“And I shall always love her. All that the mind of man can conceive,

all that the powers of man can execute, I will employ to gain her

love. But she shall be mine, I swear it.”

Laura Stanbridge writhed as she listened to these words, after which

she became very calm.

“You must have taken leave of your senses, my very excellent young

friend,” she murmured. “You always love her!”

“Yes, always.”

“Bah! you are mad.”

“Am I? Well, that’s a matter of opinion,” said he, running his hand

through his auburn locks.

“You are vain――that you will admit, I suppose?”

“Nothing of the sort――never was so in my life.”

“And ape the manners of your betters.”

“Anything else?”

“Which, to say the truth, do not in any way become you.”

“Ah, you are jealous,” cried he, with asperity.

The face of his companion flushed up.

“Jealous of you, my beauty!” she ejaculated, in a tone of contempt.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Alf, by such a supposition. We know each

other by this time. If we don’t, we never shall. Jealous of you,

indeed!”

“Well, there’s no occasion to be petulant or spiteful, Lorry. Don’t

lose your temper. Every gentleman must have his private amours, and I

like you none the less because I have been carrying on a little

innocent flirtation with the farmer’s wife.”

“Love me! I wonder you can make use of such a term,” cried Laura

Stanbridge, with something like indignation in her tone.

“We don’t want to quarrel. It wouldn’t answer either of our purposes

to do that.”

At this moment there was a knock at the door, and to Fortescue’s “Come

in,” the “Smoucher” and the “Cracksman” entered.

“Oh, you’ve got back from Broxbridge, then?” said the latter, in a

familiar and half-sneering tone.

“Yes, I have,” answered Fortescue, alias Alf Purvis.

“You’ve bin having a fine time of it, captain. Enjoying yourself like

anythink, I s’pose?”

“That’s my business and not yours, my tea-tray friend.”

At this he and the Smoucher burst out into a loud laugh.

“We worked it to rights――did the trick as clean as a brand-new

whistle. Got off wi’ the swag, and nobody any the wiser. I suppose

you’ve heard the whole history from your old friends at the

farmhouse?”

“I’ve heard all about it. Mr. Nettlethorpe is half crazy, and they say

he’ll never recover the loss he has sustained.”

“Oh, what a pity, poor chap! Everybody is so fond of him, you know;

that must be a great comfort to him. It was a good joke, though, your

taking up your quarters at the next farm; jolly good that was. I hope

as how you’ve enjoyed yerself?”

“Yes, I have, very much; but don’t you trouble yourself about me or my

pleasures and enjoyments. You’ve got to look after yourself.”

“Why, captain, you’re rather short and sharp with an old pal.

Something’s upset you.”

“Yes; I’m vexed and annoyed.”

“What about?”

“Oh, many things.”

“Can either of us help you?”

“I don’t think you can.”

“He’s lost his heart,” observed Miss Stanbridge, with a merry twinkle

in her eye.

The two scoundrels burst out into another and still louder laugh.

“Why, that’s nothing new, missus,” said the Smoucher. “The captain is

easily knocked over by a pretty face. He’s so werry susceptible.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, you fool,” cried Alf Purvis, in an angry tone.

“Oh, I’ve done. Sorry I spoke, for the matter of that.”

“But there’s an old saying,” observed the Cracksman, “and may be it’s

a wise one――‘the course of true love never did run smooth.’”

All present laughed again, all but Alf, who turned away with disgust.

“I’m not disposed to stand any more of your chaff,” said he, “and so

if you’ve nothing better to talk about, the sooner you take your hook

the better.”

“Well, I’m blest,” cried the Cracksman, “you are riled about summut,

that’s quite sartain. I never knew you to be so short in temper as you

are to-day.”

“I don’t want any more of your sneering observations, and I’ve

business to attend to.”

“Oh, that’s it, eh?” said the Smoucher――“we’ll be for making tracks

then――come along, mate.”

And upon this the two men wished their superior good-day, and beat a

retreat.

“You were very sharp with them, Alf,” observed Miss Stanbridge when

the two had gone; “they meant no harm.”

“They are a pair of vulgar common brutes, and I don’t choose to give

them too much latitude. I am glad to be rid of them.”

“And I suppose you will be glad to be rid of me?”

“I don’t say that, Lorry; you I can bear with, but I can’t bear those

fellows when I am perplexed and troubled, which I happen to be just

now.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” said the deceitful woman,

placing one arm round his neck in a loving manner.

