of you.”

In less that an hour after Peace’s return Canon Lenthal called again at the inn.

He was shown into a private room in which our hero was seated.

The vicar was introduced by Brickett.

“You will pardon this intrusion, sir, I hope,” said the minister, “but I wait upon you at the request of Lord Ethalwood, whom I believe you have some knowledge of.”

“I’ve worked for his lordship.”

“So he informed me. Well, Mr. Peace, I understand that you have some knowledge of a lady whose Christian name is Aveline. Possibly you would not care about furnishing Mr. Wrench with all the particulars concerning her. I can readily comprehend that, and hence it is that I pay this visit. It is to assure you, sir, that you will be conferring an inestimable favour upon Lord Ethalwood by giving him the address of the lady in question. His lordship had a daughter named Aveline, she has been lost to him for years, and——”

“The young lady I knew could not possibly be his daughter,” cried Peace. “She is too young for that.”

“Admitted, but the circumstance is a most remarkable one—​I mean the coincidence as to the names. I am here to make an earnest appeal. Let me entreat and implore of you to give all the information you can.”

Peace considered for some little time; presently he said—

“Under the circumstances of the case, I feel that I should not be justified in refusing. I will furnish you with what information I have in my power to give.”

“I am overjoyed to hear you make such a declaration. Will you confer with Mr. Wrench, or give me the particulars?”

“I will confer with Mr. Wrench, if you desire it.”

“That will be the best course. Accept my most sincere thanks,” said the vicar, offering his hand to Peace. “I felt assured my appeal would not be made in vain.”

Well pleased with the result of his interview, Canon Lenthal hastened back to Broxbridge Hall.

On the following morning, Charles Peace put Mr. Wrench in possession of all the particulars he was able to furnish in respect to the young lady, whom he had known as Aveline Maitland, but who had become Mrs. Gatliffe three or four years since.

The detective listened to the details with the greatest degree of interest. He was under the full impression that they might ultimately turn out to be of great service to him in tracing Aveline Ethalwood.

“I will at once proceed to Sheffield, Mr. Peace,” he said, in a cheerful manner. “It is indeed a most fortunate meeting—​I mean, of course, ours. Should I be successful you will be duly rewarded, for I am free to acknowledge that you rendered me all the assistance it is possible for anyone to do similarly circumstanced.”

“I wouldn’t be too sanguine,” observed Peace. “The young woman, whose name and address I have given, you will find, I fear, will be of little service, but it is not for me to dictate or anticipate. Make whatever use you think fit of the information you have obtained in so singular and unexpected a manner.”

“I will at once to Sheffield,” repeated Wrench. “It may turn out a fiasco, but that is no reason for my remaining inactive.”

The detective was driven to the station by Lord Ethalwood’s coachman, and in a few hours he was at the door of the cottage which had at one time been in the occupation of Mrs. Maitland.

He was informed by its present occupant that the former tenant had left; she went to live with her daughter and son-in-law at Rotheram, soon after their union.

Mr. Wrench hastened thither. He was informed that they had all left the town, and were residing somewhere in London.

The detective was not to be baffled. He waited on Tom Gatliffe’s former employer, and one of the partners informed him that their late foreman was managing a business in the Euston-road.

He put up at one of the leading hotels in Sheffield, having determined upon proceeding to the metropolis on the following day.

Since his marriage with Aveline Maitland the reader has heard but little of Tom Gatliffe. The young engineer was the best and most loving of husbands; he worked steadily at his business, and in every respect was persevering in his endeavours to improve his position; but trade at the works where he was employed was not nearly so flourishing as it had been prior to his marriage. He, in common with his fellow-workmen, suffered by the depression.

After remaining two years at Rotheram he accepted an offer to take the management of some works in London.

He had another reason for doing this. His young wife had grown tired of Sheffield, Rotheram, and their surroundings, and yearned to be a denizen of the great city about which she had heard so much, but of which she had seen so little.

Aveline Gatliffe showed symptoms of discontent—​she wanted some change of scene.

Her husband took a charming house at Wood-green, which he furnished, not grandly, perhaps, but with every comfort which persons in their station of life could desire.

Here he, his wife, and their child—​a beautiful little boy of about three years old—​were located.

Let us pay a visit to the home of the British workman.

At the door of the habitation stands a young and beautiful woman. She is barely two and twenty, but does not look even as old as that; her hair of shining brown looks like gold in the sunshine; her eyes are of violet blue; her dress is quite plain, but the homely material only showed the grace and beauty of her figure to greater advantage. Such are the most noticeable features of Aveline Gatliffe.

One might have wondered how she—​living in a cottage, the wife of a man who worked hard for his daily bread—​came by this dainty beauty, this delicate loveliness which would have been fit dowry for a duchess.

The young wife’s gaze was directed down the road which led to the station; the rays of the setting sun cast long shadows across this from the trees which skirted its sides.

Presently her countenance was irradiated with a smile. She heard the sounds of approaching footsteps, she hastened onwards, and in a few minutes she saw her husband in the distance.

“Ah, dearest, you’ve been waiting and watching for me. Is it not so?” cried Tom Gatliffe.

The young woman smiled and nodded; then they walked slowly home together.

“I hope you have not been dull to-day,” said Tom, when the two entered the parlour. “I don’t like to see you dull.”

“I have been as lively as usual,” she answered.

“Umph, that’s not saying much, darling,” returned the husband in a tone of banter. “Not much, you’ll admit. At present the place is new and strange to you. In time you will be more used to it.”

“Shall I?” she murmured.

“Why of course you will.”

“Make haste and get rich, Tom dear; then we can have a grand house in London.”

His countenance fell as he listened to her. For a long time she had appeared discontented with her lot, and this had been a sore trouble to Gatliffe, who found, as others had found before him, that matrimony was not all smooth sailing.

As yet there had been no storm, but distant rumblings of thunder had been heard.

He drew the beautiful face of his young wife towards him, and kissed it with a fondness which spoke more eloquently than words.

“My dear Aveline,” he murmured, “our little house is to me more beautiful than a palace. The reason is plain enough—​it contains you.”

She looked up into his face and smiled faintly.

“And I am sure you are of the same opinion,” he added.

“It is well enough, Tom, but——”

“But what, dear?”

“Oh nothing; the time will come, let us hope, when we shall own a grand mansion and have all sorts of beautiful things.”

The young engineer looked troubled. This was not the first time by many that he had heard her express a similar wish.

“I don’t know what to make of her,” he muttered to himself. “Of late a change appears to have come over her.”

“Look here, Aveline,” he said, more solemnly, “mark what I say; I don’t think you will be ever happier than you are now. It is not the place—​it is not grandeur that ensures happiness—​it is a contented mind; that you have.”

“Well, I hope I have.”

“You ought. I have; your beauty makes my heart glad, your love makes earth heaven to me.”

“Mercy on us, what a speech after four years of matrimony! Oh, you dear old fellow,” she ejaculated, clapping her hands together—​“dear good old Tom!”

He laughed outright.

“Go on,” he exclaimed.

“Well, then, I will. Shall I tell you that I long for this great bright world that you despise?”

“Then I don’t, and there’s the difference. If we were rich and lived in the great world you speak of so rapturously, you would belong to so many others. Others would delight in your society and follow you with praise, and then I should be jealous. Here, I have you all to myself, which is the very thing I desire.”

“Will it be very long before you are rich?” she enquired carelessly.

“My darling, how can I possibly tell, and after all what does it matter? How often have I told you that riches do not bring happiness?”

“It may be so, but I should like to try.”

She did not perceive how her words jarred upon his sensitive nature. An expression of pain passed over his fine features, and he said no more for some little time.

He sat down and ate his evening meal in silence.

“I hope I have not offended you,” said his wife.

“I do not believe it possible for you to do so,” returned he. “You ask me when I shall be rich. I have two or three inventions—​one I was about to work out with Charles Peace.”

“Oh the horrid man! Don’t have anything to do with him.”

“I don’t intend, but he has great ingenuity nevertheless; but let that pass. The inventions I am now endeavouring to bring to perfection may turn out successful. If only one of them does so I shall be a rich man; then I suppose you will be satisfied.”

“Oh yes, that would be glorious; but it’s not certain, I suppose.”

“My dear, nothing is certain in this life,” he said quickly. “Positively nothing, except hard work for us all.”

For some time after this both husband and wife remained silent. She cleared the supper table, and he lighted his pipe.

She sat herself down by his side. Presently she said—

“Tom, I should dearly like to know who I am.”

He started, and glanced quickly at her.

“Who you are—​you are my wife.”

“Yes, I know, but who my mother was, and my father. It is strange that there should be such a mystery hanging over me.”

“What puts that into your head all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. My mother was a lady, and I am, moreover, sure that I am one myself, although I have been brought up in a homely manner. No matter for that—​I am a lady myself—​you may laugh at me, but I feel like one, or rather how I imagine a lady should feel. I love all things bright and beautiful. I detest everything mean, paltry, and contemptible. You think I am discontented, but this is not so. Nevertheless, I am free to confess that I have tastes which, perhaps, will never be gratified—​longings which never can be realised. Is it my fault that a dark mystery hangs over me?”

“Life itself is a mystery,” he answered. “The world is full of mysteries. You must not give way to these gloomy thoughts—​you must not indeed, dearest.”

“No, I will not.”

“My darling,” said Tom, noting the sad tone in which the reply was made, “whatever induced you to think riches must necessarily bring happiness?”

“I don’t know, indeed,” replied his wife. “There are times when the monotony of this life seems more than I can bear.”

“You would find the same monotony in any sphere of existence. What says the poet—

But there is surely no reason, dearest, why we should endorse the sentiment.”

“None whatever, Tom. You are kindness itself,” responded his wife, with a loving kiss.

“By the way, I have not as yet told you that a strange gentleman called at the works to-day. He wanted to see Mrs. Maitland upon very pressing business.”

“Ah, is that so? Who is he?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. He said his name was Wrench. Do you remember if your mother ever knew a person of that name?”

“Not that I ever heard of. What did you tell him?”

“I gave him her address.”

*   *   *   *   *

Mrs. Maitland resided with her niece, whose house was within half a mile of Tom Gatliffe’s residence. While the foregoing conversation had been taking place the worthy old lady was having a tête-à-tête with the sagacious detective, who had explained to her his reason for waiting upon her.

Mrs. Maitland narrated to him all the circumstances connected with the young girl Aveline, whom she had adopted and brought up as her daughter.

She explained to him how she had fallen into her hands when little more than an infant; explained to him also the accident on the line, how the mother and daughter were brought into the infirmary at Derby, with the death of the former, together with all those particulars which the reader has read in an earlier portion of this work.

Mr. Wrenoh was charmed—​he was perfectly delighted with the successful nature of his visit, and felt perfectly assured that he was on the right scent.

“And the trinkets—​the articles of jewellery, madame,” said he, “are you still in possession of them?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing would have induced me to part with them, except to those who require them for the purpose of identification.”

“Quite right, madam. I presume you will have no objection to intrust them to my care for a few days? They are quite safe in my hands. It will be needful for Lord Ethalwood to examine them.”

“Cannot you do so? I will fetch them at once.”

The old lady went upstairs, unlocked an iron safe in which the trinkets were deposited, and returned with them into the parlour.

She placed them before the detective, who examined each article carefully.

“Well, what do you make of them?” inquired his companion.

“There can be no doubt about the matter,” said he. “One of the rings bears the motto and crest of the Ethalwoods; and, as far as I can judge at present, this portrait bears a close resemblance to Lord Ethalwood’s daughter.”

“Then my little protégée, my darling child, is——”

“The grand-daughter of a nobleman.”

Mrs. Maitland’s breath was almost taken away at this announcement.

“Wonderful—​more than wonderful!” she ejaculated. “And is it possible that she has been left uncared for and unacknowledged all these years?”

Mr. Wrench shrugged his shoulders. “It would appear so,” he said, “but there are reasons for this my dear madam, very strong reasons. I suppose if I give you a receipt for these articles you will permit me to take them to Broxbridge Hall. I pledge you my word of honour, that, come what may, they shall be returned to you in the course of a few days.”

“Oh, indeed, I cannot do that.”

“I swear they shall be returned in a week.”

“I don’t like to part with them. If they should be lost.”

“They will not be lost. I will answer for that.”

No. 15.

“Oh, I dare say you will be careful enough, but still I hardly know how to act in a case of this sort.”

“We can do nothing without them. Will you accompany me to Broxbridge Hall, and bring them with you?”

“I am not well enough to bear the fatigue of travelling so far. I have not as yet recovered from a serious illness.”

“I leave the matter in your hands. I can get an order in the course of a day or two for you to produce them, but it would be saving a great deal of trouble if you would accede to my request. Yet once for all I must tell you, madam, that Lord Ethalwood counts the hours till I return. He is in the greatest state of anxiety. I have his written authority to act in this matter, the same as himself.”

Mr. Wrench pulled from his pocket a document in the handwriting of Lord Ethalwood, bearing his signature and seal, by which Mr. Wrench was empowered to act according to his own impression in all matters concerning the inquiry he was pursuing.

Mrs. Maitland put on her spectacles, and perused the document in question.

“It is altogether a most wonderful affair,” said the old lady. “To think that all these years should have gone by without any inquiry being made after my little pet. Still, I suppose, I have no right to refuse you; only, you see, I’m loth to part with these articles. Perhaps I had first of all better consult those to whom they in reality belong.”

“And who are they?”

“My adopted daughter and her husband.”

“I would not presume to dictate, madam, but at the same time you will do wisely, I think, by not mentioning the subject to either the lady or her husband till we know whether she is the person, or rather the daughter of the person, I am seeking. That would be the most prudent course. It would be an act of cruelty to raise hopes, which, after all, might have no foundation in fact.”

“That is true,” returned Mrs. Maitland. “I will not mention the subject at present to either of them.”

“If you are mistrustful of me,” said the detective, with a smile, “you can send these articles of jewellery to Scotland-yard. It amounts to much the same thing, for they will be handed to the officer who has charge of the case, and that is myself, as you are pretty well assured of by this time, I suppose.”

“I hope you do not imagine, Mr. Wrench, that I am casting any slight on you by my hesitation—​far from it. I have every confidence in you. I ought to have, seeing the trouble you have been at to find out his lordship’s missing daughter or descendants. You had better give me an acknowledgment for the receipt of these articles, and take them with you without further delay. Please let me know, at your earliest convenience, the result of your interview with Lord Ethalwood.”

“That you may depend upon, madam.”

“It is to me most extraordinary how you found me out,” said the widow as she was proceeding to pack up the jewellery in its case.

“I doubt if I should—​perhaps never—​have succeeded in doing so, had I not by the merest chance in the world met with a townsman of yours—​a Mr. Peace,” returned the detective.

“Mr. Peace!” exclaimed the widow, in a tone of surprise. “Dear me—​how very remarkable!”

“Yes, very. He was acquainted with you some four or five years since.”

The widow nodded. “Yes, he was,” she said sharply. “Mr. Peace, eh? Well, he is the last man in the world I should have thought of.”

The jewellery was placed in a morocco case, and handed to Mr. Wrench, who at once wrote out a receipt for the same. He then placed the case and its contents in the breast pocket of his coat, and took his departure, well satisfied with the result of his visit.

Mr. Wrench was under the full impression that he was a remarkably clever fellow. This fact, however, he had been duly impressed with on very many occasions, but perhaps he was never better pleased with himself than when he left Mrs. Maitland’s residence with the proofs of her reputed daughter’s identity. He had ascertained from the amiable and worthy widow herself, that Aveline had a beautiful little boy, who was between two and three years old. This he considered a valuable piece of information, in addition to the facts with which he was already furnished.

Taken altogether, our detective congratulated himself upon being singularly fortunate.

He went by train that same night to Broxbridge Hall, and was rather vexed when the model footman told him that his master was some miles away. Lord Ethalwood was on a visit at the house of a distinguished baronet.

“And his lordship will not return till late to-morrow evening, or it may be the day hafter,” said the radiant Henry Adolphus.

Mr. Wrench had no other alternative than to await the return of the earl. It would never do to take the liberty of seeing him at his friend’s house.

“He’s a bumptious starchy sort of customer,” murmured Mr. Wench, “and stands a good deal upon etiquette, and all that sort of thing. I must eke out the time as best I can until he returns. Hang it all, what does he want to go away for at this particular time?”

Mr. Wrench made the best of his way to the hostelry kept by Brickett.

It was market day, and there were a number of strangers in the “Lion,” in addition to its regular frequenters.

A noise and clatter as of many voices were heard proceeding from the public room, as the detective arrived at the front entrance of the house.

“You are unusually busy, it would seem,” said he addressing the landlord, and glancing significantly the carts and other vehicles in front of the habitation.

“Yes, I have had a regular rush of it all day,” returned the landlord, “but I’m glad to see ’ee back, sir, and hope as how ye’ve brought good news.”

“Pretty well for that. Where is Mr. Peace?”

“He be in the parlour, keeping ’em all alive. Shall I call him?”

“No; I’ll go in there myself.”

Upon entering the public room Mr. Wrench found it three parts filled with people, most of whom were in some way or other connected with agriculture.

Peace rose from his seat and drew near the detective, who had taken his place in a corner near the door.

It was not Mr. Wrench’s usual practice to make persons acquainted with his movements or proceedings, but in this case he felt that Peace had a perfect right to know, and he therefore narrated to him the successful nature of his expectations.

This, perhaps, was not altogether a prudent thing to do in a public room, even though the conversation between the two was carried on in a tone which was but a little beyond a whisper.

But our detective was under the full impression that there were none present who even comprehended their discourse, and certainly none who were in any way interested in the same.

But even detectives, with all their caution, are sometimes at fault.

This has been made apparent recently to a very painful extent.

The Kurr and Benson case took people by surprise, and shook the confidence of the public in police detectives. Everybody vaguely felt that an official inquiry must be held. Our detectives are seldom men of much education.

In books of superior fiction they figure as prodigies of acuteness, but the testimony of all who come in contact with them professionally is that they are rather dull and unenterprising, and somewhat thirsty officials, and that the chase of a criminal will be much stimulated by occasional consultations at bars and public-house parlours.

They have sprung from the ranks, and have gained promotion for qualities which are chiefly of use in tracking down and “running in” a receiver of stolen goods, or in apprehending a notorious pickpocket who was “wanted.”

The ordinary detective is of service in watching the movements of ticket-of-leave men or persons under the surveillance of the police.

In short, he is a match for the stupid, small-brained criminal, but he is of little use when society bids him capture gentlemanly rogues with plenty of money, ingenuity, and address.

It is, however, unavoidable that, if crime is to be tracked, there should be a set of policemen acting in secret.

It is obvious to what dangers the men who are thus employed must be constantly exposed.

The atmosphere in which they live is not a wholesome one.

They have to mix in an insidious manner with the criminal classes—​to resort to all sorts of tricks and stratagems in order to collect particulars which could not be obtained in a straightforward way.

Moreover, men in such a position have a great deal of power in their hands, and may be tempted to use it nefariously, by making terms with those after whom they are sent, and by giving them hints of danger or opportunities of escape.

Detectives have, in the ordinary course of their duty, to place themselves in equivocal positions with those with whom they are watching and studying, in order to get proofs of their guilt, and there are doubtless cases in which appearances may be against them, though they are only loyally fulfilling their duties to their superiors in ferreting out the secrets of suspected people.

What is wanted under such circumstances is a very cheap system of supervision and control.

Officers employed in this way ought to be bound to keep a detailed diary of their proceedings, and to report continually to headquarters what they have in view and what they are doing.

Something ought also to be done to raise the character of the men and perhaps the rate of their pay.

It is quite certain that our system is at fault somewhere.

Mr. Wrench was an officer perhaps a little beyond others of his class. As we have already seen, he was persevering and intelligent, and Mr. Chicknell had acted wisely in securing his services for Lord Ethalwood.

Charles Peace was perfectly astounded when he became aware of the facts detailed to him by the detective.

He had never heard of the jewellery taken from the dead body of the lady in the infirmary—​had never for a moment imagined that there was any doubt about the paternity of Aveline, whom he implicitly believed to be the daughter of Mrs. Maitland.

He was almost bewildered by the discovery made by the officer, who gave the details in a matter-of-fact sort of way, which left no doubt as to their accuracy.

Mr. Wrench remained in the public room for some time drinking with Peace, to whom he stood divers and sundry potations. After this he whispered to our hero that he was about to retire, wished him goodnight, and betook himself to his bedchamber.

Peace did not leave the parlour for an hour or two after the withdrawal of his companion.

He played several pieces on his violin, much to the delight of the assembled guests, and then in his turn retired to his room.

He was, however, too restless and fidgetty to seek repose. He sat himself on the edge of his bed and thought over all the strange incidents which had come to his knowledge in respect to Aveline.

The whole affair seemed to be like the disjointed fragments of a nightmare.

“Was it possible that Aveline, whom he had loved in an earlier day, was a descendant of a great and honoured line?”

“I say it seems like a dream,” murmured Peace, “altogether like a dream to think that I should have proposed to one of such high birth; but no, it cannot be. To think, also, that I should be the means of tracing her out—​that is still more wonderful.”

While thus ruminating he was startled by a noise as of something heavy thrown against the window of his little room.

He arose suddenly and threw open the casement.

Something was flung into the window. It fell upon the floor.

Peace picked it up. It was a small pebble, around which was a piece of note paper.

“What’s the meaning of this?” exclaimed our hero, peering curiously out of the window.

No one was to be seen.

He sat down again and unfolded the paper, spread it out on his knee, and saw written thereon these words:—

“Be cautious. Keep watch and ward. Somebody’s in the house, a stranger, who is of no good. Take warning!—​A Friend.”

“I can’t make this out. ‘Somebody’s in the house who is no good.’ Curse it, I wish the writer had been a little more explicit; this is most incomprehensible.”

Again he looked out of his window in every direction, but could not see a living creature.

The handwriting on the paper he failed to recognise.

“This is most remarkable,” he ejaculated. “Who is in the house, I wonder, that means no good? Some robber, I suppose—​some suspected person. Well, I’ll have my revolver handy in case of any attack; but after all it may only be a grim joke of one of my parlour acquaintances?”

He tried to persuade himself that this last hypothesis was the correct one, but signally failed in doing so.

Not a sound disturbed the unbroken stillness of the night.

Peace was not a man to give way to idle or groundless fears.

Nevertheless he could not but acknowledge that the circumstance was singular, and, taken altogether, was of an exceptional character.

“Who could have thrown the stone and paper into the room?” murmured he. “If it came from a friend why did he not show himself?”

During his sojourn at the “Carved Lion” he had made it a practice to have his dog Gip sleep in the same room as himself, and he had not departed from that rule on the present occasion.

He had with him also a six-chambered revolver, which he had not come too honestly by. He had, in fact, stolen it when in Sheffield.

He had always a passion for fire-arms, as also for musical instruments, and had never been very particular how he obtained either.

He glanced at “Gip,” who was lying on a rug placed for his accommodation near the door of his room.

The animal looked wistfully at his master.

“Well,” murmured our hero; “no one will be able to enter the apartment without my hearing it, for Gip will be sure to give an alarm. At the same time it would be as well perhaps to take this precaution.”

He walked towards the door and slid the bolt into its socket.

Then he sat once more on the side of his bed.

“It may be after all but a hoax of some mischievously-disposed fool!” he exclaimed. “In all probability such is the case. Any way, I shall not put myself about, or take further trouble in the matter.”