“Yes, I tell you what you can do.”

“Out with it, then.”

“I wish, as you go home, you’d call upon young Bradley, and tell him

to come here as soon as he possibly can.”

“I will do so with pleasure. Say you wish to see him?”

“Yes; upon particular business.”

“All right; it shall be done, Alf, dear. Done with the greatest

pleasure.”

The woman took her departure, and in an hour or two after this Mr.

Bradley, the young man in question, made his appearance.

He was a genteel, good-looking fellow, of about eight-and-twenty, and

was one of Alf Purvis’s most particular friends――if friendship can

with propriety be applied to such a connection――for, like Purvis, he

was a loose fish, a lawless character. He, however, affected to be

very partial to Mr. Algernon Sutherland, and was just the sort of man

he needed to perform the office which he was about to assign to him.

The greeting between the two was a cordial one, for Mr. Bradley had

not seen his young friend since he rusticated at Broxbridge.

Alf at once proceeded to put his friend in possession of all those

circumstances which have been described in the preceding chapter.

He, however, passed lightly over the thrashing and his ignominious

expulsion from the farmer’s house.

“A nasty, spiteful, objectionable, old agriculturist,” cried Mr.

Bradley, after the narrative had been brought to a conclusion. “He

rode rusty――did he?”

“That he most certainly did.”

“He’s a hog――a swine――a low-bred, vulgar fellow.”

“Very low-bred.”

“Oh, so I should imagine. But we’ll find some means of serving him

out. Wife’s a pretty little woman, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear me, yes.”

“And a great deal too good for such a pig?”

“Much too good. But we will not discuss that question now. I am in

need of a confidential friend like yourself.”

“Certainly, old boy. I am at your service.”

“I have left my portmanteau and things at the farmer’s, also my horse.

I want you to run down to Broxbridge and demand them.”

“Good. That I’ll do without a moment’s hesitation. You must give me a

note, of course?”

“Yes――a note requesting him to give them up to you, and at the same

time I purpose sending him a challenge.”

“Oh, Jerusalem! a challenge, eh? Capital! That I am to deliver, I

suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, what a lark! Nothing could suit me better. It’s quite in my line.

By-the-way, you’d better say the bearer of your challenge is your

friend, Captain Bradley.”

“I will do so. Captain Bradley, of the Horse Marines.”

“Or the Fall Backs. There’s magic in the word ‘captain,’” said

Bradley, rubbing his hands together with great glee. “By-the-way, I

ought to put on spurs, and wear a military coat.”

“It would be all the better.”

“I will do so, and at the same time assume a military bearing. I’ll

astonish old Mangold Wurtzel; give it him hot and strong, without

sugar. Egad! I’ll astonish his weak nerves.”

Mr. Eric Fortescue, as he called himself, wrote a dignified epistle,

in which he demanded all that he had left at Stoke Ferry. This he

supplemented with another, challenging the farmer to mortal combat.

Both these precious documents were given to Mr. Bradley, who was quite

delighted with his mission.

“You must remember that on this occasion I am Mr. Eric Fortescue; that

is the name I gave when I first made the acquaintance of this rustic.

Don’t forget that.”

“I’ll bear it in mind; of course I do not know you by any other. I

shall say that my friend Fortescue has directed me to wait on you, &c.

You can imagine the rest; leave it all to me. He won’t accept the

challenge, I suppose?”

“I should say not, but press the question. Put the matter home to

him.”

“I will.”

The next day Mr. Bradley put himself in the train, and made the best

of his way to Broxbridge. He had been told by his friend to call at

the “Carved Lion” before proceeding to Stoke Ferry farmhouse, as

possibly he might pick up some information at that respectable

hostelry, but John Brickett was as silent as the grave, and studiously

avoided referring to the circumstances attending Fortescue’s visit to

Mr. Ashbrook.

It was a scandal he was in no way desirous of making more public than

necessary, and hence his reticence.

Mr. Bradley had therefore no other course than to fight his battle

single-handed. He presented himself at the farmhouse, and inquired for

Mr. Richard Ashbrook. Kitty, who opened the door, said her master was

in the fields, but if the gentleman would call in about an hour and a

half’s time Mr. Ashbrook would be sure to be in by that time.

Mr. Bradley, upon this, contrived to kill time by a stroll round the

neighbourhood. When he returned the farmer was at home, awaiting the

stranger’s appearance, in the very same room in which he had chastised

his ungrateful guest.