He remained for an hour or so after this, watching and waiting, but could not detect the faintest sound.

All was silent within the house, and all was silent without.

He got fairly worn out, and threw himself on his couch without undressing, drew the rug over him, and sank to sleep.

How long he had remained thus he could not say, but he was awoke by a low moan or whine from Gip, who, upon discovering his master awakening, wagged his tail and came to the side of the bed; then he crept towards the door and sniffed at its base.

“Something’s amiss,” whispered our hero. “The sagacious brute hears or noses somebody—​that’s quite certain.”

He crept softly to the door, against which he placed his ear.

He heard the sounds of soft footsteps on the outside, but they were so faint as to be hardly audible.

With revolver in hand he awaited the issue.

The dog in the meantime was in an evident state of anxiety.

Peace, before stretching himself on his bed, had taken the precaution to place his lighted chamber-candle in the fireplace, which effectively prevented its feeble rays penetrating into the passage on the outside.

“Somebody or something is stirring,” he muttered. “I can’t stand this state of suspense any longer—​so here goes.”

He slid the bolt back as noiselessly as possible, and flung open the door.

A flood of moonlight streamed in from the window on the landing.

Beyond this was a wide oak staircase, and ascending this he beheld a strange-looking figure, clad in a long steel-coloured cloak.

To all appearance the figure was that of a woman.

But Peace had never remembered to have seen any such person in the hostelry since he had dwelt there.

“Holloa there—​who are you? Speak, woman,” shouted out Peace.

No answer was vouchsafed to this.

“If you don’t speak and say who you are I’ll fire. I’ve a loaded pistol in my hand. Do you hear? For the last time I say speak, if it only be to save your life.”

The figure turned the angle of the stairs, but made no answer.

A buxom servant wench opened the door of her bedroom, and exclaimed—

“Mother Brickett’s ghost!”

She then uttered a series of piercing screams, and rushed back into her room in a state of abject terror.

Peace made for the bottom of the stairs, and fired one chamber of his revolver.

He did not aim at the receding figure, his object being only to frighten.

In this he succeeded, as far as the inmates were concerned.

Mr. Wrench came out in his night shirt, pale as a parsnip. Brickett made his appearance in the passage, and exclaimed, in a loud voice—

“For mercy’s sake, tell me what’s the matter! Are there robbers in the house, or what?”

“It be missus’s ghost, that’s what it be!” exclaimed the servant girl, from her bedroom. “Ah, woe is me that I should live to see such a dreadful sight!”

“You little fool,” cried Peace, “hold your cursed tongue, will you? Ghost, indeed!—​more like a robber.”

“I’ve lost the jewels; they’ve been stolen!” said the detective. “Lost them! Don’t let anyone leave the house.”

He returned to his bedroom, slipped on his trousers and boots. Meanwhile Peace turned to Brickett, and said—

“Who’s in the house besides ourselves? Any stranger?”

“Yes, one.”

“Which is his room?”

“No. 9, on the next floor,” said the landlord, who had never been so puzzled and alarmed in his life.

Peace rushed back into his bedroom, snatched up the chamber candlestick, and flew up the wide staircase, never pausing till he had reached the upper floor. The door of the No. 9 bedroom was wide open.

Our hero entered the apartment, which was tenantless. He rushed into each of the other rooms on the same floor.

One was occupied by the little maid who acted as supplementary waitress—​another was tenanted by an old woman, and another was where the potman slept. All the occupants were scared at beholding our hero with his revolver in one hand, and his chamber candlestick in the other.

In answer to his queries they one and all declared they had neither seen nor heard anybody about since they had retired to rest, with the exception of their interlocutor.

At the further end of the passage was a double window, which opened sideways on hinges, as is often the case in old English houses and inns. One of the casements of this was partially open.

Peace’s suspicions were aroused at once. He ran to the window, threw it back, and looked out. At the further extremity of the roof he beheld the figure of a man who flung himself off the roof on to one of the branches of a large chestnut tree, by means of which he reached the ground in safety.

“He’s got clean off, and done it very cleverly, I am free to confess,” exclaimed Peace; “but we may yet hunt him down.”

Mr. Wrench in a state of trepidation now made his appearance.

“Have you discovered anything?” he ejaculated, in a tone of the deepest anxiety.

“He’s off,” cried Peace.

“Who?”

“How should I know? The robber, whoever he may be. But not a moment is to be lost. Follow me.”

Our hero descended the stairs with the speed of an antelope, and was followed by the detective. They both made for the front door, which unfortunately for them was locked and barred most securely.

“How shall we get out of this cursed house?” cried Wrench.

“Here, Brickett—​Brickett!” shouted out Peace. “Bring the keys and open the front door.”

The landlord hastened to the spot, and undid the fastenings.

Then Peace, without another word, sallied forth.

It is an old saying, “set a thief to catch a thief,” and it was never more exemplified than in this instance.

No one, however, at the time suspected that our picture-frame maker was a notorious burglar, who, however, it must be admitted had been conducting himself in a very proper manner.

He ran out into the high road, and saw at about a hundred and fifty yards the figure of the same man he had seen on the roof.

“He’s got a good start, it’s true,” he observed to the detective, “but here goes,” and with these words Peace ran after the fugitive at the very top of his speed.

He was followed by Mr. Wrench, who, as a matter of course, ran his hardest.

They had the satisfaction of finding that they gained upon the robber, who had, unfortunately for him, injured one of his ankles in dropping from the tree.

Had this not been the case the chances would have been all in his favour.

Peace and Mr. Wrench found they were gaining rapidly on the robber. This acted as an incentive for them to put forth their energies to the fullest extent.

Beyond the fields which the fugitive was new traversing was a narrow stream—​a small river. This, although possibly he did not know at the time, would form a barrier to his progress.

Peace ran better perhaps than he had ever done in his life, and this is saying a great deal. He was far ahead of the detective, who was by this time winded, and was within from twenty to five-and-twenty paces of the robber, who had now come close to the river.

His capture seemed inevitable; but being well-nigh driven to desperation, he made a flying leap, and plunged into the stream just as Peace had made sure of seizing him.

The thief was evidently an expert swimmer. He struck out and made for the opposite shore.

“Curse him! he’ll get clear off after all,” shrieked out the detective, in an agony of despair. “Can you swim?”

“No, I can’t, and I don’t intend to try,” returned Peace. “Can you?”

“A little, but not well enough to venture with my clothes on in a running stream like this.”

“Then wait till he reaches the opposite bank,” cried our hero, levelling his pistol.

The robber now got into shallow water, through which he waded as quick as possible.

Peace fired and wounded the fugitive, who staggered, but had sufficient strength left to run behind a large granary in the opposite meadow, which sheltered him from any further discharge from the revolver.

“He’s wounded and wet to the skin. He can’t run far. I’ll after him,” exclaimed our hero, who made for a small wooden bridge, situated at about sixty or seventy yards from where he stood. He reached the bridge in the space of a minute or two, passed over it, and gained the field beyond.

He then ran towards the granary.

All this had been done so rapidly that Mr. Wrench did not very well know what his more active companion was endeavouring to compass. The wooden bridge was concealed by a dense mass of foliage, and Mr. Wrench did not know of its existence. He was therefore greatly surprised at seeing Peace run rapidly across the opposite meadow, and stood watching his movements with the deepest anxiety.

The robber was equally surprised at beholding Peace. Seeing his danger he once more took to his heels.

“If you don’t stop I’ll shoot you down like a dog,” shouted out his pursuer, in a voice of thunder. “You can’t escape. Yield, and save your life while you have a chance.”

“I know that voice,” cried the man. “Don’t fire, old fellow. I’m cornered, and give in.”

Peace rushed forward and collared the speaker.

“Don’t you know me?” said the man.

“Why, hang me if it isn’t the gipsy.”

“That’s right enough; it is the gipsy, who’s nearly done over. What with water and fire I’ve had my dose. But I say, old fellow, you aint agoin’ to hand me over to the ‘crushers.’ You don’t want to see a fellow lagged? Look here, this is all I’ve taken—​it is as I’m a sinner. There it is; I give it up. Let me go!”

Peace took the case of jewels from the gipsy. He opened it, and saw that the articles corresponded with the description given by the detective.

“I don’t want you to be quodded,” said he, “but I shall just have a search before I let you go.”

“S’help me goodness,” ejaculated the gipsy, “that’s every blessed thing I’ve taken; I swear to you it is, and I’ll take my Bible hoath on it. I wouldn’t deceive you. Lord! how my leg do pain me.”

He turned his pockets inside out, and convinced our hero that for once he had spoken the truth.

“No more burglary bis’ness for me,” cried the gipsy. “I aint good at it. One pill’s a dose.”

“What made you attempt this one?”

“Well, if yer must know, I was put up to it by a swell. Ah! you’ve sent a bullet into my leg, and maimed me for life, perhaps, and a stopped me a getting a couple o’ hundred quid—​that’s what you’ve been and done. But you’ll let me go?”

“I don’t know how you are to get clean off. I expect the officer here every minute.”

“I’ve got a fast trotting prod not fifty yards hence. If I’ve strength enough left, which I think I have, to mount him, the devil himself wont catch me when once on his back.”

“Go your way then—​I will return,” cried our hero, as he thrust into his coat pocket the much-treasured jewel case, and made again for the wooden bridge.

He passed over this, when he was met by Brickett and the detective.

“Well,” said the latter, “he’s got clean off, then, after all?”

“What matters that?” whispered Peace to the officer. “This is all you want—​isn’t it?” and he handed the case and its contents to Wrench, who could not conceal his delight.

“I am greatly indebted to you. Accept my most heartfelt thanks,” murmured the detective. “You have indeed afforded me most timely assistance.”

“Keep dark for the present,” whispered Peace. “We can discuss this subject at our leisure. For the present, let it be known only to ourselves.”

The detective nodded, and bent his steps in the direction of the “Carved Lion.”

Mr. Wrench and his two companions returned to the inn, all the occupants of which were in a state of alarm. They had no definite notion of the actual cause of the commotion any further than that some stranger had been creeping mysteriously through the apartments of the old hostelry—​for what purpose they were at a loss to divine. The servant girl declared most positively that Mrs. Brickett’s ghost had paid a visit to the establishment on that eventful night. She was most positive in her declaration as to this fact, for she saw her with her own eyes, and nothing in the world should persuade her to the contrary.

Mr. Wrench and Peace did not contradict this statement; on the contrary, they affected to believe it, albeit they were well aware that it was without a shadow of foundation in fact.

None of the occupants of the inn, however, could conceal from themselves that some secret and mysterious agency had been at work.

Brickett was puzzled—​in fact, he was in a state of fog, and could not see his way at all clearly.

He said, in answer to the detective’s queries, that a dark-looking man, who was to all appearance a gipsy, had presented himself at the house just before closing time, and inquired if he could have a bed for a night or two.

The landlord answered in the affirmative, and the stranger, after partaking of some refreshment, retired to the room, No. 9, on the upper floor of the house.

This was all the landlord knew of his customer. He seemed, so Brickett declared, to be a quiet respectable sort of man enough.

Mr. Wrench did not offer any observations when this information was given, but he had his suspicions nevertheless.

The whole household had been so disturbed that there was but little rest for them during the remainder of the night.

The detective and our hero met in the morning, in the club-room, where they had their morning meal together.

“This has been a planned thing,” said Mr. Wrench to his companion; “that rascal would not have entered my room—​opened the drawer of the bureau in which the case was deposited, and stolen the same, had he not been fully aware of both its importance and value. I do much regret that he was not captured.”

“I think you will act as wisely in keeping the affair as quiet as possible,” returned Peace. “What possible good could accrue from his being brought to justice? answer me that. None at all—​it would have only been a needless and unnecessary exposure, at which the earl would have been greatly mortified.”

“There is some reason in that.”

“Very great reason, I should say—​you cannot for a moment suppose that his lordship would like his private affairs dragged before any court of law for the sake of a public prosecution. Rest assured, my friend, that we have acted wisely in letting the rascal go about his business. In any case, even assuming he had been convicted, blame would attach itself to you.”

“So it would—​I admit that. You take a very sensible view of the matter. Let the matter blow over, and say as little about it as possible,” returned Mr. Wrench, with sudden warmth.

“You have shown great wisdom throughout, and I have once more to return you my most sincere thanks.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that” replied Peace, carelessly. “One thing is, however, quite certain: the gipsy cove was employed by some one to abstract the jewellery from the bureau. There could be but ohe object in this—​to remove the traces of identity.”

“I came to that conclusion some hours ago. You are quite right, and we have had a narrow escape—​a very narrow escape,” said Mr. Wrench, with something like a shudder. “Had they succeeded in carrying it off I don’t know what would have been the consequence. To me it would have been most disastrous. I see good reason to be thankful for the issue. But who could have thrown the paper and stone into your window?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion, but probably I may discover before very long. Anyway, I shall make inquiries. But for the present I must bid you good-day, for I have business matters to attend to,” said Peace, rising from his seat and making towards the door of the club-room.

“Good day for the present,” returned the detective, and so the two parted.

In a few minutes after this Henry Adolphus, his lordship’s footman, presented himself, and informed the detective that the Earl and Mr. Chicknell were awaiting his appearance at the Hall.

Mr. Wrench lost no time in paying his respects to his two employers. He made them acquainted with the successful nature of his expedition to Wood-green, his interview with Mrs. Maitland, and wound up by producing the trinkets, which had been so miraculously rescued from the clutches of “Bandy-legged Bill,” the gipsy.

Lord Ethalwood snatched the case and its contents from the officer. He examined the trinkets, and as he did so a bright flush overspread his features.

“The very image of the long-lost Aveline!” he exclaimed directing the lawyer’s attention to the portrait of his daughter. “There can be no doubt as to the identity.” Then, turning to the detective, he said, “You have displayed wonderful ability, sir, in the conduct of this case, and deserve my warmest commendation.”

Mr. Wrench bowed, but did not offer any observation. Possibly he was mindful of the old adage “That a modest man on his own merits is dumb.”

“We” (he spoke in the plural) “have brought the matter to a satisfactory conclusion,” observed the lawyer.

“As yet it is not concluded, Mr. Chicknell,” returned the Earl.

“No—​ahem—​of course not. Much remains to be done. Your lordship is quite right—​it is not concluded, but it is gratifying to know that we have been successful thus far. The ring bears the Ethalwood crest, I believe.”

“It does.”

“An additional link—​I may say an important one—​in the chain of evidence.”

“I am told,” said the earl, addressing the officer, “that some robber, some unprincipled scoundrel, made an attempt to steal these articles from the inn, either last night or early this morning.”

“That is true, my lord, but we were too sharp for him,” said Mr. Wrench, with evident vexation—​“much too sharp.”

“Oh! it would be adding to the other favours already conferred upon me if you could by any means ascertain who the villain was.”

“I will do my best, my lord,” returned Wrench.

“Thank you.”

“Well, I think, that is all we have to say at present, Wrench,” said Mr. Chicknell. “I will see you later on.”

The detective took the hint, bowed, and retired.

“Confound it!” he murmured, as he descended the stairs. “Who could have told him of the attempted robbery? ‘Ill news travels fast’ is an old saying, which is borne out in this instance.”

For the remainder of the day Peace was actively employed in an endeavour to find out the man who had created such a disturbance at the “Carved Lion” on the preceding evening; but, as he had anticipated, he found this by no means an easy task.

The gipsy had got clear off. There were traces of his passage along the high road by the marks of blood which had poured from his wound, but they gradually became fainter, after which they were no longer distinguishable.

Wrench had proved himself to be a proficient in that department of his profession known as “thief catching,” but he was by no means sanguine of success in this case. Neither did he care much about it, for he argued that no possible good could accrue by the arrest of the gipsy; certainly, none as far as he (the detective) was concerned. In point of fact, it would be a needless exposure of his own want of caution.

Thieves as a rule are remarkably cunning, and to capture them is no easy matter.

Captain Fenwick, head constable of Chester, wrote some time back an interesting letter on “Modern Thief-catching.” It is estimated, said he, that there are at large in this country about 40,000 individuals who are either known thieves or under the suspicion of the police; nearly 3000 are yearly liberated from the convict prisons alone; and a large proportion of them are lost in the crowd until they find themselves back in prison again.

Considering the influence of these persons on society in the way both of depredation and contamination, it will be readily perceived that thief-catching is a matter of considerable moment.

Captain Fenwick in his epistle reviews the various means which have been adopted from time to time to identify depredators, and to save the public from being victimised by habitual criminals.

When the telegraph system was adopted it was probably thought that its use by the police would cripple the operations of the professional thief.

As a fact it has been and is still used with some success for the purpose, but even at the present day, with the system and its immense ramifications in full working order, the “dangerous classes,” as they are termed, manage to exist in strong force.

Photography lends its aid in the same direction.

Twenty years ago the police established what are known as “routes,” and many an old gaol bird has been recognised by that means.

When a prisoner has been arrested, and it is suspected from his familiarity with the prison rules and for other reasons that he is known to the police, notwithstanding his air of pastoral simplicity, he is photographed, and his “picture” is circulated.

In a few days it is returned with an accumulation of information signally fatal to the prisoner’s assumed innocence, and largely in the public interest.

Instead of a “moon” (a month) in the local gaol he finds himself before a jury as an old offender, and ultimately back again to a convict establishment.

But photography is not always quite reliable, and it is not even imperative upon an untried prisoner to sit for his photograph, and only “chumps” (the inexperienced) consent; and, although after conviction a prisoner is duly “taken” and carefully registered, his personal appearance naturally changes. This change, as in the case of Peace, is sometimes assisted by art.

As a rule, prison photographs are not excellent specimens of photographic art.

The pose is not perfect, nor the subject carefully focussed, and the result of the defect is not removed by a normal squint or a twist of the features at the critical moment.

Officialdom felt this drawback, and to meet it to some extent a “black book” was devised.

The “Habitual Criminal Register,” as this book is termed, is an imposing-looking tome. In six years and a half the names of nearly 180,000 persons were registered in its pages. In every case the criminal had been more than once convicted on indictment for serious crimes against the community.

This formidable catalogue was compiled for the most part by men whose names are to be found in it and printed at “Her Majesty’s Prison, Brixton.”

There is a curious irony in the fact that some of these gentlemen should be employed to perfect a scheme destined to react upon themselves and their fraternity.

Yet with all these precautions a goodly proportion still evade the clutches of the law.

By the free adoption of aliases, identifications through the Hue and Cry, and even by means of photographs, have often failed.

Amusing exceptions, it is true, have occurred, one woman, who had provided herself with sixteen aliases, being convicted for the thirty-ninth time.

Lieut.-Colonel Du Cane says in his preface to the first volume of the “Register”:—​“It is, I believe, the first time that an attempt has been made to furnish all the police of this or any other country with information in such a complete and readily accessible form respecting the individuals of the class against whom they are carrying on their operations, and the first time that such a work has been carried out in a prison.”

The latest attempt, however, is to checkmate and deal with the habitual criminal in the register of their “Distinctive Marks and Peculiarities.”

The name only has proved an uncertain means of tracing their antecedents. It is found, however, that many of these people bear about with them some mark or peculiarity, which answers much better.

Thus of 2914 persons who were liberated in 1876 nearly one-half were indelibly stamped in this way, and this information is now carefully arranged in the new register.

A thief may assume any name he pleases—​the chances are about even that he is ear-marked, and known more certainly than by name.

This register is a curiously interesting production.

The first issue shows who are “deaf,” “very deaf,” “men of colour,” “blind of one or both eyes,” those who squint, or have a “glide,” or a “cast” in their organs of vision.

Twenty-five per cent. have “broken, or crooked noses,” and a few have “their ears slit.”

The mania for tattooing, which it will be remembered even the “Claimant” was not free from, exists largely among thieves.

There is first of all the “D,” (deserter from the army), which occurs very frequently, two “D’s” almost equally so; some have even three “B C’s,” (bad characters) appearing on the left sides, of a sufficient number to justify the conclusion that a bad soldier is often something more.

The variety of marks upon the chest is very extensive.

Sometimes they are the initials of the owner’s name, or of his sweetheart’s.

The presence of the Union Jack is presumed to indicate patriotism of some sort.

Here and there occur a ship in full sail, the masonic emblems of square and compass, and a few adopt such mottoes as Dieu et mon droit, “Now or Never,” and so on.

The arms are extensively used for this kind of art, every fourth criminal being tattooed with some device.

The variety indeed is almost endless, and the extent in some cases enough to make a Maori jealous.

The sun and moon figure over and over again; anchors, fishes, mermaids, and hearts (pierced with Cupid’s arrow and other devices) are also frequent.

Then there are flags, swords, guns, and implements of war in abundance.

Among other devices we come upon such as “Mary.” “In Memory of My Parents,” &c., &c. The hand is very fruitful in its “particularities,” and the legs are laid under contribution in the same way.

The reader will pardon this digression, as this notice of the means by which the police are able to detect the “wanted” when they are “known,” has interest for the public, as well as the constabulary.

It is calculated to induce a more general scrutiny of suspected thieves, with a view to discovery of peculiar marks, and in future the “information” received by the police may prove more useful in thief-catching.

“We have been singularly successful, my lord,” said Mr. Chicknell, after the detective had taken his departure. “We have not succeeded in finding your beloved daughter, but we have found your grandchild, who is beautiful, and who is moreover the image of her mother.”

“How do you know? You have not seen her,” observed the earl.

“That I admit, but Wrench has, and we can take his word.”

“What does Mr. Wrench say about her husband?”

“He says he is a fine handsome fellow. Not of high birth, it is true; but he is a superior man of his class.”

“And what might that be?”

“He is an engineer.”

“Does his wife seem warmly attached to him?”

The lawyer smiled.

“I am a better judge, my lord, of the merits of a law case than of a lady’s affection,” he returned; “but from what I am given to understand the union between the two was what is termed a love match.”

“Bah! a love match!” exclaimed the earl, with something like disgust. “A love match, indeed!”

A silence of some minutes’ duration succeeded this last speech.

The earl glanced at a portrait of one of his ancestors which hung on the wall of his room.

He sighed, and said, sadly—

“It would seem that the Ethalwoods have fallen very low during my lifetime; their name is sullied, their honour tarnished. But I am not unmindful of the respect due to myself and my ancestors. I cannot and will not receive the husband of my grandchild in this house. A man of that kind is not fit companion for me or mine.”

“I am sorry for this,” murmured the lawyer, “very sorry, but I suppose it cannot be helped. What do you propose then, my lord?”

“At present it is not easy to determine upon my course of action, but I am resolved upon one point. Nothing whatever shall induce me to recognise this miserable mechanic. But I will adopt my grand-daughter, I will make her a wealthy heiress—​she shall have the large fortune which I purposed dividing between my two sons, and I will also adopt her son. He shall be my heir, but this must be conditional.”

“And what is that?”

“She must live apart from her husband. There must be a separation—​a legal one if it can be compassed. If not, they must part by mutual consent.”

Mr. Chicknell made no reply.

“Do you understand what I have been saying?” asked the earl, testily.

“Oh yes, my lord, I comprehend most fully, but I cannot conceal from myself that there may be some difficulty in carrying out your views.”

“None whatever. I can see no difficulty.”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer.

“Really, Chicknell,” observed the earl, “you seem to be offering imaginary impediments. You must look at this matter from my point of view, not from your own. I suppose you know enough of me—​you ought to do so by this time—​to be perfectly aware that I am not a man to be dictated to.”

“I would not presume to dictate to you,” observed the lawyer.

“I tell you that I will, under no circumstances, receive this young woman’s husband here. Let that suffice. It is needless for me to reiterate this.”

“Yet you would receive his child?”

“He is of my own race, but his father is an alien. The boy has noble blood in his veins—​the father has none. The former has a strong claim on me—​the latter has none whatever. You must see this; nay, I am sure you do.”

“Yes, I can understand that, but——”

“Well, sir, but what?”

“For the life of me I cannot see what this young man has done that you should seek, my lord, to tempt from him the wife he loves.”

Lord Ethalwood uttered an expression of disgust.

“If you are his champion,” he said, bitterly—​“if you plead his cause so pertinaciously, in opposition to my expressed wishes, say so at once, and I shall know how to obtain the services of another legal adviser.”

“I much regret you should for a moment imagine that I have not your interest at heart. Why should I be the champion of a young fellow whom I have never seen? I have always had the privilege of speaking plainly, and it is not because I have done so in this case that I should merit your censure. However, if you have no confidence in me, my lord, it is competent for you to obtain better advice—​or rather advice more in accordance with your own views.”

“Pardon me, Chicknell, I have been somewhat hasty. What I said was without due consideration, so let it pass; but you must do your best for me. Of course I have no desire to place the affair in any other hands than yours.”

“If you have been hasty, I acknowledge frankly that I have been mistaken.”

“In what?”

“I thought your delight would have been so great at our success that you would have for the nonce sunk all considerations as to social distinction. I find I am mistaken. I do not wonder at the revolt of the poor against the rich, of the opposition and bitter animosity displayed by one class of the community against another class.”

No. 16.

Lord Ethalwood looked at the speaker in some surprise, but his countenance did not, however, wear an angry expression.

“I don’t think,” he observed with a smile, “that we shall agree upon this great social question, and it is therefore idle and useless to discuss it. I have my views, which it would appear are identical with your own. I do not like you any the less for plain speaking; nevertheless my opinion remains unchanged. I will receive my grandchild Aveline and her son, but I will not countenance her husband.”

“It is my bounded duty to act according to the instructions received from your lordship,” said the lawyer. “Tell me what you wish me to do.”

“You had better hasten at once to Wood Green, and let my grand-daughter know who she is. I should like you to bring her and her son back with you, if this be possible. I will, in the meantime, consider over the proposition we will make to her.”

“I will act in accordance with your instructions.”

“But you do not like the commission” said the earl, quickly. “You need not reply, Chicknell; I see you do not.”

“Gentlemen in our profession are constrained to undertake commissions which at times may be neither pleasing nor palatable to them. I will do my best to further your views.”

The earl bowed, and then said, in a quieter tone—

“There is another little matter, Mr. Chicknell. We have to attend to this picture-frame maker, Mr. Peace. He has been of essential service to us, and certainly deserves some recompense.”

“Certainly; that was understood.”

“What do you propose?”

“He’s a poor man. Fifty pounds would be deemed a liberal recompense.”

“I will get you to take him a cheque for a hundred.”

“Ah, that will be ample—​more than sufficient.”

“You will see what he says—​how he receives it.”

The lawyer nodded. The earl drew the cheque, and handed it to Chicknell.

“You wish me to present him with it before I leave?”

“Certainly; do so at once.”

Mr. Chicknell remained at Broxbridge Hall till the following morning after the foregoing conversation. He sallied forth, and bent his steps in the direction of Peace’s workshop.

The frame-maker was hard at work. A few brief words sufficed to explain the reason for his visit.

He handed the earl’s cheque to our hero, who accepted it, and at the same time expressed his sense of gratitude, and said it was much more than he had any right to expect.

This little bit of business having turned out perfectly satisfactory, Mr. Chicknell took the train up to London, and from thence proceeded to Wood Green.

Upon his arrival at Gatliffe’s residence he discovered the young wife in the garden, which ran at one side and in the rear of the house.

Mr. Chicknell raised his hat in a most courtly manner as Aveline advanced towards the gate at which he was standing.

“Mrs. Gatliffe, I presume?” said the lawyer.

The lady answered in the affirmative, and unlocked the gate.

“I am a stranger to you, madam,” he observed, apologetically; “but the business I am engaged in makes it a matter of necessity that we should confer together.”

“Do you wish to see me or my husband? If the latter he is not within, and will not return home till the evening.”

“It’s you I desire to communicate with, not your husband.”

Mrs. Gatliffe looked surprised, but did not make any reply.

She opened a side door, and conducted her visitor into the front parlour.

The lawyer was struck by her appearance, as well he might be. She was dressed in a neat stuff gown, which fitted tight to her graceful and symmetrical figure, and he thought she was the very personification of female loveliness without the aid of any meretricious adornment.

He entered the parlour and was handed a chair by the mistress of the establishment.

“You will, perhaps, be no wiser,” said Mr. Chicknell, with a smile, when I inform you that I am solicitor to Lord Ethalwood, seeing that in all probability even the name of his lordship may be unknown to you.”

“It is.”

“Well, madam, it must remain so no longer, as it is requisite that you should know who you are.”

A bright flash overspread the beautiful features of Aveline Gatliffe.

“Who I am!” she murmured. “Indeed—​indeed, sir, I have yearned to know this for very many years past.”

“I am not surprised at that, madam. Let me at once inform you that you belong to the aristocracy of this country.”

“Oh, sir, are you serious? Can this be possible?” inquired Aveline, in a state of the deepest anxiety.

“I am dealing with facts which are incontrovertible,” said the lawyer, in a more serious tone. “Listen, madam.”

Slowly, deliberately, and with singular dearness, Mr. Chicknell proceeded to make his companion acquainted with all those circumstances connected with his case, as he termed it.

He passed lightly over the elopement of Aveline’s mother with the Italian; neither did he dwell upon the painful scene in the infirmary after the accident on the line, but he gave her to understand that the articles of jewellery taken from the dead body of her parent were in the possession of Lord Ethalwood. Mr. Chicknell made the young wife acquainted with every grain of evidence, which taken altogether proved most incontestably her identity.

As Aveline listened her wonder-struck countenance lost much of its wonted colour; her lips grew white as lilies, and her eyes dilated with an expression which was something akin to terror.

He finished his narrative, the last words of which were of serious import.

A mist seemed to float before her eyes.

“Am I really that great lord’s grandchild?” she gasped forth with evident effort.

“You are so beyond all question,” returned the lawyer. “You are undoubtedly the daughter of Aveline Beatrice Ethalwood, who ran away from home with her music master. You are the grandchild of Lord Ethalwood, the master of Broxbridge and its rich dependencies. The child playing there (pointing through the window of the apartment to the little boy on the grass plot) may be one day an earl, and you yourself may be a wealthy heiress; but I regret to say that there is one condition attached to all this.”

“A condition!” she replied, her face recovering its colour, her eyes flashing light. “I am bound to accept the condition, I suppose? You do not know how I have always longed to be rich and great.”

The lawyer smiled.

“It is not for me to dictate. I have only to make the proposition, which it will rest with you to either accept or refuse.”

She looked surprised and said—

“There will be no condition too difficult for me to accept.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Mr. Chicknell. “Lord Ethalwood is a very proud man—​I should say no man living is prouder. He has the greatest reverence for what he calls the honour of his house. Think how he valued it when he treated his daughter as one dead because she married beneath her. I will be explicit and plain-spoken—​the exigencies of the case necessitate my being so. Lord Ethalwood will receive you as his grandchild; will give you a large fortune; will make your son his heir; all, upon one condition.

“And what is that?”

“That you will leave your husband, whom he considers low-born, and promise never to see him again.”

Aveline uttered an expression as of sudden pain.

“These are indeed hard terms, sir,” she exclaimed. “It might be said cruel proposals.”

“They are what I have been instructed to make to you,” returned the lawyer, with a shrug.

“Leave my husbund, who is the best and kindest that ever woman had! I would not do it for any consideration. He loves me, and I will not consent to break an honest man’s heart.”

“I expected this answer,” said Mr. Chicknell, “and it therefore does not surprise me; but if I might suggest, madam, it would be that you take time to consider the matter. This is but just and reasonable.”

“You have no right to tempt me thus by making such an offer,” she exclaimed, in an angry tone.

“I have simply done my duty,” he answered, “by acting in accordance with the instructions received from my client.”

“Tell this proud nobleman that I will never give my consent to such a course of action.”

She looked so lovely in her pride, her anger, and her tears, that the lawyer wished his client could have seen her at that moment.

He waited patiently till her indignation had in a measure passed over—​then he said—

“There will be no harm in your seeing his lordship,” he said. “On the contrary, it might have considerable weight with him, and turn him from his obstinate resolution. He requested me to say that he would be overjoyed to see you and your little boy at Broxbridge Hall.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He said I was not to leave until you had consented to accompany me.”

“I will see him, then. I accept his invitation, but I cannot leave without first of all consulting my husband.”

“Who, in all probability, will not give his consent.”

“He will not refuse if I tell him I have promised my word.”

Mr. Chicknell inquired of his companion when she would have her husband’s answer.

“I will speak to him on the subject when he comes home this evening.”

“And if he consents you will accompany me to Broxbridge to-morrow.”

Aveline replied in the affirmative.

The lawyer took his departure, with a promise to see her again on the following morning.

Tom Gatliffe, when he returned home that evening, was perfectly bewildered when he had been made acquainted with all the circumstances connected with his young wife. A foreboding of evil took possession of him—​he was forcibly and painfully impressed with the fact that the discovery was not unattended with danger. He could, however, refuse his wife nothing, and therefore gave his consent for her to accompany the lawyer to Broxbridge Hall.

On the following morning Mr. Chicknell presented himself. Aveline and her child were arrayed in their best attire, and left their cottage in Wood Green under the protection of the man at law.

A telegram had been sent to Broxbridge, advising its owner of the visit. An open landau awaited them upon their arrival at the station. In this Mr. Chicknell and his two companions were driven to the hall.

As they approached the fine old mansion Peace passed the carriage. His eyes were rivetted on the face of its female occupant, Aveline; he thought she looked more lovely than ever.

It was the first time he had seen her since the rejection of his suit in the garden of Mrs. Maitland’s house.

A host of contending emotions rushed through his brain as he witnessed the arrival of the carriage at the great gates of the hall.

“She does not condescend to honour me with a passing notice,” he ejaculated, in a voice of concentrated passion; “the stuck-up, proud minx, and but for me she would never have been discovered. Curses on it, I was a fool to give any information—​worse than a fool. Much thanks shall I get from either her or her bumptious husband.”

He turned out of the high road and made for his workshop, but he was ill at ease. All the worst passions of his nature were in the ascendant, and he did not care about following his usual avocation.

For a long time he remained moody and thoughtful in his workshop. He was laying plans for the future.

The sight of Aveline seemed to have produced a sudden revulsion in his mind. He could not bear to see her under any circumstances; but to find her in such an exalted position was most intolerable. And yet he had been mainly instrumental in bringing this about. Now it was done he bitterly regretted. Such is the strange perversity of the human character.

While all these events had been taking place Charles Peace had paid frequent visits to the house and gardens in possession of the girl “Nelly,” for whom he had conceived a passionate fondness. He had become on tolerably familiar terms with her aunt, and had on more than one occasion flirted with her niece. Nelly did not dislike him, and, although she did not encourage his attentions, she did not positively reject them. To a certain extent she felt flattered by the court and homage paid to her. Her conduct, as far as our hero was concerned, was nothing more nor less than a bit of harmless coquetry.

With Peace it was far different. He hoped to win the girl; otherwise he would not have troubled himself so much about her, and it is likely enough that he would not have remained so long in the neighbourhood had it not been for her.

After the robbery at the “Lion,” and the chase of Bandy-legged Bill, Peace endeavoured to ascertain who threw the missile into his window on that eventful night.

He taxed several of the villagers with it, but they one and all denied in a most positive manner having given the timely warning.

It afterwards occurred to him that it might be Nelly, and he mentioned his suspicions to her.

She laughed, and after a little hesitation acknowledged that she was the culprit. She informed Peace that she was mistrustful of the gipsy, whom she had seen in her aunt’s strawberry ground with a strange gentleman, with whom he was conversing in almost a whisper. From the few words of the conversation that did reach her ears she was under the impression that a deep-laid plot was hatching; and afterwards, upon finding the gipsy had taken up his quarters at the “Carved Lion,” her suspicions were in a measure confirmed, hence it was that she had recourse to the little stratagem which was of such infinite service on the night of the attempted robbery.

“You are a good girl, and are worth your weight in gold,” cried Peace, when Nelly had concluded. “Indeed, I don’t know what I should do without you.” He placed his arm round her neck, and drew her towards him.

“There, get away, do!” exclaimed the girl, slipping out of his grasp. “I never knew a man so forward and impudent as you are.”

“And I never knew a girl so uncertain and capricious as you are,” returned he; “so now we are even. But I say, Nell, darling——” he was about to make an amorous speech, when the voice of the owner of the establishment was heard, and Nell said, quickly—

“There’s aunt calling me; I must indoors.”

“But I want to speak to you—​have something to say of the greatest importance.”

“Some other time will do as well,” she returned, with a laugh.

“Will you meet me to-morrow evening at the corner of Dennett’s-lane, and hear what I have to say?”

“Perhaps.”

“Nay, don’t say perhaps; you must come.”

“Very well; I will, if possible,” and with these words the girl ran down the gravel walk and entered the house.

It was in the evening of the day on which Aveline Gatliffe had paid a visit to the earl that Nelly had promised to be at the end of Dennett’s-lane.

Peace anxiously awaited her appearance.

He remained in his workshop silent and thoughtful.

He was calm, but it was that sort of calmness which presaged a storm.

To say the truth, he was getting tired of the quiet and respectable sort of life he had been of late leading. The old feeling of restlessness and yearning for adventure had come over him, and his mind was in a sort of chaos.

“Will she come?” he murmured, looking furtively down the lane, “or will she make some miserable excuse for stopping away when next I see her? She’s a riddle—​a mystery, which I find it difficult to make out.”

Another half hour passed away, but no Nelly. The sun had already sunk, and the shades of evening were beginning to descend.

He arose from his seat, passed out of his workshop, closed and locked the door, and again looked down the lane.

He beheld in the distance the figure of a woman. It was that of Nelly. His heart leaped with delight.

“You’re precious late, my lady,” said he, as she approached.

“Be I? Well, I couldn’t get away before. It beant no fault of mine if I be late. Now, then, what be ye a-going to tell me?”

“You shall learn all in good time,” cried he, putting her arm in his, and strolling along the narrow footway.

“You see, Nell, it’s time, I’m thinking, that I should be plain spoken. I find, my lass, that I care a deal more for you than I first imagined. You see, I don’t know how much longer I shall remain in this village—​not long, I expect. The fact is, I’ve grown so fond of you that I don’t like to leave—​nay, more, I don’t intend to leave until you give me an answer one way or the other.”

“An answer—​what about?”

“What do you suppose it’s about? Can’t you guess?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m sorry for you. Don’t I tell you that I’m attached to you—​that I love you?”

He drew her towards him, and covered her lips and face with burning and passionate kisses.

She was surprised and annoyed, made as much resistance as possible, and pushed him from her.

“What possesses the man,” she cried, “to be mawling a gal in this fashion? If I’d ha’ known of this, I wouldn’t ha’ come.”

“Now, Nell,” cried her companion, “why do you seek to tantalise me? You must know by this time my feelings with regard to yourself. Listen to me for a few moments. You know I’ve been doing a good stroke of business; I am greatly respected by all who know me. In addition to this I have been patronised and made much of by the Master of Broxbridge——”

“What has all this to do with me?”

“I am telling you these things to prove that I am worthy of you. I am well-to-do, and have every reason to suppose you care something about me.”

She laughed derisively at this last observation.

His countenance grew dark and wore a malignant expression, but by a violent effort he suppressed his passion for a while.

“And be this all you wanted to see me for?” she inquired.

“All!” he reiterated, “and enough too, I’m thinking. Now do be a little reasonable. Do you suppose I should have been dangling after you for so long a time for nothing? I tell you again and again, Nelly, that I doat on you.”

Here once more he threw his arms round his companion’s neck, and embraced her with passionate fervour.

“There, that will do. You certainly are the most daring man I ever came across. Have you anything more to say?” she enquired, in a coquettish manner.

“Yes, a deal more,” he returned. “I want to fix you firm and fast before I leave—​I want you to give me a promise.”

“What be that you want me to promise?”

“Not to have anything to say to any other chap when I am gone. You must consider yourself engaged to me.”

She made no reply, but looked thoughtfully on the ground on which they were walking.

Do you hear—​do you understand?” he inquired.

“Yes, I think I understand.”

“And you answer—”

“I aint a goin’ to mek any promise.”

“What!—​you refuse, then—​and why? Tell me why? Why don’t you answer? Do you want to drive me to madness, you cruel thoughtless girl?”

“I aint a goin’ to mek any promise, I dunno what other answer to mek.”

“I’ll take you up to London and you shall see all the fine sights, and be a fine lady,” he said in a wheedling tone. “Come, Nell, say you will be mine.”

“I won’t say nuffin’ o’ the sort, not at present.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know enough of you,” she answered with the greatest simplicity; “that’s one reason.”

“And the other?”

She made no answer.

“The other!” he shouted in a voice of thunder. “There is someone else in the case—​is that it?”

“I won’t answer you.”

“Then you have been making a fool of me all this time,” he cried, in a voice of concentrated passion. “You treacherous infamous girl; but I’ll let you know, my lady, that Charles Peace is not to be trampled upon with impunity—​understand that.”

He caught her by the wrist and held it with the grip of a vice.

“Let me go—​ye hurt me—​let me go!” she exclaimed in some alarm.

“Not till you give me the name of my rival. Until you do that I will not release you.”

He dragged her forcibly along the pathway, and displayed such an excess of fury that the girl was seriously alarmed.

“I must ha’ bin a born fool to ha’ come here, and I be rightly served. Let me go!”

“Answer my question first—​his name—​tell me the fellow’s name and I’ll then release you—​not before. You’ve played me false, and you know it.”

He had by this time become more like a maniac than a rational being.

Nell struggled desperately to release herself from his grasp, but although a strong-built muscular young woman she found herself almost powerless in the grip of her persecutor.

“Have I wasted all my thoughts all this time over one who is so base and worthless?” he ejaculated with supreme bitterness. “Am I to become the laughing stock of the whole neighbourhood?”

“I wish I’d never seen you. I hate you!” cried Nelly, in a spiteful tone. “What have I done to be treated thus?”

“One word and we are friends for life. Say you will be mine,” said he.

“I will say nothing till you let me go.”

“I’ll have your answer one way or the other,” shouted out Peace, drawing a revolver from his pocket. “By the heavens above, I will make you answer me.”

At the sight of the weapon the miserable young woman uttered several piercing screams.

A tall young man jumped over a neighbouring stile, and with one blow from the stout ash stick he carried struck the weapon out of Peace’s hand; then he delivered another terrific blow on our hero’s head, which sent him back reeling and half stunned.

“You cowardly scoundrel,” exclaimed the newcomer, “to lay your hands on a woman.”

The speaker was about to inflict further chastisement, whereupon Nelly interceded.

“Spare him, Mr. Jamblin,” said the girl. “He be mad, and knows not what he has been doing. He be mad, I’m sure o’ that.”

“What have you to say for yourself, sir? What is the reason for this outrage?” inquired the young man, addressing himself to Peace.

“What business is it of yours?” answered our hero. “There is a reason, and a very strong one. But, hark ye! Don’t you bully me, or it will be worse for you. I’m not afraid of you, big as you are.”

“I’ve seen your face before,” observed the newcomer. “It’s familiar to me.”

“Have you?” cried Peace, making a hideous grimace. “Then you’ve the advantage of me, for I never saw your ugly mug before; and what’s more, I don’t want to see it again.”

“Do you remember a burglary at Oakfield House, some time ago, eh?”

“No, I don’t. Do you?” inquired Peace, who was by this time a litle less confident in his tone and manner.

“Yes, I do. A man named Gregson was shot by a woman, and afterwards expiated his crimes on the public scaffold. If I mistake not, I met you on the night of the burglary. I’ve an astonishing power of remembering faces.”

“Have you? You’re a mighty clever fellow in your way; but it so happens that I never heard of any such burglary, and don’t know any house bearing that name. You seem to know more about it than I do. Were you one of the burglars?”

At this last observation the young man rushed forward and was about to strike Peace, when the girl, Nelly, threw herself between the two, and begged her protector to spare him.

“Say no more, Nell,” returned the young man. “I won’t harm him. Though for the life of me I can’t understand why you should seek to protect him.”

“Go your ways, you ugly little vagabond,” said the stranger, addressing Peace. “If you remain here much longer the chances are you will find yourself handed over to the police constable, who is coming this way.”

Peace in this instance considered discretion to be the better part of valour, and, hurling several anathemas at the girl and her protector, he made off.

He hastened at once to the house of the village surgeon, where he had his head dressed, declaring that he had received the wound in conflict with what he chose to term a ruffian.

He was by this time thoroughly sick of Broxbridge, which he determined upon leaving forthwith. He had been jilted and derided by a girl to whom he had become attached, had been chastised by a young man, who evidently knew all about the Oakfield House burglary, which he had believed had been quite forgotten, and so there was every reason for his leaving the neighbourhood. On the following morning he packed up his traps, had them conveyed to the station, and bidding Brickett good-bye, with a promise to return in a few weeks’ time, he beat a retreat, and hastened up to the metropolis, to find therein a new scene of action.

The name of the young man who came so opportunely to the rescue of Nelly was Philip Jamblin. The reader will doubtless remember the two visitors to Farmer Ashbrook’s house on the night of the burglary at Oakfield. These personages, Messrs. Cheadle and Jamblin, gave chase to Peace after his escape over the fields described in the opening chapters of this work. The Jamblins and Ashbrooks were old friends.

Philip’s father was the owner of a large farm situated at about a couple of miles’ distance from Broxbridge; he held this under a lease from Lord Ethalwood. The place was known as Stoke Ferry Farm.

Mr. Jamblin, senior, was a farmer of the old school, who had worked his way up in the world by dint of skill and industry. He it was who paid for the plentiful supply of beer to the occupants of the parlour of the “Carved Lion,” on the night when Peace first became acquainted with the establishment.

Mr. Jamblin had in his service a ne’er to-do-well, wayward, good-for-nothing sort of lad, called Alfred Purvis, whose parentage was not clearly established. A gentleman of independent means, residing in the neighbourhood, had paid for his support during the earlier years of his childhood, and when he became old enough he had placed him with Mr. Jamblin to learn the farming business, if it can, with propriety, be so termed.

But the lad Alfred was a sore trouble to the farmer. He was mischievously disposed, and was for ever getting into scrapes.

As he is destined to play a secondary part in this drama, it will be necessay to introduce him to the reader.

Some few days after Peace’s departure from Broxbridge, Mr. Jamblin became furious at a discovery he had made.

He was striding up and down the great stone kitchen of Stoke Ferry Farm, with his arms swinging round his head like the sails of a windmill, and his face growing redder and redder every moment.

He was a kindly-disposed man enough, and was greatly esteemed by his workpeople, but he did not like anything under-handed.

His youngest daughter Patty was leaning against the table, and trying to pacify him as best she could.

“Don’t lose your temper, father,” she murmured, in a soft low voice. “After all it’s only one, and surely that’s no great matter.”

“Only one!” cried the indignant agriculturist. “That be true enough, lass; but how are we to know if he aint killed twenty—​the young warmint?”