The girl announced Captain Bradley, who was at once shown into the

parlour.

“Ah! your servant, sir,” cried the captain; “Mr. Ashbrook, I presume?”

“Aye, that be my name. What may your business be?”

“It is a delicate and in some respects a painful one,” returned

Bradley.

“Oh, indeed, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes, I am deputed by my friend, Mr. Eric Fortescue, to wait upon you.

In the first place I am directed by him to demand the things he left

here, together with his horse, which I am to take back to his town

residence.”

Upon this he handed the farmer the first letter.

“You can take ’em wi’ you at once, the sooner the better,” said

Ashbrook, after he had perused the letter; then thrusting his head out

of the front door, he called out, “Joe, Joe.”

Joe Doughty made his appearance.

“Go upstairs and bring down Mr. Fortescue’s portmanteau,” said

Ashbrook.

Joe did as he was bid, and in a few seconds returned with the article

in question.

“There it be,” said the farmer, addressing himself to the false

captain. “Now, Joe, let this gentleman have the black horse――him as is

owned by Mr. Fortescue.”

“Anything else, sir?” said Ashbrook.

“I am sorry to say that there is. I have another and more important

letter to deliver. Its nature I am very well acquainted with. Sir, I

must inform you that Mr. Fortescue has been grossly insulted, and I

have further to declare that he is a gentleman who never tamely

submits to an insult.”

“Doesn’t ee, though?”

“No, sir. In short, he cannot pass over the indignities to which he

has been subjected. No gentleman in his position would be warranted in

doing so――not if he had any desire to maintain his status in

fashionable and good society. I must, therefore, beg of you to read

this second missive. It is a challenge, Mr. Ashbrook. You cannot

consistently refuse to give my friend that satisfaction which one

gentleman has a right to expect from another.”

Richard Ashbrook perused the document curiously; then he burst into a

loud laugh.

“Do not treat the matter with unbecoming levity, sir. If you do I

shall have reason to feel offended. It is not a time for jesting, Mr.

Ashbrook. I therefore demand an answer. Please to name some gentleman

who will officiate as your second, so that I may confer with him. That

is the usual course we adopt in cases of this sort.”

“Do ’ee tek me for a fool, my brave young spark?” cried Ashbrook; “or

what?”

“I decline to inform you what I take you to be. All I require is an

answer. Name your conditions.”

“Conditions! I aint a goin’ to mek any conditions wi’ the loikes of

’ee, or your friend, as you term him――a circumwenting, deceitful

varmint!”

“Have a care, sir. Have a care as to what you say. I will not stand

tamely by and hear my friend, Fortescue, reviled.”

“Get out! don’t ’ee think to bullyrag me. If ye gi’ me any more of yer

nonsense, I’ll chuck ’ee forth, and send ’ee about yer business. Take

the fellow’s things, and be off while ye’ve got a whole skin.”

“What! threats?” cried Bradley, putting himself into a military and

defiant attitude. “Mr. Ashbrook, I am surprised. I will not depart

without an answer.”

“An answer to what?”

“Respecting the proposed hostile meeting. But I pardon you――you do not

understand the usages of polite society. Permit me to explain.”

“I want none of yer explanations. Don’t care to listen to such

rubbish. So ye’d better be off.”

“Then am I to say you decline to meet my friend Fortescue?”

“Fortescue!” cried the farmer, with a sneer. “He’s no more Fortescue

than I am. Don’t ’ee come here wi’ any more cock-and-bull stories.

Why, he’s a thief, and the p’leece are arter him. If I were to appoint

a place of meeting, he’d be collered and clapped into gaol. Do you see

that, my brave captain?”

Mr. Bradley was rather taken aback at this speech. He also had the

honour of being well acquainted with the police, and he thought that

it was therefore quite time to lower his tone. He assumed for the

nonce an air of injured innocence.

“Mr. Ashbrook,” said he, “I put it to yourself as an honourable man

whether you think it the right thing to cast aspersions upon a

gentleman when he is not here to answer you. I do hope and trust that

you have not so bad an opinion of me as to suppose for a moment I

would lend myself to so dishonourable a proceeding as to espouse the

cause of a disreputable character. In common justice you ought to

offer an apology, and express your sorrow for making such indiscreet

observations.”

“Look ’ee here――you can go back to London, and tell this friend of

yours that he is found out. His real character is known here. The

p’leece will gi’ee more information respecting him than I can. He’s a

bad egg if there ever was one, and as to this, well, there――”

He tore up the letter which contained the challenge into a hundred

pieces, and threw them in the grate.

“Now Mr.――or captain――you had better be off, or, may be, you and I

shall quarrel.”

“I hope not, I’m sure,” returned Bradley. “I have not done anything to

offend you that I am aware of.”

“There be an old adage, ‘Ye may know a man by his friends,――and if Mr.

Fortescue, as he choses to call himself, is a friend of yourn――well, I

wouldn’t gi’ much for ’ee; that be all I ha’ to say.”

“You are complimentary, Mr. Ashbrook,” said Bradley, with a sneer.

“Horse be ready, master,” cried Joe Doughty from the yard.

There, your――or rather his――horse be ready. Ye’d better mount and be

off, or may be we shall find out something about you. What regiment

are you captain of?”

“What regiment? oh, the 3rd West Middlesex.”

“Oh, you’re in the volunteer service?”

“Ahem! yes.”

“Well, captain, I wish you may arrive safely back in London. Your

horse is ready.”

“And you decline to return any answer?”

“Look ’ee here. If that young scoundrel comes in this neighbourhood he

will very soon find himself in one of her Majesty’s prisons――so ’ee

may tell him that from me. And now, if ye’ll take good advice, which I

think it, just as well to offer ’ee, you’ll just mek yerself as scarce

as possible, or maybe ’ee may find yerself as deep in the mud as he be

in the mire.”

“I shall not condescend to have any further discourse with you,” said

Bradley, assuming as high a tone as possible at parting. He went out

into the yard, mounted his friend’s black horse, and directed Joe

Doughty to take the portmanteau round to the “Carved Lion,” handing

him half-a-crown for his trouble. He then trotted off, very much

dissatisfied with his visit to Stoke Ferry Farm, which he considered

to be a most miserable failure.

CHAPTER CXI.

THE SURPRISE AND ESCAPE――A DRIVE FOR LIFE.

Peace, after his encounter with Bessie Dalton, abstained for a short

period from his predatory excursions.

The scene in the rich merchant’s house at Blackheath had made a deep

impression on him, and it is just possible that he had some slight

compunctious visitings; but these were of course of short duration.

His house in the Evalina-road was, as we have already intimated,

exceedingly well furnished. On his removal from Greenwich a large

amount of plate and a considerable collection of pictures were not

transported openly in the van he hired to remove the rest of his

goods; they were forwarded secretly from Greenwich to Peckham.

It was generally understood in the neighbourhood that he was a retired

gentleman possessed of a modest competence, which enabled him to live

quietly without business cares, and to indulge his little whims in

scientific inventions, in which indulgence he had lost thousands.

The mixed family, as we have already seen, did not live in harmony.

Mrs. Thompson, it has been said, was rarely without a black eye, and

shrieking and swearing were not uncommonly heard proceeding from the

house. Yet Peace gave himself the reputation of a humane and moral man

with a character to maintain, who must not be familiarly accosted by

milkmen, greengrocers, and other people who resorted to public-house

bars in the morning.

Peace was very rarely seen till late in the day. People in the

vicinity who gave the matter any consideration supposed he was busy

with his scientific pursuits, of which he was fond of talking in an

effusive manner.

He occasionally invited his neighbours into his house to take

something, and by all accounts he was a jovial host.

He was possessed of seven or eight guitars, and almost as many

violins. When he came outside the gate in the afternoon and took a

look at the weather he was communicative and critical to whoever was

passing that knew him, and he especially delighted in a chat about

crime and criminals with the unsuspicious policeman of his district.

In conversation he had an odd habit of digging his hands deep into his

pockets and twisting himself round in the pantomimic contortions of a

clown. Social visits he never paid, and he did not encourage

unexpected visits to his house.

At Peckham he formed a menagerie of pets, which was certainly

extraordinary for so unpretentious an establishment; but being “a

gentleman devoted to science” his neighbours thought he might be

allowed to indulge a hobby for zoology.

That he should be fond of animals is strange, seeing the traits of his

character have been disclosed, which indicate that he was cruel and

selfish to the last degree.

Some of his pets he had learned to execute tricks wonderful enough to

earn a showman his living. His pony especially showed marvellous

obedience to his command.

At a word this faithful animal would rear up and remain standing on

his hind legs, and at another word he would lie down as if dead.

“Tommy” seemed to have been trained as a silent but faithful partner

in burglary.