A dead hare, which was lying on the dresser with a wire round its neck, explained the subject of their conversation.

Mr. Jamblin glanced at it with a look of rage and disgust.

“He’ll never come to any good—​never, as sure as I’m a born man,” he ejaculated; “there beant no manner of doubt about that.”

“Haven’t you often said that boys wouldn’t be boys if they weren’t a little mischievous?” said his daughter.

“Don’t talk nonsense, gell. Boys’ meescheef be boys’ meescheef, that be true enough; but it doesn’t do to ha’ too much of it at one time. I tell ’ee he won’t come to any good. He aint a common boy—​he’s a changeling, that’s what he be; there’s something remarkable about him. Ever since he’s bin here he’s bin a sore trouble to all on us, and I wish I’d never set eyes on the young bastard. After he had bin with me a little time and I sent him out in the fields bird-keepin’, he begged and prayed of me to take the long gun with him, and I did let un take it. ‘You won’t know how to use it now you’ve got it,’ sed I. ‘Oh yes, I shell,’ sed he; and I’m blessed if he warn’t right, for directly he got into the fields he let fly at a flock of my house pigeons and brought down four, and took ’em into the veeledge and sold ’em. He’ll never come to any good, Patty, you mark my words. Them as commence being bad as early as he did seldom find the right road arterwards.”

“Oh, he’ll know better as he gets older,” said Patty.

“Not a bit on it; not a morsel of improvement will be found in him. I tell ee what makes me most afraid on him,” said the farmer, sinking his voice to a whisper, “it’s the way he’s got of reading a durned lot o’ books. It’s my belief as they puts him up to no end of things as he’d never ha’ thort on without.”

“Oh, father, there aint any harm in reading.”

“I tell ee there is, I aint no ’’pinion of that printed stuff, Patty. When I opens a book it reads all black to me, and whatever’s black’s bad, so folks say, and it arnt that only, this lad is so clever with’ut. I sent him to a day school to get a little scholarship because the vicar wished me to do so, but he soon beat the lot on un, missus inclooded.”

His daughter laughed outright at this speech.

“It be all very well for you to make merry over it, gell; he’s allers got a book in his hand now, arter his day’s work, or what he calls his day’s work, is over.”

“He’s read all I’ve got in the best parlour, and there’s a frightful sight on ’em there, so he gets about borrowin’ books from the neighbours. Blessed if I don’t think he would swallow the biggest library that ever was, and think nuffin of it.”

“Well, he’d better be reading than be getting into mischief.”

“Sam seed him busy about the hedge last evening, and this morning he bein’ fust in the ground went to look at the place, where he found this big leveret ketched in a wire as dead as a door nail.”

“Here he comes,” said Patty, looking through the window.

The farmer gave a sort of a grunt of displeasure, and a tall, light-haired boy ran into the room.

He was full of life and spirits, and as audacious in his manner.

He wore no coat or smock, but a waistcoat with long sleeves and a pair of fustian trousers bound below the knee with leather straps to prevent them from dragging in the mire.

His boots were of the usual clodhopping description, in weight about four pounds, and studded with nails like the door of a prison.

Although his costume was not particularly becoming, there was something in his voice and manner which showed that he was of a different race to the other labourers on the farm.

Nevertheless there was something in his countenance that betokened an absence of moral principle; a restlessness, and an expression of cunning seemed to pervade it.

There was something in his grey eyes which to a physiognomist would have afforded food for speculation and inquiry.

Mr. Jamblin sprang forward and seized the youngster by the collar, at which he did not appear to be surprised.

“You audacious circumventing young wagabond,” shouted out the farmer; “I’ve been a waitin’ for you, my pretty manakin. I’ll teach you to put metal collars round my hares’ necks, you rascal.”

“Will you, master?”

“Yes, I will. What have you to say for yourself?”

“What have I say? Well, if you will listen I’ll tell you, sir.”

“Go on, and look sharp about it, then.”

“Aint hares wild animals, the same as rats, foxes, and such like?” said the boy. “When I made a new sort of trap and caught the rats for you, which nobody else could do, didn’t you praise me and acknowledge it was a clever contrivance?”

“You young rascal!” cried Jamblin. “Don’t ’ee think to shield yourself by your book larning. Wild animals, indeed. I’ll flay ’ee alive, you viper.”

The farmer seized hold of a stout stick which was lying on the table.

“There was a farmer lagged the other day for killing a boy,” said the lad, in an insolent tone. “So don’t lay it on too strong, master, for fear of your own precious life.”

“You insolent ruffian!” exclaimed Jamblin. “Hang me if I ever met with your like, and hope I never shall for the matter o’ that.”

He rained a heavy shower of blows upon the boy’s back and shoulders, which he bore without flinching or even uttering a cry.

The farmer was surprised.

“He’s a hardened callous rascal that no mortal man can mek anything on, and that be the solemn truth.”

“He won’t do it again—​I’m sure he won’t, father,” pleaded the girl.

“Won’t he? I’ll wager he will. Good words or bad blows are wasted on such as he.”

Then, turning to Alf, Jamblin said—

“I tell ’ee, my lad, I’ll serve ’ee in the same way as we serve a dog who runs out and eats his game. To-morrow I will tie this leveret under your nose and your hands behind your back, and let ’ee nose at it for a day or two—​that’s what I’ll do.”

And, with these words, the indignant agriculturist stalked out of the kitchen.

The boy watched him across the yard, and when the farmer was lost to sight he unbuttoned his waistcoat, and passing his hand round his back produced a quantity of napkins with which he had padded himself.

He had been expecting some such castigation, and like an old soldier had recourse to stratagem.

The heavy blows fell harmless upon his back and shoulders.

No wonder he bore all with such patience and equanimity.

In cunning he was more than a match for his master, or indeed the whole of the establishment.

Patty could not refrain from laughing when she beheld the artifice resorted to by her companion in the kitchen.

“You are a sharp one, Alf, and no mistake,” she cried.

“But you won’t peach—​won’t tell the governor?” said he.

“No—​no. Let us hope his anger is all over by this time.”

“He won’t forget his promise about the hare, I daresay, but what of that? It won’t hurt me.”

The lad was quite right—​Jamblin did not forget the promise he had made.

“Look here, men, just pinion this young scoundrel. We’ll teach him a lesson he won’t easily forget,” cried the farmer to his labourers in the yard on the following morning.

The men obeyed and the boy’s arms were fastened firmly, so that there was no possibility of his raising them.

The hare was then slung under his chin.

“Now, my lad, see how that suits you,” said Jamblin. “It shall hang there till you promise never to do the same thing again.”

He was driven out of the yard by the farm labourers, who one and all detested him for his mischievous ways, and therefore they enjoyed the fun immensely.

“Now then, youngster, go and make a sight o’ yourself till noontime,” cried the carter, thrusting young Purvis forcibly through the open gate into the high road.

“Who cares for a pack of fools like you?” exclaimed the lad, walking rapidly away from the scene. A chorus of laughter reached his ears as he took his way along the road.

He was certainly under the impression that he cut a most ridiculous figure, adorned as he was with his furry companion, but there was no help for it; he was constrained to hear the sneering remarks passed on him by the passengers, equestrian and pedestrian, he met with on the road.

He had also to endure the jocose and playful cuts with the whip with which the carters saluted him as they went by with their long teams of horses. But he bore all these indignities with the greatest fortitude; nevertheless a burning spirit of revenge smouldered within his breast—​a spirit which some day or other would burst into a flame.

He walked on without deigning to offer any reply to the vexatious and sneering observations with which he was greeted.

An hour or more had passed over without his meeting with anyone who would take compassion on him. Presently he espied, at some little distance ahead of him, a little boy coming in the opposite direction.

It suddenly occurred to him that he might make a friend of the urchin, but the latter, believing him to be one of those fabulous animals he had read of in children’s good story books, or fables, as they are sometimes termed, screamed, and attempted to fly.

“Come here. I want to speak to you,” cried Alfred Purvis. “Don’t run away. Come.”

But the little fellow was too much alarmed by the extraordinary appearance of the speaker to approach any nearer, and, after hesitating for a few seconds, he made off in the opposite direction.

“Don’t run away, you little fool,” cried the farmer’s boy; “I only want to speak to you for one moment—​something of the utmost importance. Don’t run away, there’s a good fellow; you have no call to be frightened of me.”

But the little fellow was frightened, and all the other could do in the way of persuasion failed to restore his confidence.

Alf Purvis said no more in the way of remonstrance, but ran after the fugitive as hard as his legs would carry him.

Encumbered with the hare, and pinioned as he was, he managed to get within a few yards’ distance of his younger and less agile companion.

The latter screamed with fright, and, turning out of the high road, flew into an adjoining meadow.

His pursuer followed fast on his heels. In another moment, Alf had overtaken the boy, with whom he came in collision, both falling on the grass together.

“Oh, mercy! What shall I do? Oh, oh!” sobbed the urchin.

Alf held him down by one knee, and then said, in a most conciliatory tone—

“You’ve no occasion to be a snivelin’. Nobody will hurt you. I want you to do me a favour. Come, there’s a good fellow; you won’t refuse, I’m sure. Don’t you know me?”

“No I don’t.”

“I work at Stoke Ferry Farm, and they’ve tied my hands behind me; that’s what they’ve been and done. Now you get up, and I’ll tell you what I want you to do.”

The speaker rose to his feet.

“Now, then, we’re all right. Get up, young un, and come behind this hedge.”

His companion after a little hesitation obeyed, with a show of reluctance. His large eyes opened to their fullest extent when he had a full and closer view of Parvis, and he was evidently still in a state of wonderment.

“Now, then,” said Alf, “I want you to cut the ropes which fasten my arms. Have you got a knife?”

“No.”

“Well, put your hand in my pocket, and there you’ll find one.”

“In your pocket?”

“Yes; lift up my frock on the right hand side, and drive your hand in my pocket. Why do you hesitate?”

“I’m afraid.”

“But you must not be afraid. You’re a dear good little fellow; anyone can see that, and I dare say are your mother’s pet,” cried Alf, stooping down and giving his companion a kiss.

The latter plucked up courage and drew out a knife from the other’s pocket.

“Open it,” said Alf.

This was not an easy task to one of his tender years, but after one or two efforts he succeeded.

“Excellent. Now go behind me and cut through the rope. Don’t be afraid, you won’t hurt me. Hack away as hard as ever you can. Ah, ah, we’ll show them a trick or two. That’s right—​hack away.”

The celebrated rope trick, as practised by the Davenport brothers, and other impostors, was not known at this time—​hence it was that the pinioned lad was powerless without assistance.

“Perseverance overcomes all obstacles,” is an old saying, and in the due course of time the rope was severed.

Young Purvis was once more free. He seemed to breathe again with fresh life. He threw the cords scornfully on the ground, unfastened the hare, and shook himself in a satisfactory sort of way.

“You’re a jolly good little fellow,” he exclaimed, giving his companion a penny by way of reward.

“I’m sorry I haven’t in my power to give you more, but I shan’t forget you. I’ll make it up some other time.”

The boy took the penny and looked wonderingly at the speaker, who presented altogether a different appearance.

“Now, youngster,” said Alf, “you’ve done all I have required of you, and so good-bye. You’ve made a free man of me.”

The little urchin scampered off, and Alf Purvis found himself alone.

The dinner hour came and passed away, but the inmates of Stoke Ferry Farm saw nothing of Alf Purvis. Mr. Jamblin was surprised at this, for the boy as a rule had always been punctual enough at meal times. The farmer grew fidgetty; he half regretted having made an example of the lad for an offence which, after all, could not be considered to be one of a very grave character.

“That young scapegrace is in his sulks, I expect,” said Jamblin to his daughter. “An’ may be he’s got the hump so strong on him that he’ll be for stoppin’ away for awhile.”

“Never fear,” answered Mr. Philip Jamblin; “he’ll come back again when he’s had his fling and hunger begins to set in. He’ll come back fast enough then, I’ll warrant.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” returned Patty. “He’s got a mighty spirit of his own. He’s a lad one might lead, but I don’t think he’s easy to drive.”

“He’s an obstinate, audacious young varmint, that’s what he be, an’ one as no one can do much good with. Let un stop away an’ he likes,” cried the farmer.

He rose from his seat, and sallied forth into the fields.

“I think, Phil, that father was a little hard upon him, to hold him up to the ridicule of all the farm people, and then to drive him forth to be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood.”

“Oh, I don’t know; it’s no more than he deserves. The lad is always up to mischief, and has been an endless source of trouble and anxiety to us. If I could have had my way I would have got rid of him long ago.”

Seven o’clock came, and Mr. Jamblin, the elder, returned to the farmhouse again.

“So that impudent young scamp aint returned yet, it seems,” cried the farmer. “He be making a long stop on it.”

“I hope he will come back,” said his daughter, in a tone of sadness.

“You hope! What do you hope for? If he does come back he shan’t stop, I tell ’ee that. I’ll see the squire, and get shot of un.”

“Have a little more patience with him. He won’t be so wilful after a bit.”

“Patience, gell! I dunno what thee art thinkin’ about. I think we’ve all had patience enough. Wilful! He’ll mend as much as small beer is likely to do in harvest time. Some on us will ha’ to break un of his bad habits. I aint much yoose at that, it would seem.”

“But when he returns you will wait awhile, and try him a little longer?” said Patty, coaxingly, winding her arms round the old man’s neck.

“Umph! ye be a wheedling lass,” he returned. “Very well, I will wait and see if he be likely to change. Say no more, gell. You know better than what I do what a fool ye can mek o’ yer old father. Say no more; ye shall ha’ yer own way in this as in all other things.”

“Ah, that’s said like my own dear father,” murmured Patty.

But the night passed over as the day had done, and no Alf Purvis presented himself at Stoke Ferry Farm; as bed time came the members of the household exchanged blank looks, although they said but little. Each member of the family could not conceal his uneasiness.

Although they said but little each member of the family could not conceal their uneasiness.

Let us return to him whose absence was the cause of this anxiety.

After the departure of the urchin who had rendered such signal service to Alf, the latter walked over the fields and bethought him of what to do.

“I won’t return again to that dalled place,” murmured he. “I’ve had enough of the guv’nor and his low-bred crew of workpeople. Oh that I were a man, and able to fight my way in the world without the help of anyone! If I go to the squire he’ll give me a long lecture, and take me back to Stoke Ferry Farm. I don’t know what to do.”

He looked at the sun—​it wanted about an hour to noon, his dinner time.

He resolved to stroll about and amuse himself birds’ nesting. Anyway he would not return till the evening—​he could do without his dinner for once in the way; besides he had a slice of fat bacon between two thick pieces of bread in his pocket; these he had stolen from the larder without any one observing him.

Yes, he’ll go birds’ nesting.

He walked across field after field, and soon reached a small common which was covered with furze bushes, slanting thorn trees, and yews.

This place seemed to have considerable attractions for him. The aspect of nature is always beautiful, but rugged, savage, uncultivated nature this lad loved the most. Perhaps the reason of this might be traced to his occupation as a tiller of the soil.

As he entered the grass road which ran through the middle of the common he overtook a man who was walking slowly along, looking on all sides of him, and stopping every few steps to listen.

No. 17.

Alf knew pretty well every inhabitant of the locality by sight, but he never remembered to have seen the individual he now came across for the first time.

“Who can he be, and what’s his game?” he murmured; “he’s a queer-looking sort of customer. I’ll just watch and see what he’s up to.”

The man had a short pipe in his mouth—​he was tall, but stooped slightly, which took somewhat off his height. His clothes were travel-stained and dilapidated, and the beard on his chin seemed to be of some days’ growth.

For the rest, his skin was of a deep brown, partly attributable to dirt and partly to his natural complexion, which was what might be termed swarthy. As to his age it would have puzzled any one to tell except those who had been acquainted with him for years—​he might be seven and thirty, or he might be sixty.

On his back he carried a huge bundle, which was as large and heavy as a pedlar’s pack, but of a very different shape.

Alf’s curiosity was aroused—​he had never seen any one of a similar character in the neighbourhood. He felt instinctively that the brown-faced man with the bundle was a brother sportsman, but he could not quite comprehend the reason for his stopping every now and then to listen, and then walking on in such a careless desultory manner.

“He’s a bit of an original in his way, a sort of curiosity,” murmured the boy. “He’s up to something and I mean to know what it is before long.”

The mysterious sportsman had by this time reached the small “clearing” (to use an American phrase) where the cottagers had been permitted to cut furze for their firing.

The stranger had all this time been quite unaware of the presence of the farmer’s boy.

He threw down his bundle and raised himself to his full height; he then stretched forth his arms, which were evidently stiff and cramped from the constrained position they had been in during his journey.

This done he reflected for a brief space of time, after which he stooped down and began to untie his bundle and spread out its contents.

“He’s a rum un. Let’s see what his next move is,” cried Alf, who deemed it expedient to keep as quiet as possible.

He, therefore, stretched himself full length on the grass.

When the boy saw the brown-faced man bring forth a large net his eyes began to shine, and lying on his stomach, with his face between his two hands, he watched the movements of the stranger with the greatest possible interest.

He saw the net, which was about twelve yards square, spread flat upon the ground, and then secured by four small pins (called stars), which left, however, a considerable space of net on either side unoccupied.

Then the brown-faced man placed something covered with green baize-cloth in the centre of the net, and, having carefully examined his apparatus, he uncoiled a long line, which was looped and run within the edges of the net.

He then raised the green baize, disclosing a goldfinch in a wire cage.

“My eye, he’s an artful old buffer, and knows his way about!” murmured Alf.

The man glanced around.

“Blessed if I didn’t hear a voice, or somethin’ of the sort,” he ejaculated.

He adjusted the lines of his net, and looked up at the sky—​then he glanced around once more.

“Holloa, you, sir, what are you a doing there? Want to frighten the birds—​eh?” he exclaimed, catching sight of the boy for the first time.

“I hope I aint in the way, or a doing any harm,” cried Alf, in a beseeching tone. “I’m only doing the looking-on part. I hope you don’t mind, please, sir?”

“Umph,” returned the man, with a puzzled expression of countenance, “you’ve been ’nation quiet, my young bloke. I didn’t know there was a soul about; but, look here, my lad, I’d rather you shift your quarters if it don’t make any difference to you, ’cos why it’s like enough you’ll frighten the birds away if you stop there.”

“All right, guv’nor, I’ll go wherever you like.”

The man made a sort of crook with his forefinger, with which he beckoned the lad.

“Just you stir your stumps,” he said, “and come here by the side of me.”

“All right, that’s just what I should like—​it will suit me above everything,” cried Alf, with evident delight.

He and the brown-faced man hid themselves behind a bush, the latter holding the line and peeping through the interstices of the foliage.

As soon as the goldfinch felt the sun and light it began to sing.

“That’s the call bird,” whispered the man. “He’ll draw a lot presently if we have luck.”

It must be owned that there is a most malicious joy in these call birds to bring the wild ones into the same state of captivity, which may likewise be observed with regard to decoy ducks.

Their sight and hearing excel that of the bird-catcher. The call birds do not sing as a bird does when in a chamber; they invite the wild ones by what they, the bird-catchers, call “short jerks,” which when the birds are good may be heard at a great distance.

The ascendency of this call or invitation is so great that the wild bird is stopped in its flight, and, if not already acquainted with the nets, alights boldly within on a spot which otherwise it would not have taken the least notice of.

Indeed it frequently happens that if half the flock are only caught the remainder will immediately afterwards alight in the nets and share the same fate, and should only one bird escape, that bird will suffer itself to be pulled at till it’s caught, such fascinating power have the call birds.

While we are on the subject of the jerking of the bird, we cannot omit mentioning that the bird-catchers frequently lay wagers upon whose call bird can jerk the longest, as that determines their superiority.

They place them opposite to each other by an inch of candle, and the bird who jerks the most before the candle is burnt out wins the wager.

We have been informed that there have been instances of birds giving one hundred and seventy jerks in a quarter of an hour.

It may be here observed that birds when near each other seldom jerk or sing.

It is a singular circumstance that the male chaffinches fly by themselves, and in the flight precede the females; but this is not particular with this class of bird.

When the larks are caught at the beginning of the season it frequently happens that forty are taken, and not one female among them.

An experienced birdcatcher informed us that such birds as breed twice a year generally have in their first brood a majority of males, and in their second of females.

The method of birdcatching must have been long practised, as it is brought to a most systematical perfection, and attended with much trouble and expense.

The nets are a most ingenious piece of mechanism.

They are from ten to twelve and a half yards long, and ten yards and a half in width, and no one on bare inspection would imagine that a bird, who is so quick in all its motions, could be caught by the nets flapping over each other till he becomes an eye-witness of the process.

After the birdcatcher and Alf Purvis had taken up their position in the clump of foliage, they waited patiently for more than a quarter of an hour.

The adjacent trees and shrubs resounded with chirpings and carollings.

“I like to hear them twitter,” said the boy.

“It looks like business,” returned his companion. “Pretty—​aint it?”

“Oh, jolly, and no mistake. I wish I knew the business.”

The birds gathering courage began to flutter down upon the net, which soon swarmed with linnets, yellowhammers, and tit-larks.

“Pull the string, guv’nor,” said Alf.

“Wait a bit, youngster. I want some bullfinches. I can hear ’em piping all around. There’s lots on ’em about these thorn trees.”

The bullfinch, though it does not properly belong to what are known as singing birds or birds of flight, as it does not often move farther than from hedge to hedge, yet invariably sells well on account of its learning to whistle tunes, and sometimes flies over the fields where the nets are laid, the birdcatchers have often a call-bird to ensnare it, though most of them can imitate its call with their mouths.

It is remarkable with regard to this bird that the female answers the purpose of a call-bird as well as the male, which is not experienced by any other bird taken by the London bird catchers.

The man in the bush imitated the call to such perfection that in a short time he had the satisfaction of seeing six cock bullfinches in the net, which began to present the appearance of an aviary. They were beautiful little creatures, with their blue bullet heads and their scarlet breasts.

They were clothed in red and purple, like the kings of ancient Tyre.

The man gave his rope a sharp tug, and the flaps or wings of the net closed and held them all prisoners.

The poor things beat themselves fiercely against the net, uttering piercing cries, while the call-bird still sung as if in savage triumph from his wire cage.

“Beautiful!” ejaculated the boy. “I call that something like.”

The birds were gathered by the large brown hand of their ensnarer, and with Alf’s assistance they were placed in a large hamper, which formed part of the fowler’s equipage.

“That’s a good haul, ain’t it?” inquired the lad.

“Middling, not so bad. I’ve had better, and a good many worse.”

“Do you happen to know of any nestesses round here?” he inquired.

“I don’t mean the common sorts. D’ye know of a bottletit’s anywhere?”

“I know one—​in fact I was going to collar it when I met you.”

How far is it from here?”

“Not a hundred yards from where we are now—​just ready for eggs.”

“I don’t want no eggs, but I’ll give yer a pint o’ beer for the nest—​that is unless ye want it yourself.”

“I don’t particularly want it,” said the boy, who was going to show the man the nest for nothing; but he now declared he couldn’t afford to part with it under sixpence.”

“It’s worth that if it be a good’un. I’ll give you sixpence—​that is, when I’ve got the nest.”

“All right. Come this way,” cried Alf, who showed the man the nest, which was imbedded in a little bunch of gorse.

Instead of tearing it out the fowler cut the branch with his knife, thus preserving, it furze and all.

He then handed his companion the sixpence.

The bottle tit, or long-tailed tit, builds the most beautiful of all English nests. It is oval in shape, like a leather bottle, and outside is one mass of that crisp white moss which one finds on apple trees and old gate-posts. There is one tiny hole the circumference of a child’s finger, and the interior is choked to its very mouth with soft and downy feathers.

These nests sell at a high price in towns to egg-collectors, closet naturalists, and buyers of curiosities.

“You’ll make your money of that, guv’nor. It’s a stunner—​aint it?”

“Not a bad one of its sort; but, lor’ love ye, the job is to find a customer. It’s only one here and there who knows what’s worth buying and what’s best left alone. Still, ye see, it won’t hurt by keepin’, and it won’t die, as many of the birds do. I’ve been very unlucky wi’ my birds of late.”

“Have you, though? They croak, I s’pose?”

“That’s it; right you are. They do croak, and no mistake. Howsomdever, it can’t be helped. Do you know of any more nests, young shaver—​some with bigger eggs, you know?”

“Ah! you mean some of the other sort?”

This is a cant term among poachers for those eggs which are preserved by the hand of the law.

The fowler started, and looked at the speaker with his right eye only.

“You’re a queer young bloke,” he muttered, “down as a hammer, and no mistake. Oh! you’re fly, my lad—​fly to a thing or two—​there aint no manner of doubt about that ’ere!”

Alf laughed. He was much charmed with his companion’s quaint and curious ways.

“I know of one nest—​eleven eggs, old bird sitting,” he said, in a tone of exultation. “Just your book, I should say.”

“That’s the style, Polly. Bring ’em to me, my lad, and I’ll give you a shilling.”

“If you’ll give me a shilling I’ll show you the nest, and let you take it as you did the bottletit’s. I want money, I can tell you.”

“I s’pose you do. That’s by no means an uncommon complaint.”

“Well, you can have it if you like—​only say the word.”

“And fork out the bob—​eh?”

“Yes, that’s a bargain, you know.”

“Well, look here, my little ace of trumps, that may be all very well; but how am I to know if you wont round on me afterwards?”

“I never rounded on anybody in my life,” cried Alf, in a tone of indignation.

“Umph, I’m jolly glad of it; but you’ve got a pair of queer grey peepers. I’m always keerful how I do business with grey peepers.”

“I didn’t make my peepers, and it’s no fault of mine if their colour don’t please you. I know one or two shady customers who have black and brown peepers.”

“You’re a deal too artful for my money, and you see I don’t want to be led into a scrape, which is easier for a cove to get into than out of by long chalks.”

“Look here, then,” cried Alf, pulling out the hare from under his smock; “I snared this, and have had a thrashing for it. I’ll sell you this if you like, and then one will be as low in the dirt as ’tother in the mire.”

The bird-catcher stared with surprise, and exclaimed quickly—

“Didn’t I say as how you was fly? I’m blessed if you are not too good for a God-forgotten place like this.”

“I want to leave it, and I will, please the pigs,” returned the lad. “I don’t care what I do so long as I haven’t to go back to Stoke Ferry Farm.”

“Is that where you come from?”

“Yes.”

“Who and what are you?”

“I’m an orphan, and have been brought up by Mr. Jamblin.”

“And who is he?”

“A farmer; and one as thinks a lot on himself.”

“And you want to leave him?”

“Yes.”

“And seek your fortune in the great world, eh?”

“That’s it. You’ve just hit it.”

“Well, come, lad, sit down and let us have a bit of dinner together. You’re peckish, I ’spose, by this time?”

Alf drew from his pocket the two pieces of bread and the slice of bacon.

“Oh, you carry your prog with you, it seems. Not a bad plan. But just reach that basket—​we shall find something better in that.”

The two commenced their repast.

“Where are you bound for after you’ve done for the day?” inquired Alf.

“For London. Whitechapel; it aint a haristocratic part, but it’s busy sort of place in its way.”

“I should like to go with you.”

“Well, then, you shall, youngster. So that’s soon settled.”

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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 newcomer.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?”

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.”

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.

Charles Peace appeared to be like the tiger, who, after tasting human flesh, had an insatiable appetite for fresh victims.

He had contemplated the burglary he was about to put into practice for some weeks, and had well considered the matter before his interview with Laura Stanbridge.

Within a few doors of her residence was a jeweller’s shop.

Peace’s object was to obtain an easy access to this.

He had ascertained that the owner of the establishment in question did not reside on the premises—​he had a house at Fulham for himself and his family.

After the day’s business was over he repaired thither, leaving his housekeeper, a maid servant, and one of his assistants in charge of his town residence.

The maid servant was constrained to sleep out of the house, having to attend upon her mother, who was dangerously ill; consequently the only occupants of the establishment after closing hours were a young man, who was the jeweller’s assistant, and an old woman, who acted in the capacity of housekeeper.

Peace, therefore, came to the conclusion that if he gained an entrance into the house there would not be much difficulty in obtaining possession of a large amount of property.

Between the hours of one and two o’clock in the morning he let himself into Laura Stanbridge’s house, and closing the street door noiselessly he proceeded upstairs, and reached the attic without disturbing any of the inmates.

Here he remained for some little time before carrying out his plan of operation.

He then ruminated for a brief period, and quietly opened the lattice window.

He peered forth—​the noise of distant wheels of some passing vehicle was the only sound which broke the stillness of the night.

He crept through the open casement, and gained the gutter, then he closed the window and passed along till he reached the roof of the adjoining house.

He cast a hasty glance around, and came to the conclusion that his movements were unobserved by any prying or inquisitive eye.

He felicitated himself upon his success thus far, and so silently and stealthily passed on to the roof of the next house, and so on till he had reached the one upon which he had to perform.

His purpose was to effect an entrance by removing the trap-door in the roof; having reached this he at once set to work, but some little time elapsed before he succeeded in sliding back the bolts.

But he was, as we have already seen, an adept at this sort of business, and eventually the trap was removed, and he passed through the opening.

The rest was, of course, an easy matter. He placed the trap in its original position, and dropped into the loft.

He now felt assured that he was about to meet with triumphant success.

In this, however, he was greatly mistaken.

A gentleman in one of the adjoining houses, who had been working till a late hour in writing for the Press, had observed his movements from the top window of one of the houses which commanded a view of the jeweller’s.

His attention had been attracted to the figure of a man passing over the roof.

He rose from his seat, drew back the curtain of his window, and watched Peace’s proceedings.

When he saw him remove the trap-door and creep through the opening he naturally enough suspected that something was amiss.

He was well acquainted with the jeweller, and knew perfectly well that he was at Fulham; he knew, moreover, that there were but two persons sleeping in the establishment.

He at once put on his coat and hat and sallied forth, and bent his steps in the direction of the nearest police-station.

Peace in the meanwhile was busily engaged in collecting together all the valuables he could lay his hands upon. These he placed in a heap on the counter of the shop.

The housekeeper and the shopman were all this time sleeping soundly.

While engaged in his depredations he heard the sounds of voices outside and saw the fitful flashing of lights against the windows of the residence.

He closed the door of the shop, locked it, and put the key into his pocket, then he proceeded upstairs into the front room, first floor, and listened.

People were astir in the street.

He peeped through the window blind and saw three or four policemen in front of the house.

“The devil!” he ejaculated, perfectly astounded at the discovery. “Bobbies! Here’s a pretty go; I’m done as brown as a berry.”

He drew back from the window blind, and began to seriously consider what was to be done.

It was too plainly evident that the police, from some cause or other, were on the alert.

To return by means of the roof was now an impossibility, as his movements would be seen and capture certain. What was he to do?

It required all his fortitude to meet the urgency of the case.

Escape appeared impossible. Doubtless the back premises were being watched as carefully as the front of the house.

But Peace was equal to the occasion, and hoped to be master of the situation.

Any way he resolved upon a bold stroke of policy.

Several loud raps were given at the front door.

Peace took off his coat, and, opening the window of the front drawing-room, rubbed his eyes as if just aroused from slumber, and, peering forth, said, in a drawling tone—

“What is the matter, policeman? Is the house on fire?”

“No, sir,” answered one of the constables. “No; but you’ve got a burglar inside your premises.”

“Goodness me!” exclaimed our hero. “I’ll come down and let you in. A burglar, eh.”

He went to the front door, which he unfastened, and said, in a tone of well-simulated alarm—

“Don’t let him escape. Search the house, and—​and place a guard at the door.”

Two policemen at once proceeded upstairs, another kept guard over the entrance, while a fourth was on the opposite side of the way, flashing his bull’s-eye on the screened windows of the establishment.

“There is a fire somewhere,” said Peace, in a confidential tone, to the nearest policeman. “Of that I am quite certain. Don’t you smell something burning?”

The man sniffed, and said he could not smell anything.

“It’s at the back—​that’s where it is,” cried our hero. “Come this way, policeman.”

As he said this, he walked leisurely along the front of the house, which was a corner one, and led the way to the street by its side. The policeman followed.

At the back of the jeweller’s was a mews.

“There!” exclaimed Peace. “It’s there!”

The policeman, thrown completely off his guard—​he was quite a green hand—​walked a few steps down the mews, and looked about in the vain effort to discover the fire.

This was Peace’s opportunity—​it was one he did not fail to avail himself of.

With the speed of an antelope he ran down the side street, turned the corner and was lost to sight before the policeman had retraced his steps and gained the corner of the mews.

He looked round for Peace, but even at that moment he did not suspect anything was amiss, concluding that he had returned to what he deemed was his own house.

The housekeeper and shopman were aroused from their slumbers by the constables who had been searching the premises.

No burglar was to be found, but a coat and hat were discovered on the sofa in the drawing-room; these belonged to Peace, who was by this time far away.

“Where is the governor?” inquired one of the policemen.

“Governor!” exclaimed the jeweller’s assistant. “He’s at Fulham.”

“It’s taken him a short time to get there,” cried the man at the door, “seeing that he was here not five minutes ago.”

“Here!” ejaculated the housekeeper. “Oh, it’s impossible—​he left hours ago.”

The policeman exchanged blank looks—​the truth for the first time dawned upon them.

“What sort of a man is the governor?” inquired one, quickly.

“A tall, stout gentleman, with big bushy whiskers,” answered the shopman.

“Well, this is a sell,” murmured another constable. “Why I’m blessed if that fellow wasn’t the burglar.” Then, turning to the man who had kept guard at the door, “You had no right to let him go, Jenkins. It was your duty to detain him.”

“Don’t blame me—​it’s no fault of mine. Why I could have sworn he was the master; so would anybody.”

“You had no right to let him go.”

“But I don’t know that he has gone.”

There was a loud peal of laughter at this declaration. Everybody is so clever after a mistake has been made and discovered.

And this was clearly a very great mistake.

A search was at once made in every direction for the missing robber; bull’s eyes were flashed in all directions, the adjacent streets underwent inspection, as did also several houses which were known to be the resort of thieves, but Peace was by far too artful a rascal to seek refuge in any of these; it was not his practice to do so at any period of his life.

The police were at fault. There was, however, one consolation. Nothing had been stolen. Not an article of any description had been removed from the premises.

On the contrary, something had been left behind—​this being our hero’s coat and hat, which the police took possession of as trophies.

They, however, could not conceal from themselves that they were greatly in fault. They had no right to allow anybody to leave the house without ascertaining whether he was connected with the establishment; but our hero, who was far more quick-witted and prompt in action than the constables, had thrown them off their guard.

His manner was so ingenuous and inspired such confidence that the police took it for granted that he was either the master of the house or else his confidential man.

Never surely did men make such a palpable blunder.

Peace having got once clear off, ran his hardest until he had reached Seven Dials.

Then he observed, at some little distance off, a policeman taking his lonely round.

As he was without his hat and coat, he deemed it expedient to seek concealment.

He went up a narrow passage and hid himself in a dark gateway till the patrol of the night had passed.

He watched him from his hiding place and saw him walk with measured steps on his beat.

Luckily for him, the policeman walked on without suspecting for a moment that anything was wrong, and Peace did not emerge from his safe retreat till he felt assured that the watchful guardian of the night was far removed from the spot.

He then sallied forth, and crept cautiously along a narrow dark street which led into Long-acre.

A four-wheeled cab, driven by a sleepy driver, drove into sight.

Peace at once hailed it. The cabdriver looked surprised, as well he might be, at seeing a man in such a strange costume.

“What’s up?” he cried, looking down at our hero.

“Why, I’m in a devil of a pickle; that’s what’s up,” returned Peace.

“I’ve been to a masquerade, and some vagabond has stolen my hat and coat. I haven’t very far to go, but don’t like to walk home in this plight. Drive me to the corner of Fetter-lane.”

“I’m taking the horse and cab to the stables, and don’t want another fare,” said the driver, who was evidently like the animal he drove—​fairly done over.

“It isn’t far,” said our hero, “I’ll pay you well. Drop me at the corner of Fetter-lane.”

“You’re a rum un,” answered the man. “Jump in.”

Peace did not desire any further altercation—​he opened the door of the cab and jumped in.

The vehicle rumbled over the stones, passed through Great Queen-street, then Little Queen-street, and proceeded along Holborn till the corner of Fetter-lane was reached; then it was brought to a halt.

“There you are,” cried Peace, handing the driver half-a-crown. “Now I am within a dozen doors of my own home.”

The cabman took the proffered coin and drove off.

Peace went up Fetter-lane, and looked to the right and left, but no one was visible.

He waited till the noise of wheels had passed away, and then he went back to the corner of the lane.

If he could reach his lodgings in Leather-lane without attracting attention all would be well. How to complete this he had not at that moment determined.

Should a chance policeman be in Holborn, or in any of the adjacent streets, a man without a coat and at that hour in the morning would be sure to attract his attention and excite suspicion.

Peace had been wonderfully successful thus far, but there was no telling what might follow; whether he had better walk leisurely along or make a bolt of it, he could not for the moment determine.

At length, after a little reflection, he thought it would be best to adopt the former alternative; he therefore crossed Holborn in a quiet, easy, self-confident manner.

A half inebriated pedestrian, who was reeling homewards, called out——

“Halloa, governor, taking a moonlight airing?”

Peace made no reply, but passed on till he had reached the corner of Leather-lane, without attracting the notice of any one else. In a few seconds after this he gained the side door of his own residence.

But he would not enter without first of all ascertaining that no one was watching his movements.

He peered cautiously around. All was silent, not a solitary individual was visible.

He slid the key into the lock, opened the door, and entered. Then he closed it as noiselessly as possible.

He felt that he had escaped by almost a miracle, but did not at the same time feel assured that all danger was over.

He ignited a small hand lamp, which he placed in the grate, so that its rays should not be visible at the window of his room.

He began to reflect on the events of the past hour or two, and had some misgivings when he remembered that his coat and hat had been left behind in the house he had entered.

He was well assured that the former did not contain any papers or other articles which would lead to his identity.

No. 22.

The coat itself he had bought ready-made at a shop in Bradford, so that there was no fear of his being recognised by means of that garment, since he was not known to the shopman who served him.

The hat bore no maker’s name on the inside.

He was, therefore, well satisfied that he could not be traced by that means.

But there was no telling.

Clues to thieves were sometimes obtained in an extraordinary manner, and he did not feel altogether assured of his safety.

However, he had no alternative but to quietly await the issue.

If Laura Stanbridge rounded on him he was lost; but he did not for a moment imagine she would do so—​certainly not unless she was hardly pressed.

He thought all these matters over before he turned in for the night, and bitterly regretted having attempted to rob the jeweller’s shop, since it had been attended with such disastrous consequences. The more he thought of the matter the more puzzled he was. He could not understand the reason for the sudden appearance of the policemen in front of the house.

Some one must have given an alarm.

Who could it be?

Not Laura Stanbridge. That was not probable, as she would thereby incriminate herself.

He was not aware that his actions had been closely watched from the top window of one of the opposite houses.

“Somebody’s pulled the string,” he murmured; “that’s quite certain. Who can it be? Ah, it never does for a man to trust to any one; and this is a lesson to me—​a lesson I shall rarely fail to profit by.”

He was by no means comfortable when he retired to bed. He was troubled in his mind, and had in consequence but a restless night.

On the following morning, upon reviewing the events of the preceding night, he was forcibly impressed with the egregious blunder he had made, and his own want of foresight.

It is true he had successfully eluded justice up to the present time, but he did not feel in any way assured that the police would not yet find a clue to his whereabouts. He had a considerable amount of stolen property concealed in the premises he occupied. To dispose of this was his first consideration.

After he had partaken of a hearty breakfast, he packed up his spoils in as small compass as possible, and at once set out with the same to the Jew fence in Whitechapel.

Old Isaac was at his post, and upon the goods being handed over to him for inspection, he began as usual to deprecate their value.

This Peace was well used to; it was a way the Jew had. He had many pleasant little ways, which were at once tantalising and irritating. But it was now imperative for our hero to get rid of the articles, even if he had to make a greater sacrifice than usual.

Isaac was never at a loss to reckon up his customers; he saw that Peace for some reason or another was constrained to part with the goods.

The Jew offered about one-third their value.

This was indignantly refused, and their owner was about to replace them in his bag, when the Jew, after many shrugs and wry faces, made an advance in the price.

“I won’t take it; I’ll smash them all up first, you rapacious old sinner!” cried Peace.

“Vell, vell, smash ’em up; much good that’ll be. I thought you’d more sense than to talk in that way. S’help me goodness, I do my best for all of you. I always dosh my besht. You know that, Peace. You never find me anything but honest and straightforward in my dealings with you.”

“Leave honesty out of the question. It don’t sound well from your lips. Some of the watches are good enough, but the others—​well, they’re such duffers upon my shoul they are—​I wouldn’t tell an untruth, not for anything.”

“Get out,” exclaimed Peace, in an angry tone. “You not tell an untruth! Bah! You get worse and worse, and I shan’t come again unless you mend your ways. I know where to dispose of them, man. Don’t you think you’re the only bloke who does things on the cross.”

“Well, then, there—​I don’t like to turn away a customer, particularly an old friend like yourself. I’ll give you thirty pounds for the lot.”

“What! for the clock and plate included? Vell, yes, of course I mean that. Be reasonable, don’t be too extortionate. Ve must all live.”

“Honestly if we can,” said Peace, with a smile.

“Yes, honestly, my son. As honest as the world will let us be. Lord, how people do try to best one another in this world! There, I’ll give you thirty quid. Vat say you?”

“I say I want more, and I won’t take thirty quid.”

“How much more? Tell me, how much more? Now don’t take them avay, I vant to do bishness if I can, even if it is but at a small profit. Ve must live.”

“I’ll take forty. I ought to have fifty at the very least, but I can’t do with less than forty, for I am just now very hard up.”

The Jew shook his head, and said he couldn’t give forty.

After a deal of haggling, a bargain was struck, Peace took four and thirty pounds for goods which were worth considerably more than double that sum in the very lowest market, but he had no alternative, and the rapacious Jew suspected this.

As a rule Peace generally managed to get more from the Israelite than any of his compeers.

In many cases old Isaac obtained articles purloined by professional thieves for a third or even a quarter of their value.

Peace pocketed the money and returned to his rooms in Leather-lane.

He, however, deemed it advisable to leave his lodgings for a few days, till the attempted burglary at the jeweller’s was not quite so fresh in the recollection of the police authorities.

He wrote a letter to Laura Stanbridge, requesting her to call and see him.

This he sent by a boy.

In less than an hour after its delivery, his old Sheffield companion presented herself.

“Well, Charlie! What’s up now that you have sent for me?” said Miss Stanbridge. “Anything amiss? Have they found your crib?”

“No, not at present,” returned our hero. “But you see, old girl, this little affair has been a great mistake. I managed to dodge them, but my coat and hat have been left behind; and, therefore, I think it as well to bunk—​to leave this place for a few days.”

“Certainly; the best thing you can possibly do. Well!”

“And I was thinking, if you could spare that lad, just to take charge of it in the daytime, he could answer all questions, and say that I had gone into the country with some frames that had been executed for a customer. Do you see?”

“I see plainly enough. But, my dear Charlie, that would never do. The boy is known in my neighbourhood; and, if he were to be seen here by—​by the police, they would suspect that I had something to do with the affair, and it would be my ruin if inquiries were set on foot. No, I don’t think we can risk that.”

“Oh!” murmured Peace, glumpily. “You won’t oblige me, then; that’s what you mean?”

“I don’t mean anything of the sort; but, for both our sakes, it is well not to put trust in the boy.”

“Has he peached?” inquired our hero, sharply. “If he has, I’ll ring his young neck.”

“Peached! No, certainly not. What on earth could have put such a thought in your head? Peached! No, of course not!”

“Who gave notice to the bobbies, then?”

“Who? Why, a gentleman who saw you climbing ever the roofs, from one of the top windows of a house opposite.”

“Hang it all, I have been a fool! Never thought of that.”

“That’s how it was. Everybody knows that in the neighbourhood.”

“Ah, then, it won’t do to leave this place in charge of the boy, I must get some one else.”

“You have had a narrow escape, and so have I,” said his companion.

“Do they suspect that I reached the roof from your house?”

“No, I am glad to say they do not; if they had I should have been sure to have heard of it. No one, I believe, suspects you were concealed in my house—​nevertheless we’ve had a narrow squeak for it.”

“Keep dark—​say nothing about the subject to anyone. Hear, but say nothing.”

“Trust me for that. You must manage your matters better next time; this has been a most unfortunate business; but never mind, you are out of the fire. I would offer to take charge of your place myself, but have other matters to attend to, and even if this were not the case it would not be prudent for me to risk being seen here.”

“Certainly not—​I do not desire you to do so. You’ve said enough, Laura. I’m sorry any act of mine should have placed you in jeopardy, but there is now no reason for your being alarmed. You had better not remain any longer. Should I want to see you I will send a letter, and make an appointment for a meeting at some other place.”

“Don’t you think I am complaining, Charlie, or am likely to desert you. All that I can do to serve you at any time you may count on. Even now I don’t like to leave you to shift for yourself, but I don’t think they’ve got the faintest clue. The coat and hat are at the station, so I’ve heard, but they’ve not been able to trace their owner. So be of good cheer, old man, and better luck next time,” said Laura Stanbridge, as she took her leave.

In less than two hours after her departure Bandy-legged Bill, the gipsy, dropped in.

Peace was very glad to see him, and recounted all the incidents of the attempted burglary at the jeweller’s, which the gipsy listened to with evident interest.

“We’ll dodge them even if they do find their way here,” exclaimed the gipsy. “Let us consider what is to be done in this matter. Two heads are better than one.”

We must turn back to earlier scenes in our narrative that we may gather up the tangled threads of this tale.

The reader will remember the burglary at Oakfield farmhouse, described in the opening chapters. He will call to mind the Bristol Badger being shot down by the girl, Jane Ryan, who afterwards gave her evidence at the trial of Gregson, which went far towards ensuring the conviction of the hardened criminal.

Gregson had ruthlessly murdered the girl’s sweetheart some years before the period of the Oakfield House burglary.

Jane Ryan had watched and waited, and she had not done so in vain. An inward monitor had whispered to her that sooner or later she would be instrumentel in hunting down the man who had robbed her of one whom she valued beyond all else in the world.

She felt that her mission was fulfilled after Gregson had expiated his crimes on the public scaffold.

But the death of this wretch did not remove the canker worm which had found its way into the heart of the young girl. It did not blot out from her recollection the terrible and appalling scene of her lover being stabbed to the heart on the lawn of her master’s house.

Jane Ryan became an altered woman; she was, as we have already intimated, deeply embued with superstition, and, moreover, under the impression that her days were numbered. Nothing could dispossess her of this idea.

The last time we took a glance at Jane was in the fourth number of this work, when Richard Ashbrook told her the story of his love, and asked her to become his wife. The interview between the two was of a touching and tender nature. Jane did not positively refuse, but she bade her master seek somebody who was more worthy of him than she was herself. She told him also that she was mourning for one who was dead and gone.

All this was not particularly complimentary to the substantial and honest yeoman, who began to suspect that there was some other rival in the field. He could not for a moment understand that she could be so true and constant to the dead carpenter.

He was as honest as the day, would not wrong man or woman, or indeed any living creature, but his powers of perception were but limited, and Jane was a puzzle to him.

Poor man, his was by no means a solitary case; hundreds and thousands of women, both before and since, have puzzled and perplexed men of far greater intellect than he could boast of.

Richard Ashbrook considered the matter over. He reasoned with himself, and endeavoured to quench the fire which burnt within his breast.

He was advised to try a change of scene, and left Oakfield for a while upon a visit to Mr. Jamblin, of Stoke Ferry Farm.

He flirted with little Miss Jamblin, who was at this time not out of her teens. He went out shooting with her father and brother, and passed many jovial and enjoyable evenings with his old friends.

But despite all this he could not forget Jane Ryan; her image was for ever presenting itself to his vision.

His friends were discreet and considerate enough not to mention her name; they knew perfectly well his feelings towards her, and hoped that “he would get over it.”

But Ashbrook did not find it so easy to get over it as he had imagined.

“When a man is over head and ears in love,” said Mr. Jamblin, senior, “it takes a strong rope to pull him out of the pit into which he has fallen.”

“She be a rare good un of her sort,” said the old farmer to his son one day; “but she be naught but a serving wench after all.”

“And Master Richard can do better. He ought to strike at higher game.”

“Pipple ought to do a number of things they don’t do,” answered Young Jamblin. “It ain’t easy for a man to right himself when he be capsized by a woman, no matter whether she be a serving wench or a duchess—​and for the matter of that in many cases one be as good as ’tother.”

“Eh, lad!” cried the farmer, opening his large eyes and staring at the speaker. “Them’s your sentiments?”

“Well, yes, and I aint ashamed to confess to them.”

“Don’t you tumble into the same pitfall as Richard Ashbrook,” said his father in a much more serious tone. “Mind ee don’t do that.”

Young Jamblin burst out into aloud fit of laughter.

“All right, father; you’ve no right to be afeard, as far as I’m concerned.

James Ashbrook now entered the room and cut short the conversation.

“Ah, Master Richard,” exclaimed the elder Mr. Jamblin, “Patty tells me you be home-sick and be goin’ to leave us. We can do a little longer wi’ ee.”

“I do not doubt that,” returned Ashbrook, “and the change has done me a world of good, but——”

“Oh, aye, but I know what ee’s goin’ to say—​you’ve got your own affairs to look after and all that sort of thing. Well, please yourself—​every man knows his own bis’ness best.”

“He’s not going as yet,” cried Patty, who now entered.

“And why not, lass?” enquired her father.

“Because I won’t let him,” returned the young girl, perking up her pretty features in a most comical way. She was the pet of the family and her father doated on her. She was always good-humoured, and had withal a keen sense of humour.

Farmers’ daughters, as a rule are not lusty, broad-shouldered wenches with big red arms and necks like bulls, as some of you probably suppose, nor are they the unsophisticated creatures, green as their own meadow grass, soft as their own butter, the stereotyped guileless victims of stereotyped wicked squires, as dramatists and writers of rural tales would have you believe.

They can display as much finesse in their best parlours as any peeress in her gilded drawing-room; and although they might be at a loss to understand the intricate compliments of a Belgravian roué, they play their plebeian gudgeons with as light a hand as ever tortured a titled trout in a West-end mansion.

In describing Patty Jamblin I present to you a fair specimen of the class.

She was long-haired, and blue-eyed with a clear white skin.

Her hands and forearms were a little red and rough from manual labour, but her neck and forehead were like polished ivory.

Her eyes were mild and candid, and could be roguish when they pleased.

Her hair was chestnut, and instead of being tortured into ringlets, as is the fashion among farmers’ daughters, it was worn plain.

She was very partial to both the Ashbrooks, and during the sojourn of Mr. Richard in her father’s home had striven to make him as comfortable and happy as possible, by unremitting attention.

Indeed, her cheery manner and pretty ways had done much to dispel the gloom, which he had found it so difficult to shake off.

When left alone with her father’s visitor she besought him to remain a little longer as an inmate of Stoke Ferry Farm, and he could not find it in his heart to give a denial to the request.

He did remain for another week or so; nevertheless, despite the pleasant society in which he found himself, he could not forget the thoughtful pensive girl of Oakfield House.

Upon his returning home Richard Ashbrook found his brother and sister anxiously awaiting his return home. The greetings were cordial and affectionate, for the Ashbrooks were a most united family, and it was seldom, indeed, that anything transpired that in any way disturbed the harmony of the establishment.

Jane Ryan, as usual, was busily engaged in her household duties, which she went through in a mechanical unobtrusive manner.

She had never at any time of her life been loquacious, being in fact reserved and thoughtful in her manner; of late she was so to a degree which, to persons of a lively temperament, was in a measure depressing.

Upon seeing James Ashbrook her face became irradiated with a smile, which, if wan and faint, was ineffably sweet in its expression.

It was wonderous to see the tender solicitude, the care and consideration displayed towards her by the honest horny-handed farmer.

Rough man as he was, when in her presence he was as soft and gentle as a woman.

He watched her moving about the house in an abstracted, half-caressing manner, which it is not easy to describe by words, but which has been, nevertheless, felt by all who came within her influence.

Certainly, if ever a man was devoted to one of the opposite sex, that man was Richard Ashbrook.

His attachment was not so much expressed by words as by manner.

Weeks and months passed over, and his fondness for Jane became deeper and more intensified.

He made her a study—​he strove to please her by numberless little acts of kindness and consideration, which were but little or nothing in themselves, but might be likened to straws borne upon the surface of the water, which showed which way the current ran.

Everybody knew perfectly well that matters could not go on thus for any great length of time.

Either the young farmer would have to press the question still closer, or else give up all thoughts of the girl.

As to sending her away, that was not to be thought of for a moment.

His brother and sister would not consent to such a course, to say nothing of Mr. Richard himself.

And so, after a long, and, it might be said, almost silent, wooing, and watching, Richard Ashbrook once more took heart of grace, and besought Jane Ryan to become his “for better or for worse.”

His brother and sister were at this time paying a visit to the Jamblins.

“Jane,” said Mr. Richard, one evening, when the day’s work was over, “I want to ha’ a word or two wi’ee, lass. So when ye’ve finished cleaning up, just step into the parlour for a while, will’ee?”

“If you desire me to do so,” returned the girl, with a faint flash.

“Yes, I do, if thee beest willing.”

She nodded, and said—

“I will be with you presently.”

“Aye, do, gell, the sooner the better,” cried the farmer, as he left the kitchen, and proceeded into the best room of the establishment.

In a few minutes Jane, having washed and touched herself up, entered.

Her master handed her a seat.

He was in a great fluster, and it was easy to see that he was but ill at ease.

Jane sat down.

“I dunno whether you guess why I ha’ desired to speak to ’ee,” he said, in hurried manner; “an it does not much matter whether ’ee do or not, for what’s to be sed can’t remain any longer unsed, and that’s the truth on’t. You see, Jane, it bean’t o’ no yoose for a man to fight agen anything he ain’t got any power to grapple wi’. It’s against common sense—​we none of us can do it—​a man aint no yoose agenst a ghost or speerit.”

“I don’t understand your meaning, Mr. James,” murmured Jane.

Neither did she, and to say the truth the farmer did not quite understand it himself. He had endeavoured to take a high flight—​to make a simile—​which now that he had uttered it seemed to be quite inapplicable to the subject in hand.

“I mean,” he said, endeavouring to come nearer to the mark, “you see, I mean, gal, we ain’t any of us got any control over ourselves as far as affairs of the heart are concerned. If a man loves a woman as I do you (this was a home thrust), it’s no yoose telling him to find somebody more worthy of him, and all that sort of thing, cause he don’t think anybody is more worthy of him—​he believes the woman he loves is more worthy and better than any other in the world.”

Jane nodded, but made no other reply.

The farmer went on—​he was certainly floundering a little, but had made one or two palpable hits nevertheless.

“And so, Jane, my dear gell, I ha’ thought over and over agen of what you sed when I asked you to become my wife, and I ha’ endeavoured to think no more of you, but find it ain’t of no yoose. Love is summat like the wire worm; when it once effects an entrance it aint so easy to extract it.”

The simile was not perhaps an elegant one, but it was pretty well for a farmer.

“Have you thought of what I sed to ye, now many months ago?”

“I have thought of it, master,” said Jane, with a mournful cadence in her voice, “and I’ve thought how proud and happy I ought to be, seeing how devoted, how kind you are in every way, but it is not so much on account of myself as it is for you that I have hesitated.”

“Hesitated?”

“Oh, Mr. Richard, you want a bright, cheerful companion, not a poor broken-hearted creature like myself. If I could forget the past—​if I could be the same as I was a few years ago, the matter would be different. As it is, I know not what to do. Do you persist in pressing the suit?”

“Do I persist? Of course I do,” cried the farmer. “Shall always persist while both of us are alive.”

“Oh! while we are alive?” repeated Jane Ryan.

The farmer looked surprised—​not to say a little alarmed.

“Well we are not going to die, as yet let us hope.”

“No; let us hope not.”

“And if you marry me,” he exclaimed, suddenly assuming a tone of confidence and cheerfulness. “You’re so good a girl that you’ll live for my sake.”

His companion smiled, and wound his arms round her neck.

“Now I’ve got ’ee,” he ejaculated, “and you consent to be mine for better or for worse?”

“I consent!” cried Jane. “It is to be, and I consent. How is it possible for me to do otherwise?” she ejaculated, looking up towards the ceiling. “Yes, Master Richard, I consent.”

Richard Ashbrook felt as if a load had been lifted off his heart. He clung to her, and covered her face with passionate kisses.

Thus ended his wooing. When his brother and sister returned from Stokeferry Farm he made them acquainted with all that had occurred, which did not at all surprise them.

Then the village gossips, as well as their more immediate neighbours, had prognosticated how it would end.

James Ashbrook purchased a farm adjoining Oakfield. He and his brother were partners, but Richard furnished the residence attached to the adjoining farm. To this he took his young wife after their union, which took place in less than six months after the proposal and acceptanoe of the same by Jane Ryan.

If Richard Ashbrook had been a devoted lover he was an equally devoted husband. He treated his young wife with uniform kindness, and indulged her in every thing.

In a twelvemonth she presented her husband with a daughter, which he declared was the image of herself.

After this the shadow which had fallen upon her, and which marriage had failed to dispel, became deeper and deeper still.

For her husband’s sake she endeavoured to assume an air of cheerfulness, and strove as best she could to make him believe she was happy. He did his best to make her so, but despite all this there were many in the neighbourhood who shook their heads, and said that Mrs. Richard Ashbrook was fading away. She believed so herself—​had always been under that impression. What she told the farmer before her marriage was true in substance and in fact.

She was a broken-hearted creature, and not all the wealth in the world—​not all the attentions of her devoted husband could remove the cankerworm which had crept into her heart.

Some persons are affected by sorrow for the departed in the smallest degree possible—​they are enabled to forget the past and look hopefully to the future; while others are struck down with such force that they are never able to rally—​people are so differently organised.

It is true Jane Ryan had lived on for some years, but it was a sort of living death. Even her marriage was but a gilt and painted funeral.

She had given her hand, and, indeed, her heart—​or what remained of it—​to the honest devoted man who led her to the altar, and since the union she had been a loving and exemplary wife, but she could not divest herself of the miserable fact that her days were numbered. The end came.

*   *   *   *   *

In a large darkened room of Richard Ashbrook’s house the wan figure of a woman is stretched.

The bedstead on which she lies, with its heavy hangings, presents something of a funereal aspect.

Its occupant is Jane Ashbrook.

She is calm, placid, and resigned. Her features wear a chastened and almost angelic expression. The ruddy hue of health has long since left them; this is succeeded by a delicacy of the skin which is something akin to wax-work.

She does not moan or murmur, but remains more like an immovable statue than aught else.

The dusky shadows of figures are creeping about the room. These are James and Richard Ashbrook, and their sister, Maude.

The sick woman has been dozing for an hour or more. Presently she opens her eyes, and murmurs the name of her husband.

He is by her bedside in a moment, and bends fondly over her.

“You are better, Jane—​say you are better,” he says, in an anxious tone.

“Better, because nearer home,” was the response.

An expression of anguish passed over the features of the farmer.

He sits himself down in a chair by the bedside of the sufferer, and remains silent and thoughtful.

Maude creeps up to the sick couch, kisses her sister-in-law fondly, and in a minute or so after this leaves, in company with her brother James.

Richard is left alone with his side wife.

He is a strong, powerful man, full of robust health, but feels now so borne down as to be almost prostrate.

For weeks his wife had been thus—​a mere shadow of her former self. Her malady appeared to be incurable.

Dr. Bourne, her medical attendant, had been unremitting in his attention; but he confessed himself quite unable to define the nature of the complaint—​it appeared to him to be more mental than physical, and for that reason it was beyond the reach of medicaments.

He did his best, however, but failed to arrest the decay which was so silently and secretly taking place.

The door of the room was gently opened, and Doctor Bourne entered in company with the nurse.

He looked at his patient, felt her pulse, watched the expression of her countenance for some little time, and then shook his head.

“Worse!” whispered the parson.

“Weaker, decidedly weaker; you must give her as much nourishment as possible.”

He went to a side table and wrote a precription, then he left.

The nurse went down-stairs to show the doctor out. Mr. Ashbrook left the sick chamber and met her upon her return.

“What does he say about his patient?” he enquired anxiously; “anything else?”

“She is weaker, and requires careful watching and the utmost care,” returned the nurse.

“What is your opinion, Mrs. Deacon? Tell me candidly—​for you have an opinion—​and are a good judge in matters of this sort.”

“Well, sir, ‘while there’s life there’s hope,’” said the woman.

She did not compromise herself by giving expression to this hackneyed quotation.

“Yes, that we all know,” muttered the farmer, “That’s but a poor consolation.

“You had better get a little rest now, I will sit up for the next two or three hours with your mistress.”

The nurse retired, and Richard Ashbrook returned to the sick chamber.

He sat himself down in an easy chair. In a short time after this his wife sank into a sound slumber, and the farmer himself dozed.

He was awoke by the sick woman softly calling him by name.

“What is the day of the month, Richard?” enquired his wife.

“The day of the month; it’s the twenty-first.”

“The twenty-first of October, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Ah, nothing particular. You see, my dear good husband, I was not born under a fortunate star. I had my nativity cast a long time ago, and the horoscope proved that I was born under an unfortunate star. It showed also—” she paused suddenly, and closed her eyes.

“What, dear—​what did it show?” inquired the farmer.

“That between the twenty-first and twenty-fourth of October, 1874, a change would take place. Now I know what it means.”

The farmer felt like one who had received a heavy blow.

He comprehended her meaning, and big beads of perspiration fell from his temples.

“She believes that she is about to die,” he murmured; “but this is very terrible.”

“Ye mustn’t gi’ way, Jane—​mustn’t gi’ way to superstition,” he cried; “there beant a mossel o’ truth in these horeoscops—​not a mossel o’ truth in anything o’ the sort. Don’t ’ee believe a word o’ such nonsense. May be after all it’s that what’s making ’ee so ill.”

His wife smiled.

“My own dear Richard,” she murmured, “don’t give way—​be of good cheer.”

He wound his arms around her, and embraced her fondly.

Presently the nurse entered the room, and bade him seek rest.

He retired to a sleeping chamber adjacent to that occupied by his wife; the few broken sentences she had uttered troubled him much, but hope as yet had not deserted him.

The next day Mrs. Ashbrook appeared to be a little better—​was more cheerful; but as it waned, and evening crept on, she seemed to be quite listless and heedless of all around.

Those about her thought she needed repose, and did not trouble her with unnecessary questions.

“Where is Maude—​let me see her?” she said all of a sudden to her nurse.

Maude was her daughter, who had been so named after her aunt and godmother, Richard Ashbrook’s sister.

The child was brought in and placed in her mother’s arms.

She hugged the little thing, who gently sank to sleep on her mother’s bosom.

An hour passed—​mother and child were still locked in a close embrace.

Doctor Browne came. He glanced at the two figures on the bed, and then looked eagerly at the nurse.

“I think they are both asleep sir,” said the latter.

“How long have they been so?”

“For nearly an hour.”

“Please remove the child? Mrs. Deacon.”

The nurse drew the little thing from off her mother.

“One is asleep,” said the doctor in a solemn voice, which seemed to go through the heart of Richard Ashbrook, who had followed the doctor into the room.

“But it is the sleep of death.”

Farmer Ashbrook uttered a terrible cry. He fell into a chair, and burst into an agony of grief, which was dreadful to behold.

His wife, Jane Ashbrook, was dead!

She had passed peacefully and silently away. There was no expression of pain on her countenance, albeit she had died of a broken heart.

The wretch Gregson had suffered death for the murder of young Hopgood, but the fatal blow received by that ill-fated young man was the cause of another death. Jane Ryan had perished therefrom.

It is true she lived for ten years after the loss of her sweetheart, but she never recovered from the effects of the terrible scene she had witnessed, and hers is not a solitary instance of cases of this sort—​albeit, the world knows but little of them.

Life is like a fountain fed by a thousand streams that perish if one is dried. It is a silver chord twisted with a thousand strings that part asunder if one is broken.

Thoughtless mortals are surrounded by innumerable dangers that render it much more strange that they escape so long than that they almost all perish so suddenly at last.

We are encompassed with accidents every day to crush the decaying tenements we inhabit.

The seeds of disease are planted in our constitution by nature.

The earth and atmosphere, whence we draw the breath of life, are impregnated with death; health is made to operate its own destruction.

The food that nourishes contains the elements of decay; the soul that animates it by vivifying first, tends to wear it out by its own action; death lurks in ambush along the paths.

Notwithstanding this truth is so palpably confirmed by the daily example before our eyes, how little do we take it to heart!

We see our friends and neighbours die, but how seldom does it occur to our thoughts that our knell may give the next warning to the world.

After leaving Charles Peace in Leather-lane, Miss Stanbridge came to the conclusion that for the future it would be advisable for her to be a little more cautious in her dealings with her old playmate and quondam companion.

She was a lady who had her own battle to fight in the world, and as far as want of principle was concerned she was quite adapted to hold her own against any odds.

Upon returning to her own domicile she found Alf Purvis in the kitchen, in company with Susan.

“You may have a holiday for the rest of this day, Alf, and to-morrow we will commence business again.”

“Thank you, marm,” cried Alf, “May I go out?”

“Yes, where you please; but mind and be home early in the evening. I don’t approve of late hours.”

The boy sallied forth and wandered about from one place to another, returning soon after nightfall.

“To-morrow you will have to go out lace-selling,” said his mistress, upon his entering the house.

“Yes, marm,” answered Alf, in a cheerful tone, “I’ll do my best.”

In the morning of the following day she brought down from the lumber-room a large tray filled with quantities of “edgings,” viz., the kinds of lace used for the bordering of caps, &c.; some braid and gimp, some lace articles—​such as worked collars and undersleeves—​and some lace of a superior quality, which, however, was English.

This latter kind, she told him, was called “driz” by the street sellers, and that he should offer it to ladies as rare and valuable lace smuggled from Mechlin, Brussels, and Valenciennes.

The braid and gimp, she said, was very little in demand, and the whole street-trade was now so indifferent that the only way a man could get a fair profit on what he sold was by “palming”—​that is, giving short measure.

“Would you like to learn how to do it, Alf?” she inquired, and without waiting for an answer, she took a yard measure from the table behind, and cried, in a loud street voice:—

“Three yards a penny edging!” Then she measured three yards with her wand, and showed him how she “palmed” the lace by catching it in short with a jerk of the fingers.

“Let me try,” cried the boy, quietly, and in less than half an hour he palmed to perfection.

Young Purvis, when he had accomplished this important piece of manipulation, sallied forth.

He patrolled the favourite “pitches” of the lace business—​namely, the Borough-market, Walworth-road, Tooley-street, and Dockhead, Bermondsey.

He told his customers that he was a lace-maker from Millyham, and that the edgings were his own and his old father’s work.

This tale, which he related with eloquence and sometimes with tears, worked largely on the feelings of his auditory, and whilst compassionate sailor-girls gazed tenderly on his handsome and grief-stricken features, his sobs extracted sympathy from their hearts.

The next day he went to the houses in and about Regent’s Park, and towards Maida-hill. There he sold his pseudo Mechlin to the old dowagers, and his worked collars or “edgings” to their housemaids.

He felt a pleasure in cheating these dames, who, while trying to cheat Government, were trying to cheat the whole of their fellow-countrymen; but he felt a pang in clipping the measures of those pretty servant-girls, who gave him such bright smiles and words, and to whom pennies were so precious because they were so hardly earned.

However, he consoled his conscience with the Machiavellian maxim, “All’s fair in Trade.”

It had become his motto, as it is the motto of those Jesuits of commerce, who say that all is fair which is foul, false, and thievish.

It was his panacea for the heart’s qualms, as it is the panacea, for heaven knows how many thousands in London who rise and fast behind their counters till they have stolen the price of their breakfasts.

He told his mistress how he had succeeded by chicanery in realising a good sum for her.

She complimented him.

“There’s no harm hoodwinking your customers,” she said. “Besides, all’s fair in trade.”

As he repeated this sentence after her he thought that the elder of the two women sighed.

He had ascertained from the servant girl that this lady’s name was Grover.

He lay awake that night, trying to guess who Miss Stanbridge and Mrs. Grover could possibly be.

He did not think they were real ladies.

In the first place he had met them in a house that was frequented by only the scum of the London streets.

Besides that, there was something very different about them to the young ladies who sometimes stopped him to ask questions about his nests in the Bayswater-road or in Grosvenor-place.

Miss Stanbridge, it was true, had the voice and manners of a lady, but in those of Mrs. Grover he had often detected something which reminded him of the rustics among whom he had been brought up.

And yet it was extraordinary that they should always go out in the afternoon, which he knew was the fashionable hour for ladies to go out, and dressed in gorgeous array.

It was singular.

They could not be bad women, argued the young rogue, but always stayed at home in the evening, and though a great many visitors (whom he was never permitted to see) came after dark, he was shrewd enough to understand that these could not be lovers, because his mistress always took off her fine clothes when she came home.

He also observed that these mysterious visitors were never shown upstairs, but always into a room on the ground floor, and that there Miss Stanbridge came down to them. Peace was the only person who was accustomed to go into the drawing-room, and the boy was under the impression that he was a relative of either one or the other of the two females.

Another singular thing was this: the room upstairs looked out upon the back yard, as did the kitchen.

He was always sent out by this back yard, which led through a mews into the street from which Peace had made his escape on the eventful night of the attempted burglary at the jeweller’s. He was told never to come in at the front door.

And the ladies themselves always went out and came in by the back way, which, although he was unacquainted with the manner of gentlefolk, appeared to him to be a very eccentric proceeding.

To show you how slight is the step from fraud to felony I will continue the history of this poor boy who had fallen into the power of one who knew well how to harden a heart for crime.

In Alf’s little garret there was an empty book-case. He had often wished there were books in it, and had often thought of asking his mistress whether she could lend him any, for he had no doubt there were some within the mysterious lumber-room, which seemed to possess almost everything that mortal man could think of.

One night he went to bed at eight o’clock, when, much to his surprise, he saw a number of odd volumes in the book-case.

This was a great boon to him, for as we have already seen he had always been passionately fond of reading.

He went to the case, and caught hold of one which first came to hand, and having undressed himself with a rapidity known only to boys, he sprang into bed and at once began to eagerly devour the contents of the volume, which happened to be “The Lives of Celebrated Highwaymen and Pirates.”

The work was exactly suited to his taste.

As he read the exploits of these lawless and daring men he was so fascinated that he read without interruption till the candle had died away in its socket.

He lay thinking of what he had read, and watching the thin dusky light as it crept towards him across the room.

He rose at daybreak with his eyes red and watery, and his mouth parched.

Slinging his lace bag over his shoulders, he went downstairs into the streets, where he walked for hours with his eyes now drooped upon the pavement, now raised towards the grey clouds of early dawn.

Two hours afterwards a woman stole into his room with a wolf-like step.

When she saw that the candle had quite burned down, and that there was a book lying on the bed, she gave a terrible laugh, and clapped her hands.

An hour afterwards, another woman entered the room.

But, when she saw the candle and the book, her wrinkled face grew painful, and she sighed deeply.

Then she drew a book from her bosom, and placed it on a table by the window, returning the other to the shelf.

When Alf came home to breakfast, Susan asked him what made him look so pale.

His eight hours’ work had never seemed so long and weary as they did that day.

He walked about mechanically, and sold but little, for in great towns customers have to be run after, and almost inveigled.

He was thinking of his book, and longing for the night to return.

He even took the precaution of buying a candle in case they gave him a short one to go to bed by.

At tea-time Susan complained that she could not make him understand a word that she said.

He told her that he was very tired, and went to bed an hour earlier than usual.

As he was undressing his eyes fell upon the book which was lying upon the table.

He determined to begin with that, and, as it was such a small one, he thought that perhaps he might be able to read it through.

The first few lines showed him that it was a moral book, which inculcated good principles.

He glanced impatiently down the page, intending to throw it aside, when a sentence caught his eye.

He turned the page, and read on.

It was a book which had been written by a good and earnest teacher for the assistance of those who might be under some peculiar temptation, or on the threshold of some great crime.

It was written in simple but beautiful language.

It was written with the heart as well as the pen.

Every word in the book was a good spirit, which flew towards the poor soul tottering on the brink of the abyss, and which held it back with tender arms, and whispered to it to turn back and be saved.

When he had read this book the poor lad sank into a calm and refreshing sleep, and awoke in the morning determined to be honest and industrious, and to think of thieving no more.

But he was still too proud to pray.

He relied upon his own heart, which he thought was strong, but which yielded and broke beneath him like a wooden plank which had been rotten and decayed.

He little knew how difficult it is to repent.

Remorse is only regret. Repentance is to regret and amend.

That very day he cheated a customer, and chose to believe that he had not done very wrong.

That very night he returned to his “Lives of the Highwaymen,” and felt relieved when he could not see his good book anywhere in the room.

Next morning as he went downstairs he heard female voices apparently in angry altercation.

He stopped at the door, and listened.

He heard his mistress say—

“I ask you again what made you put that book there?”

“I could not help it,” answered the other, which he knew by the voice was Mrs. Grover. “I can’t tell you how it is, but my heart kindles towards that boy; I feel as if I could look at him for ever. I tremble when I hear his voice. There’s something about him which makes me younger and sadder to think of. I don’t—​nay I cannot—​tell you what I mean.”

“You will, perhaps, have the goodness to answer my question,” said Miss Stanbridge. “What made you put that book there?”

“I don’t know. I tell you again that my heart warmed towards him, and I wanted to—​to—”

“You wanted to baulk me; I know that perfectly well without your telling me so—​to baulk me.”

“I do not want to do anything of the kind. I have no desire to interfere with you in any way.”

“But you do so, nevertheless. After all the time and money I have spent my plans are to be spoilt by a foolish old woman who does not even know why she wishes to spoil them.”

“You are quite wrong in your view of the matter.”

“Am I?”

“Most certainly you are.”

“Well, then, let me tell you that I’m of a different opinion—​you have interfered in a matter which does not concern you.”

No. 23.

At the close of the day on which Alf Purvis heard the foregoing conversation he was called into the drawing-room, and his mistress congratulated him upon his skill in palming edgings upon the wives of Tooley-street, and Marlow lace as Valenciennes upon the dowagers of Maida-hill.

Alf felt flattered. It was not often his mistress praised him, and when she did so he knew he was in more than usual favour.

“Do as I tell you,” said Miss Stanbridge, in continuation, “and you will soon make money. I started in life as you are doing now, and you see that, though I am very young, I am not so badly off. I contrive to live respectably without the assistance of anyone.”

Her looks and manner were at this moment most deceptive; anyone who gazed upon her would have said she was a girl who had just been released from the durance of a boarding school.

She was young in face, but in heart she was old as a hag who had lived years in crime.

She spoke of the books he had been reading, and told him several stories about thieves with such eloquence that his interest was aroused, his imagination ran riot, and he was perfectly charmed with her discourse.

While all this had been going on the old woman kept glancing anxiously at Alf, trying to repress her sighs.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “what a jolly time those highwaymen must lead of it! I should dearly like to lead such a life.”

“You would be afraid of the prison and the gallows,” cried his mistress, bursting out into a loud laugh.

“Not I, marm. I should have to take my chance like the rest of them. To be in prison is no more than being in the streets—​so I’ve heard ’em say who have been there; and one may as well end one’s life in the air as on a mattress.”

His mistress again laughed as if he had said something marvellously funny, but Mrs. Grover was evidently greatly concerned and indeed hurt at the turn the conversation had taken.

A shade of displeasure passed over her features, and this was not lost upon Alf Purvis, who refrained from expatiating on lives of lawless robbers. Alf therefore lapsed into silence.

Mrs. Grover meanwhile watched his countenance with intent, so also did Miss Stanbridge, who said after a pause—

“Alf, have you ever been to a London theatre?”

“No, marm, I was never inside a theatre in my life,” he returned.

“Would you like to go to the play?”

“Oh, rather,” ejaculated the boy.

His mistress smiled, and went out of the room, taking Mrs. Grover with her. She returned and said—

“Well, Alf, you shall see a performance to-night. You have been diligent and deserve a little relaxation.”

She was about to put on her bonnet and shawl when Susan entered the room, and said a gentleman wished to speak to her.

Miss Stanbridge inquired the name of her visitor, and the servant girl said it was Mr. Peace.

Our hero was at once shown upstairs. As he entered he glanced furtively at the boy, who was told to go into the kitchen with Susan.

“Anything up?” muttered Miss Stanbridge.

“No, nothing fresh,” returned Peace. “But you are about to go out—​I shall not detain you. Some other time will do as well.”

“I was going to take the lad to the theatre,” said his companion.

“All right, old girl, I’ll go with you if you’ve no objection.”

“I shall be most delighted to have your company.”

Peace, Miss Stanbridge, and the boy sallied forth. To the latter’s inconceivable awe, a cab was hailed and procurred.

Alf sat diffidently on the extreme edge of the back seat, and surveyed the gorgeous interior of the vehicle, from the ragged rug to its dingy roof, as a parson’s daughter views for the first time the vaulted expanse and the hollow-sounding stones of Westminster Abbey.

After half an hour’s ride the cab stopped, and the driver coming round to the door informed them that they had arrived at their destination.

They passed through the entrance and gained the hall. Miss Stanbridge paid for three seats, and they were shown into one of the private boxes.

The house was a very large one, and Alf as he gazed around was lost in wonderment at its gigantic proportions. He had never been in an establishment of this description.

The pit and gallery were crammed with people, those of the lower class predominating. Some of the men were in their shirt sleeves, many of the women carried in their arms babies with bald heads and sturdy lungs; many coster boys were also present, who were overflowing with merriment and wit, while the atmosphere reeked with the mingled fragrance of orange peel, stale ginger beer, and corduroys.

As the boy was gazing round the house the audience were beginning to grow impatient and personal.

Having discovered a gentleman in full dress in one of the boxes, a lubberly lad called out in the voice of a stentor.

“Three cheers for the bloke in white kids!”

This was responded to and assisted with cat calls and hootings as they observed the discomfiture of the used-up Belgravian, who had wandered among these barbarians to receive amusement, not to contribute to it.

This was followed by shrill whistling from the gods above, the stamping of feet, and conversation carried on by some of the occupants of the pit with those in the gallery. The noise was perplexing and almost deafening.

“Now, then, you catgut-scrapers,” exclaimed a voice, “tune up. If we aint a goin’ to have any acting to-night, play ‘God Save the Queen,’ and let’s go home.”

A costermonger in the gallery began to chant a well-known music-hall ditty, which was at this time enjoying an extensive share of popularity; numbers of men and boys joined furiously and tunelessly in the chorus, and this, together with the stamping of the feet of those who were endeavouring to keep time to the melody—​if such a term can be justly applied to it—​served to amuse the “gods,” as they are called, most immensely.

Peace could not refrain from expressing his disgust at these proceedings.

He had an ear for music, and the abominable din and clatter overhead disturbed his equanimity, and ruffled his temper.

To remonstrate with the noisy ruffians would be only making matters worse.

The leader of the band at length made his appearance from beneath the stage, and, just as his face filled the trap-door which led into the orchestra, it was struck by a sucked orange, thrown by some miscreant from the back of the pit.

The house laughed till it nearly cried. An effort was made by the police to find out the delinquent, but it was not attended with success.

Miss Stanbridge bought a bill of the play.

The first piece was one of those romantic dramas which small playwrights pillage from the French—​a sin which is not visited upon the thief, but upon those who receive the stolen goods—​with their ears.

The plot was of such an intricate and impossible nature that Alf Purvis was totally at a loss to understand the meaning of what was going on.

To say the truth, this was a matter of no very great moment.

If he did not derive much pleasure from the weary polysyllables and the heavy rant of the people on the stage, their spangled robes, the lights and the music, and the novelty of the whole scene, were sufficient to amuse him during its hour of performance.

The tongues of the coster boys had not been idle all this time, and while any good dramatic point was picked out with wonderful acumen, inefficiencies, either in the acting or in the stage management, were treated most unmercifully.

Nor would they permit the play to proceed till they had got a good view of the stage.

“Higher the blue!” was shouted when they found the sky too low; and “Light up the moon!” was the cry when they observed the chaste orbit growing dim.

“Did you ever hear a more uproarious ill-behaved audience?” said Peace, to Laura Stanbridge.

“It’s their way,” returned his companion. “If they were not permitted to express themselves after their own fashion the gallery would be empty.”

The scenes were shifted—​not very accurately, it must be admitted. In a castle at the back of the stage a large gap was left.

An indignant chimney sweep called out—​“Ve don’t expect no grammar here, but you might shove the scenes to!”

At this the people were convulsed with laughter.

Between the first piece and the heavy sanguinary melodrama which was to follow, the bills advertised a comic song by the celebrated Bill Rasper.

This was pretty sure to please the audience, as it was what is termed a topical song, consisting chiefly of hits at popular personages, and sneers at the aristocracy.

By this time the half price had come in, and the gallery presented an extraordinary appearance—​a vast black heap slanting to the roof, dotted with faces, and striped with shirt sleeves.

When there was a clapping of hands the whole mass twinkled as if their dingy hands were so many rays of light.

The rails in front were adorned with the bonnets of the ladies, who did for comfort that which, in the dress circles of the West-end, is done for fashion.

These bonnets became marks for the boys at the back, who, seated upon the shoulders of their friends, or upon the spikes which crowned the partitions, played at pitch and toss with nut shells.

Once more greetings were exchanged between the gallery and pit, and sometimes family secrets were revealed.

“Then you aint brought Poll with you after all,” cried a voice from the pit.

“No,” answered a man in the gallery—​“no, I aint. ’Cos why—​she’s got the hump.”

“Oh! Jerusalem; that’s the time o’ day, is it?”

The comic singer, dressed as only a comic singer can dress, in a chocolate-coloured coat, a waistcoat with a large floral pattern, and pegtop trousers of the most ultra description, and a watch chain, as thick and massive as a ship’s cable, now made his appearance.

His nose was deeply tinged with red, and he had an old umbrella of the Mrs. Gamp species under his arm.

He was greeted with loud and prolonged applause.

The orchestra struck up, and the comic gentleman commenced his song.

As he finished his verse he looked up to the gallery to help him out of the chorus, saying, “Now, then, gentlemen, the Hexeter Hall touch, if you please.”

The song was called “Keep your weather eye open, my boys,” and it was vociferously “angcord” by the noisy multitude, who were flattered at being permitted to lend their services in the chorus.

The gentleman with the large umbrella had his work to do. He was called on again and again, and had to sing fresh verses containing more pointed allusions to persons and events of the time.

When the audience consented to part with their favourite, the curtain rose for the representation of a transpontine melodrama of the most pronounced and formidable description.

It was a little incongruous, but had, nevertheless, all the elements to commend it to the appreciative audience, for whom it had been written by a veteran playwright who dealt in such hotly spiced commodities.

It would be expecting too much of us or any other man to describe the plot after the fashion of the newspaper critics, for to say the truth the incidents in the drama were too chaotic and heartrending to admit of their being placed before the reader in black and white.

The leading personages may, however, be briefly described.

In the first place, there was a wicked baronet, who persecuted the heroine of the piece. She was, as a matter of course, an innocent and artless seraphic creature, entitled the “Lily of Ludgate.”

The aforesaid baronet suborns a ruffian of the deepest die, called “Black Hugh.”

This personage has committed an endless number of crimes; he is cast into gaol, from which he contrives, after the approved fashion, to make his escape.

He is followed by a detachment of soldiers (supers), who fire at him as he creeps over the castellated roof of his prison house.

To see him gain the rocks beyond this, and plunge from a giddy height into a foaming cataract beneath, was a sight which, happily, is only to be seen on the stage of a transpontine theatre.

He buffets the waves “with lusty sinews,” succeeds in reaching an island in an impossible sea; and from this he puts off on a raft, constructed by himself and a nigger, who is, like himself, a castaway.

He describes this in glowing language in the third act.

Eventually he is shot, and staggers on the stage. All of a sudden he becomes repentant, and makes a dying confession.

To see him point his accusing finger at the wretched baronet, and to see also the “Lily of Ludgate” let down her back hair by the footlights, and to hear the gasps and sobs she gives utterance to as she listens to the tale told by Hugh, who sets all things right before he dies, is altogether beyond our powers of description.

It had a visible and marked effect upon the house.

An itinerant vendor of lemons and oranges, who evidently belonged to the Hebrew persuasion, whispered to a companion in the gallery that the piece “wash very deep.”

After his confession, Black Hugh raised himself up, gave a gasp, and fell on his back as dead as a stone.

The baronet was loaded with chains, and the “Lily of Ludgate” fell into the arms of the rightful heir, who had been carried away in the earlier part of the drama by Black Hugh, who was evidently a favourite actor with the frequenters of the theatre.

He rolled his eyes, and pronounced his words as only an artist of his accomplishments and powers could pronounce them.

During the progress of the play the whole theatre shook with enthusiasm and applause, and when Black Hugh had safely escaped from his painted prison-house, the shouts of exaltation were deafening, and were repeated till the roof rang again.

But then we must remember that crime and the penalties of crime are so different in the world and on the stage.

On the stage there is not the cankering remorse, the ever-trembling fear, the start at each voice which speaks, the shudder under each hand which is placed upon the shoulder.

On the stage the prison walls are of wood and canvas, and the public will not permit hanging.

On the stage, then, the law has no terrors, the judge with the black cap is a jest, the condemned cell a jovial cider cellar, the gallows an empty puppet for a Christmas pantomime.

Alf Purvis had, during the performance of the melodrama, been most deeply interested with the action of the piece. His mistress placed her hand upon his shoulder, and asked him if “Black Hugh” was not a bold, and fearless man.

“He’s a brave chap, but the baronet was the worst of the two, and ought to have been shot instead of Hugh. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I do, my lad,” returned Miss Stanbridge.

“You’ll make something of that boy before you’ve done with him,” whispered Peace. “I dare say you find him an apt pupil.”

“And what if I do, Charlie?” said the woman, in an offended tone. “It doesn’t matter to you, I suppose.”

Peace shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.

A cab was hailed, and the three playgoers were conveyed to their destination. Peace parted with Miss Stanbridge at the door of her house, and returned home on foot to his rooms in Leather-lane.

Miss Stanbridge poured evil words into the ear of the boy, who listened to them greedily. He was ambitious in mind—​he was dishonest in heart. He longed to be one who was known and feared while he was alive, and who should be spoken of and written of after he was dead.

Upon his return home, Alf Purvis missed Mrs. Grover.

He asked his mistress what had become of her.

“She has gone away,” said Miss Stanbridge. “I had set my mind on something, and she was foolish enough to oppose me.”

“Oh,” murmured Alf, “I’m sorry for that.”

After the attempted robbery at the jeweller’s Peace had deemed it advisable to leave his quarters for awhile.

Bandy-legged Bill had agreed to take charge of the premises till he returned.

Peace therefore betook himself to a coffee-shop at Putney, where he slept for several nights after his mishap.

He took the precaution, also, of altering his appearance as much as possible, and to carry this into effect he had made a suit of clothes dissimilar in every respect to those he was accustomed to wear; but, to say the truth, all these arrangements were quite needless, for the police had never had the faintest clue to the real culprit, and in a short time gave the matter up as hopeless.

Indeed, to say the truth, they were so ashamed of their own want of foresight, that they were but too glad to let the recollection of blundering die out as speedily as possible.

The constable who had but recently joined the force was made a scapegoat by his companions, who threw all the blame upon him.

He was reprimanded by the superintendent, who enjoined him to be more careful for the future.

The young fellow promised not to make such a mistake again if he could help it, and justice was satisfied, and the majesty of the law vindicated.

Peace’s coat and hat, which had been left behind at the jeweller’s, were for some time in charge of the police. When all hope of finding its owner had been given up the garments in question were conveyed to what is termed the “Black Museum” in Scotland-yard.

This place is one of the sights of London, but it is rare indeed that any stranger is admitted into its sacred precincts. The uninitiated may possibly feel some interest in a description of this receptacle for criminal curiosities.

We subjoin an account of the place, which the reader may rest assured is genuine.

“Take care how you step,” said a courteous official, who preceded the visitor up a staircase in one of the houses in Scotland-yard, and opened a door on an upper story.

“We are obliged to throw a great deal of this about;” the substance in question was a disenfecting powder.

The room into which we were conducted was a large bare-floored apartment, with barred windows, fitted up with wide shelves, which were divided into compartments, and their contents were liberally sprinkled with the all-pervading powder.

The room is that in which the articles of property taken from convicts are stowed away until they are claimed by their owners.

Of course there was not much chance of any one coming forward to claim Peace’s hat and coat from the stand in the centre of this receptacle, of the objects of the “unlawful possessor” class, to which a large room up stairs is also devoted.

Overhead is the “Black Museum,” in which during the last three years pieces de conviction, which until then had been kept indiscriminately with the other property of criminals, have been arranged and labelled, forming a ghastly, squalid, and suggestive show.

On entering the lower room the visitor is struck by its odd resemblance to a seed shop.

Hundreds of hooks stud the rims of the shelves and the sides of the compartments, and from them are suspended hundreds of little packets neatly made up in brown paper, tied with white twine, and severally distinguished by large parchment labels, each bearing a neat inscription.

The packets contain small articles taken from the prisoners, who in due course, after they are discharged from prison will be brought to Scotland-yard, and their portraits taken by force should they object to that process.

The larger things are deposited in the compartments of the shelves, and every item, no matter how insignificant, is entered into the proper register.

A motley collection are the larger articles, with a preponderance among them of grimy pocket-books and greasy purses.

But there are valuable things in some of those parcels, and downstairs in the officials’ room is a massive iron safe, fitted with sliding shelves, in which is kept a large collection of watches, rings, choice pins, scent bottles, pencil cases, and other jewellery, which are either the lawful property of prisoners or have been found in their unlawful possession and confiscated, but for whom no owners have been discovered.

Among the watches are some beautiful specimens. One in particular, taken from a costermonger, of exquisite workmanship and ornamentation, is valued at fifty pounds.

The prisoners’ property room is scrupulously clean and tidy, but the look of it is forlorn and squalid, the powder lying thick on everything, and the scent of moth and rot is in the air.

Great bales of cloth and woollen stuff occupy the shelves of the central stand.

They are shaken and beaten and turned, but all to no avail; the moth and rot get at them, and the unwholesome weirdness peculiar to once worn but long unused garments is upon the articles of wearing apparel which are hung or folded up in the room.

This impression comes more strongly upon the visitor when he goes up higher still into the topmost apartment, where heaps of clothing hang upon the walls—​some new, some worn.

The heaps of shawls have a draggled and furtive look, and some children’s clothing has a touch of its inseparable prettiness, even here.

Old books, a picture or two, some worthless table ornaments, innumerable articles which could not be described or classed except as odds and ends, form a portion of the collection which goes on accumulating, and which has no ultimate destination.

What is to become of all this? asks the visitor, and is answered to his surprise that nobody knows, that the things are nobody’s property, and nobody has the power to do anything with them.

A piece of information which makes them more ghastly and nightmare-like to the imagination than before.

An ever-growing dust heap formed of thieves’ clothing and unlawful possessions, which nobody can cart away to distribute or bury out of sight for evermore—​an accumulating banquet spread for the moth, the rust, and the rat—​the contents of these rooms are far from pleasant to think of.

It seems supremely ridiculous, but it is a fact, that nothing but a legislative measure could rid the premises of these rotting garments, out of every fold of which one might shake with the dust an image of squalor, crime, and punishment.

Outside the door of the “Black Museum” is a shelf in the wall of the landing place.

The visitor passing it is aware of a huddled heap of dirty coats, a serge gown, and a coarse kind of rug—​the skin of an animal, with red and white hair upon it.

Under the shelf, on the floor, lies some rough packing cloth.

He passes the heap carelessly, and enters the museum.

What are his first impressions of it?

They are various. That it is like a bit out of a gamekeeper’s room, with a bigger bit out of a smith’s forge, a touch of a carpenter’s workshop, a broad suggestion of a harness-room, something of a marine store complexion (and a good deal of its odour), a lump of an open-air stall in front of a pawnbroker’s shop, a little of the barrack-room gun-rack, with no bright barrels, enforced a general air of a lumber-room, with just a dash of an anatomical museum; but above all, and increasing with every moment’s prolonged observation, a likeness to the cutlery booth in a foreign fair, the articles being so rusty that the said booth might have been shut up for full half-a-century, and the salesman and his customers were all ghosts.

Opposite the door, and on the face of the wall to the right, are displayed on a wooden shelf with iron rings, which convey to the visitor a hint of the open-air stall in front of a pawn-shop in a very small way of business indeed, a common looking-glass in a wooden frame, four black glass buttons, two wisps of rope, a pair of trumpery ear-rings in card-box, two bullets, a pipe, a cluster of soft light brown hair wound round a pad, a comb, a pocket-knife, and a little wooden stand covered with glass, are the most noticeable articles. On the shelf to the right are a dirty Prayer-book, a pocket dictionary, a pair of boots, a gaudy bag worked in beads, and the crushed remains of a woman’s bonnet, made of the commonest black lace, and flattened into shapelessness.

In both these instances the other impressions of the place came in too, for over the shelf fronting the door hung workmen’s tools, hammer, and cleaver, and spade, and beside them to the right is just such a bundle as adorns the walls of a marine-store. It consists of a gown, a petticoat of cheap, poor stuff, bearing dreadful dim stains, and a tattered crinoline.

The visitor is in the presence of the objects which perpetuate the memory of two peculiarly horrible crimes.

The soft, brown hair is that of Harriet Lane, murdered by Wainwright; the buttons and the earrings are those which were found in the earth where her body had been buried.

The bullets were taken out of her skull. The object under the glass case is the several pieces of her skin which completed the identification of her body. The wisps of rope dragged her out of the earth under the warehouse; the cleaver, the hammer, and spade are the implements with which the horrible deed, which led to Wainwright’s detection, was done.

The knife was Thomas Wainwright’s, the pipe was Henry’s, and when the visitor is leaving the museum he will be shown in the pack-cloth on the floor under the shelf outside the door the wrapper in which the dismembered body was packed, and one of the dirty coats—​a horrid thing, with its hideous rents and smears—​Wainwright’s vesture on the occasion.

The coat of the captain of the “Lennie,” with the gash in the cloth, torn by the knife of his murderer, and eaten through and through with rot and moth, is not nearly so disgusting an object; and as for the serge robe of that poor rogue, “Professor Zandavesta,” and the little cloak of the confiscated “anatomical” wax African, who grins awfully in one corner of the museum, a real skeleton hand and arm considerably hidden behind him, they are quite cheerful to look at in comparison.

The Prayer-book and the other pitiful objects upon the shelf to the right were found on the body of Maria Clousen, who was murdered in Kidbrook-lane; the blood and mud-stained clothes were hers, and they contrast with grim-irony as evidences of an unpunished crime, with the all-gory objects which tell of one brother hanged and the other transported.

Along the wall, on the right side of the room, is ranged a choice collection of guns, crowbars, and “jemmies,” the latter implements of the housebreaking industry, which admit of great variety, and are susceptible of highly artistic handling; and among them is a pair of tongs unevenly rusted, and with a dirty paper book written all over with incoherent sentences attached to it.

The tongs are those with which a man named Macdonald killed his wife some four or five years ago. He was hanged, as also were many of the proprietors of the horrid labelled assortment of hammers, knives, including the bread-carving and pocket varieties, razors and pistols which suggest a booth in a fair.

There is dried blood on all the knives and razors, and some of the hammers also, and every one of them stands for a murder or suicide.

In a terrible number of cases they record the murder of a wife by her husband.

Several of the pistols, mostly beautiful weapons, are the instruments of suicide, and each is labelled with the name, date, and place.

The simple suicides are almost all among the higher class of society; and when the visitor asks how the pistol, with which a gentleman of wealth and station shot himself, came into the keeping of the museum, he is told—

“The family mostly do not like to have it, and so they ask the police to take it away.”

In a corner hang the clothes of the Rev. J. Watson, who murdered his wife at Stockwell, the horse-pistol with which he shot her, and the heavy hammer with which he knocked the nails into the chest, in which he proposed to hide her body.

So carefully had the murderer washed his trousers and his coat-sleeves, that the blood stains could only be observed with difficulty at the time of the investigation.

But since the coat and trousers have been hanging on the Black Museum’s walls, the stains have come out close and thick.

“We have often noticed that,” the visitor is told.

The frightful weapons used by the “Lennie” mutineers are here neatly ranged under the photograph of the ringleader, “French Peter.”

Hard-by is a bundle of letters, forming the correspondence which furnished much of the evidence against Margaret Waters, the baby-farmer.

How much sin, shame, sorrow, and cruelty that small dusty bundle represents it would be hard to say.

A small billycock hat, with a mask fastened inside the broad rim, into which is packed a purse, a comforter, a small lantern, and a life-preserver with a terrific lump of lead on it, is quite a cheerful object to turn to from all these grim relics of worse crimes, though the burglar who formerly owned the life-preserver informed the police—​who seized but also rescued him, having come up upon hearing his cries when he was caught between the iron bars of a window, through which he was escaping on a false alarm—​that he had thoroughly intended to “do for” anyone who should interrupt him with that convenient weapon.

A large assortment of burglars’ tools is not the least suggestive object here.

The weapons of the thieves’ war upon society are models of good workmanship, and of the adaptation of means to ends.

When the neatest “centre-bit” of the carpenter’s shop is compared with the deft, swift, noiselessly working instrument which goes into an iron shutter as a cheesemonger’s scoop goes into a “fresh Dutch;” when one looks at the wedges of finely-tempered steel working between the zinc side-bits; at the two home-made dark lanterns, contrived with extraordinary cleverness out of a mustard tin and metal match-box respectively; at the rope ladder and the “beautiful litte jemmy,” in a carefully buttoned red flannel case—​this small, powerful tool is made of a piece of a driving wheel belonging to the finest machinery, and the metal was, of course, stolen to make it; at the bright, slender, skeleton keys; at the safe-breaking tools—​which make one think that there is nothing like the old stocking in the thatch after all—​one is amazed at and sorry for the misused cleverness and perverted inventiveness to which these things testify.

Among the skeleton keys is one delicate little contrivance which, at a first glance, one might take for an ornament to a lady’s chatelaine; it is, in fact, a double instrument for picking latch keyholes, one part forming the key and the other lifting the spring.

This pretty trifle was made from the brass clasp of a purse, and used with such success by the inventor that in a short time he found himself in prison.

While one is actually inside the Black Museum one cannot be amused at anything, but by the time we have turned into the Strand the impression of the dreary reliquary of crime has so far passed away that one can smile at the story told of the impudent simplicity of this poor clever thief.

“When he was discharged from prison,” said the curator of the Black Museum, as he restored the delicate dangling little bit of villainy to its place, “the man came here and asked us to let him have it back.”

*   *   *   *   *

In a few days Peace returned to his lodgings. He was informed by the gipsy that all was going on well. No stranger had been to Leather-lane to inquire for the industrious and exemplary frame-maker.

“And so, old man, you needn’t bother yourself any more,” cried the gipsy.

“There will be no more stir in the matter. But you’ve done me a good turn, Bill, and I shan’t forget it. How are you getting on?”

“How? Much the same as usual—​anyhow. But I’m not driven so much in a corner as I have been once or twice in my life. I do a little with horses, and have got a swell as’ll fork out a couple of quid or so when I’m regularly hard up. He’s a rum sort though. I can’t quite reckon him up; he’s so ’nation sly and mysterious. He it was who set me to work to prig the jewels at the ‘Carved Lion.’ My eye, wasn’t he riled when he heard of the end o’ that night’s business; and it was all through you, you beggar,” cried the gipsy, with a laugh. “But Lord love ye, I don’t think any the worse on ye for it—​not a morsel.”

“Oh!” murmured Peace; “he set you to work to get the jewels, did he?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder what that was for.”

“I don’t know.”

“But I think I do.”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Yes, I do. They were the chief evidence in proof of Aveline Gatliffe’s identity, and this swell, whoever he may be, has reason for not wishing that identity to be established. Who, and what is he?”

“Well, that I am not at liberty to make known,” returned the gipsy. “He’s a swell in his way, but he aint of much account as far as I can learn—​leastways, he’s a hot-un in many ways, so I’ve been told. I met him by chance when I was with my first gov’nor, and he weren’t much to boast on.”

“Oh, he has a motive, depend upon that, and a strong one too, I should say; but it matters not—​it does not concern either of us.

“Not a bit.”

Peace and the gipsy had now become what might be termed cronies or pals. To say the truth, the latter had displayed a considerable amount of faithfulness and disinterested friendship for our hero—​much more than he really deserved.

In the afternoon of that day “Bandy-legged Bill” brought round his pony trap and took Peace out for a drive.

During this little excursion our hero had an eye to business. He never failed to look out for houses which he thought best adapted to his purpose. He preferred those which stood in their own grounds, detached from any others, and those also that were not near the high road, along which a policeman might be passing.

While out with the gipsy his attention was attracted to a handsome residence situated in the neighbourhood of Denmark-hill.

He noticed the place, and as he did so promised himself the pleasure of paying it a visit at no distant day, or rather night.

The gipsy, who had noticed the attention he had given to the house, pointed with his whip to the habitation in question and said, jocularily—

“The very place for you, old man—​eh?”

Peace nodded.

“It’s a tempting-looking crib, I must confess,” he murmured.

“And is occupied by some wealthy bloke, I’ll wager,” said the gipsy.

“Oh, I dare say. No doubt.”

“I aint good at that sort of business, but I’ll drive you here any night you like, and wait for you with the trap till the job’s done. Of course for a consideration,” observed the gipsy, with great gravity; “business is business all the world over.”

“You shan’t go unrewarded, Bill.”

“I don’t expect half, but I must have something.”

“Agreed. To-morrow night will do.”

“Will it? Then I’m your man.”

This little matter being settled the two friends parted at the corner of Leather-lane, the gipsy promising to call for Peace at half-past ten or from that to eleven o’clock on the following night.

In tracing the lawless career of a great criminal like Charles Peace it is not requisite to trouble the reader with a full discription of all his depredations. The leading events in his career it is our business to chronicle.

As a rule he committed most of his daring burglaries without the assistance of confederates or accomplices; but this was not always the case.

In the earlier part of his life he had many lawless companions.

At Sheffield and Manchester he was associated with a band of desperadoes.

The burglary we are about to describe was not undertaken alone, and possibly it was for this reason Peace had made one or two signal failures, and in consequence had escaped in a most marvellous manner on both occasions.

He therefore gladly accepted the service of the gipsy, in whom he felt he could place implicit confidence.

From a psychological point of view the character of Peace presents rather a curious study.

He seems to have been one of those exceptional beings in whom there was an almost innate criminal propensity, and whose infamous practices were in themselves as great a source of pleasure and satisfaction as the booty derived from them.

Mrs. Thompson, his companion in the later period of his life, has declared that he committed lawless acts for the love of adventure.

Not long ago a distinguished German psychologist said that his studies led him to regard the impulses of criminal nature in the light of natural laws.

He said that an “anthropological change,” or, in other words, a defective organisation of the brain lies at the foundation of the criminal propensity of habitual thieves, murderers, &c.; that the cerebral changes were of so gross and palpable a nature as to admit of easy demonstration in the post-mortem room, and that they might even be recognised during life by a careful examination of the criminal’s head.

Whether the conformation of Peace’s cranium or brain was different from that of most people we will not venture to say, but, judging from his photographs, a man like Professor Benedikt, of Vienna, might certainly find some further data for his doctrines by an examination of Peace’s head.

Be this as it may, we have no doubt the cerebral organisation of such a hardened and determined fellow as Peace must have been very different from that of ordinary individuals, although we do not for a moment believe that the difference was of so gross and palpable a nature as to be detectable after death, much less before it.

None the less true, however, is the materialistic view of the criminal propensity—​a view which, unfortunately, precludes all hope of our ever permanently ridding society of such characters.

As long as human nature is as it is, we shall have amongst us thieves, murderers, forgers, et hoc genus omne.

No amount of education, no penal codes, no force of example, no religious or moral suasion, will deter such men from their evil courses, or induce them to lead an honest life.

Indeed, the very propensity which seems to be “born and bred” in their flesh is fanned and encouraged by the morbid interest and sympathy of society, which considers itself outraged by their acts.

When well-dressed ladies contend for the opportunity of looking at these villains through their opera glasses, and “special correspondents” are “told off” to watch and record every change in the features of the criminal, and every word or whisper that escapes his lips, can we wonder that such men may even feel as much pleasure and pride in being infamous as their more discreet neighbours do in being honest?

Bandy-legged Bill kept his appointment, and on the following evening he drove up to Peace’s door at about twenty minutes to eleven.

Peace in the meanwhile had been reconnoitring in the course of that day, in the immediate vicinity of the residence upon which he was to perform.

From what he could gather in the neighbourhood he was led to the conclusion that there was a considerable amount of property in the house. The mistress and children were said to be away on a visit to a relative. The master, who was a rich city merchant, was at home.

All these facts he had wormed out of the idlers and gossips about the place.

Before the gipsy made his appearance Peace had stained his face, and otherwise disguised himself; his implements were brought forth from their hiding place; these were in a small box, which is thus discribed by Mrs. Thompson:—

“He always had with him a red box. This he generally had left at the nearest station to the house he was about to operate on, with a notice outside that it was to be called for.

“His tools consisted of a jemmy about fourteen inches long, having a screw at one end and a chisel at the other, which could be used as a plane also. He also carried a block of wood, which he required when using the jemmy, and a knife like a pork butcher’s, which he used in cutting through panelling.

“The screw end of the jemmy was for use when the chisel end could not get a purchase in a door.

“He seldom carried lock-picks, having a wonderful facility in making use of a piece of wire, with which he has been known to open locks of the most intricate nature.

“One great cause of his success,” says the woman Thompson, “was the fact that he wore small ‘fours’ ladies’ boots without nails; and the police, when they were put on his track, always thought the crime had been committed by a boy, judging from the footsteps.”

“Here I be, old man,” cried the gipsy, as Peace presented himself at the door. “Are you ready?”

Peace handed the red box to his companion, then went back into his room again, and returned with a bag and his dog Gip, both of which were placed in the cart.

In another moment the vehicle was rattling over the stones with its two occupants.

“What have you brought the dog for?” inquired Will.

“He may be of service; if we have to leave the trap I’ll warrant me that he won’t let anybody overhaul its contents.”

“All right, guv’nor; you know best,” cried the gipsy. “So on we goes, and may we be successful, and have good luck, which is what, I know, we both deserve. Eh, old man?”

“Oh, we both deserve it,” answered Peace. “But people never get their deserts in this world; they either get ten times what they ought to have, or none at all. However, it isn’t of much use complaining.”

The vehicle went rapidly over the stones till the macadamised road was reached, and in due course of time the travellers came within sight of the palatial dwelling which had lured them to the spot.

“Now,” said the gipsy, “where had I better wait with the trap?”

“There is a narrow lane runs by yonder house, wait there. If a bobby says anything to you, tell him you’ve lost your way, and are uncertain which road to take. But lor, it’s so far removed from the high road, and is, moreover, so dark, that you will not be seen.”

Peace alighted with his implements and bag, and crept through the shrubbery in front of the house.

The gipsy drove slowly on to the dark lane.

No other persons besides their two selves were to be seen.

Peace passed through the grounds unobserved by any one.

He then took a survey of the residence he was about to perform on.

No lights were visible at any of the windows, and to all appearance the inmates of the house had long since retired to rest.

Peace had been informed in the early portion of the day that the owner and his domestics were early people; he therefore concluded that the inmates were asleep.

But as he had met with one or two failures he was more than usually cautious on this occasion, so that he might render the possibility of discomfiture still more remote.

We have on a former occasion made reference to the long screw he occasionally employed in his predatory excursions; these were most ingeniously constructed. At the end of each screw was a sharp point, and the worm was so well made that the screw itself could be forced into the wood of a door without even making a hole first with a gimlet or bradawl.

A small screwdriver was the only implement required to drive home the screws.

They, however, worked much more freely or easily when a small hole was bored.

Peace was furnished with these on the night in question, and to cut off the retreat of the inmates, should any of them be aroused, and to baffle the police, should they endeavour to enter the premises without his permission, he thought it just as well to secure the front door.

He, therefore, at once proceeded to insert two of his patent screws—​one near the top, and the other near the base of the door.

This done, he went to the back of the house. Here he saw two doors, one of which opened on to the lawn.

He secured both of these in the same way.

When this had been done, he climbed a spout and got on the balcony, which ran in front of one of the back windows.

He then proceeded to effect an entrance as speedily and noiselessly as possible.

He had but little difficulty in doing this, for the window had been left unfastened, owing to the carelessness of one of the maid servants, who had shot back the clasp presumably in a hurry, for it did not overlap the opposing window sufficiently to prevent its being drawn either up or down.

The shutters, however, were fastened, but very insecurely; Peace had therefore but little difficulty in throwing them back.

All this had not occupied the space of more than three or four minutes, and the movements of the burglar had not been seen by anyone, either from within or without.

Peace dropped gently on the floor of the apartment, which was covered with a thick Turkey carpet.

He had on at this time a pair of women’s boots, and his footsteps were almost as soft and noiseless as those of a cat.

The room in which he found himself was furnished in the best possible manner, but there were not many articles therein which were sufficiently portable to be transferred to the burglar’s bag, and Peace did not therefore waste much time in examining its contents.

He ignited one of his silent matches, and took a cursory but rapid review of its most noticable features.

Before leaving it, however, he drew back the shutters and opened the bottom window sufficiently wide to admit of his passing through in case of any surprise or alarm.

He crept downstairs and entered the front parlour. In this there were several articles of value, which he at once deposited safely in his bag.

He then proceeded towards the back parlour. This was fitted up as a library. To all appearance the owner of the habitation made use of it for business purposes, for on a library table there were spread out vast heaps of papers, tied up in bundles, with letters, ledger account books, and other objects usually found in a merchant’s counting house or a lawyer’s office.

In a recess at one corner of the room was a large iron safe; this at once attracted the burglar’s attention. Closing the door of the room softly Peace drew from his pocket a curled waxed taper, the end of which he ignited with one of his matches.

He then made a careful examination of the safe which, he felt assured, contained property—​possibly notes and gold were encased therein.

Drawing forth his bent wire, he endeavoured therewith to pick the lock.

He twisted and turned the wire in every possible direction, but was not successful in opening the safe. But he was not a man, as we have already seen, to give up a thing easily.

No. 24.

He had set his heart upon ransacking the safe, and to leave the house without effecting this object was the very last idea that would enter his mind.

He persevered with most laudable ambition, but the lock was too much for him—​it was of peculiar construction.

He tried his skeleton keys with no better result. He sat down in one of the library chairs, the very image of despair; he never remembered to have been so baffled.

He had another turn at the door of the safe, which was as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar—​a place, by the way, he was afterwards destined to become acquainted with.

He now made an attempt to force open the door with his jemmy and the piece of wood he carried with him, but it resisted all his efforts, and he at last began to despair.

A sudden thought struck him—​the key of the safe was doubtless somewhere in the house. Probably the owner of it had it in his pocket.

Peace crept up stairs again. Not a soul was to be seen. No one was in either the back or front room first floor.

He went up cautiously to the next story. In the front room of this he heard some one snoring.

He concluded that this was the master of the house. He opened the door for about an inch, and peered in—​a man, with a dark beard and a moustache, was in bed.

He was evidently sleeping soundly. On a chair, by the side of the bed, were several garments.

There was just sufficient light for the burglar to discern these.

He felt the time had come for him to make an effort. Grasping his revolver in his right hand he crept on all fours to the side of the bed, watching as he did so the face of the sleeping man with the eyes of a lynx.

He placed his hand on a pair of black trousers, and felt something heavy in one of the pockets. Gathering them together in a heap he crept back towards the door, which he passed through in safety.

When on the landing he rifled the pockets, in one of which was a large bunch of keys.

He slid downstairs and gained the back parlour, or library, as it was usually termed by the household.

Once more he ignited his wax taper, and breathed more freely.

To his infinite delight one of the keys fitted the lock, which was turned back; then the massive doors of the safe were thrown open.

Peace looked curiously at its contents. One shelf contained a mass of documents, some books, and other articles which were of no value to the burglar.

But on one of the other shelves there was a cash-box and two canvas bags.

“All right,” murmured Peace; “this is worth fighting for. My word, but it is lucky I thought of the keys being in the house.”

The bags were at once placed in the one he had brought with him, the cash-box was opened with a small key he had found on the bunch abstracted from the gentleman’s pocket.

Between fifty and sixty sovereigns were in the cash-box, together with a roll of notes. It is needless to observe that these found their way into Peace’s pocket.

A gold cup, a silver salver, and a box containing jewels were also in the safe. These were placed in the burglar’s bag to keep company with the other valuables.

Peace had been fortunate enough to have a good haul, and, having been so far successful, he thought it best to get clear off with his booty while the coast was clear.

He at once made for the back-room first-floor. From the balcony of this he let his bag gently down on to the grass plot beneath with a small piece of cord; then he climbed over the balcony, and hanging for a moment by his hands, he dropped from thence on to the grass.

Unfortunately for him, his coat-tail swept down one of the shrubs in a flower-pot; this fell on to a glass skylight over the back kitchen.

The crash of glass awoke one of the maidservants, who jumped out of bed, and, opening one of the back-windows, peered forth.

She saw a man running across the grass plot towards the shrubbery by the side of the house, and at once suspected that something was amiss.

Panting and almost breathless, Peace arrived at the spot where Bandy-legged Bill was awaiting his reappearance.

He jumped into the cart, and told his companion to drive off at once.

Bill urged on his pony to its fullest speed, and in a very short time he and his companion were far away from the scene of the burglary.

In a short time they reached Leather-lane in safety, without the faintest degree of suspicion being attached to them.

The burglary at Denmark-hill was pronounced to be a great success both by the principal and his abettor.

Peace presented his companion with fifty pounds as a recompense for his valuable services.

It was a great deal more than the gipsy had ever expected, and he expressed himself more than satisfied—​indeed, he was modest enough to intimate that it was more than he deserved.

Meanwhile the inmates of the house at Denmark-hill were aroused from their slumbers by the screaming of the servant girl, who had seen the burglar make a precipitate retreat over the lawn in the rear of her master’s house.

Her fellow-servants jumped out of their beds, huddled on their things, and hastened at once to see what was the matter.

The owner of the establishment looked in vain for his trousers, which our hero had so cleverly possessed himself of.

The gentleman sought for another pair, but his wardrobe as well as the drawers in his room were locked, and his bunch of keys was not at hand.

Wrapping himself in his long dressing gown and drawers, and putting his feet into his slippers, he sallied forth.

The open safe, the black trousers on one of the chairs of the library, together with the missing property, clearly demonstrated that a burglar had been in the premises.

A search was at once instituted for the robber, but without any satisfactory result.

The merchant was furious.

He ordered one of his man-servants to hasten at once to the station and give notice to the police.

But here a difficulty presented itself.

The front door could not be opened. Peace had firmly secured it with his screws.

The whole party rushed to the back entrance, which was equally well secured.

Everybody was astonished, as well they might be. It seemed like sorcery.

One of the man-servants unfastened the shutters of the front parlour, and threw open the window, and by this means succeeded in leaving the premises.

In about a quarter of an hour he returned with three police officers.

The usual formula had to be gone through. A list of the missing articles, as far as these could be ascertained, was made by the inspector, who declared the robbery had been committed by a practised hand.

He was perfectly right, but this was but poor consolation to the owner of the property.

He asked the girl if she could identify the burglar. She answered in the negative.

She had only seen his back. His face she never caught sight of, and even assuming she had, identification would have been almost impossible.

There was not even a remote chance of discovering the depredator, and Peace was perfectly well assured of this.

The booty he had obtained by this burglary was considerably over two hundred pounds, after deducting the fifty he had given to Bandy-legged Bill, and as he had received a letter from his mother urging him in the strongest terms to return to Sheffield, he determined upon quitting the metropolis and taking up his quarters in his native town.