The custom of Peace was to go out during the day with Mrs. Peace, his

son, and Mrs. Thompson in his trap, himself driving, and taking a

survey of mansions he intended to rob during the night, and arrange

about the destination to which he should convey the plunder.

He had two methods of attack. He went out early in the evening, when

the family of the house to be plundered were all down stairs, then he

robbed the rooms above, or late in the evening, or far on in the

morning, when the family were all upstairs in bed, then he roamed

through the lower regions, and abstracted the heavy articles of plate

and pictures, with all valuables that were portable and transmutable

into money. In most cases he proceeded alone in these expeditions.

The pony went out from Peace’s stables at most unseemly hours, and

sometimes the neighbours woke up when it returned.

One night the driving up to the gate was so furious that the gig

knocked over the gate. The noise attracted the attention of a

policeman who was on the threshold of a discovery, but he suspected

nothing.

Peace had unquestionably just returned from an expedition with spoil,

but when he saw the officer he blandly invited him in, although it was

one o’clock in the morning, and lifting up the lid of a long box he

explained to him that he had been engaged in perfecting an invention

for the purpose of raising sunken ships, which he and Mr. Brian were

about to patent.

“And you know it would not do to let people know about this in the

daytime,” added Peace, upon which the policeman drank his health,

hoped he did not intrude, and helped to readjust the gate on its

hinges.

Peace, as we have already signified had described himself to the new

sphere of respectable neighbours among whom he at this time moved as a

“gentleman of independent means,” and he was looked upon as one who

had done well in the world, but there were more burglaries in the

neighbourhood, and Greenwich became almost as noted for these classes

of depredations as Lambeth had been. But there was this difference――that

whilst the “middle class” people of Lambeth dare not report their

troubles to the police and were not allowed the privilege of

complaining to the columns of the dailies, the Greenwich “whitebaits”

would not sit down so calm with this disgraceful state of things.

Night after night the houses of leading residents in the locality were

broken open and quantities of plate, jewellery, and valuables of that

description were stolen.

The “gang” who did it were evidently good judges, and selected very

carefully before removing anything. Then the police became

indignant――the public blamed the police――letters to editors were

freely penned, but still the depredations continued.

Then came a lull――Peace, the single-handed perpetrator of all these

daring robberies, had taken time to consider, and had decided to again

change his residence.

But he had grown in riches, the result of his six months’ robberies,

and he decided upon taking a better house――one with a more substantial

look of respectability about it, and hence it was that he deemed it

advisable to remove to the residence which we have already

described――namely, the habitation in the Evalina-road.

It is not easy to calculate with anything like exactness the mischief

which a scoundrel like Peace has done by his daring exploits.

Man is a creature of imitation, and after the capture and condemnation

of our hero, other rogues endeavoured to imitate him.

The evil which Peace did seemed to live after him.

No sooner had the public experienced a sense of relief at having got

rid of him than a successor turned up to carry on the business on the

same system which he had introduced.

The new candidate for the honours of murder and burglary combined,

however, shifted the base of his operations from Blackheath to

Hampstead-heath. He was discovered prowling about the grounds of

Roselyn House by a constable of the S division.

The policeman on demanding of the man what he wanted there, was

answered with a threat, to the effect that if he approached he would

blow his brains out.

He, however, did approach, and while attempting to close with the

miscreant, received a pistol shot, which would probably have killed

him, had it not fortunately struck the bull’s-eye of his lantern.

He was slightly wounded, and in the struggle which followed was struck

on the head by his assailant with some blunt instrument.

Notwithstanding this he gave the would-be assassin chase, and coming

up with him again, closed with the robber, but was too much exhausted

to succeed in his commendable efforts to effect a capture.

The man accordingly escaped, and no doubt congratulated himself upon

the success which so far attended him in his attempts to follow in the

footsteps of the prince of scoundrels whose nefarious career he had

endeavoured to shadow forth.

Doubtless many of our readears will remember the case to which we

refer, since it was reported in all the London and provincial

newspapers.

We sincerely trust that the loathsome memory of Charles Peace will not

breed a contagion of burglary.

That crime, however, is infectious was shown by the garotte epidemic

from which London suffered some few years ago.

The best preventive against the prevalence of a possible plague of

housebreakers is undoubtedly to be sought for in efficient police

surveillance.

A stronger force of mounted patrols is wanted in the suburban

districts.

That a policeman should be left to encounter an armed burglar

single-handed on Hampstead-heath in the dead of the night shows that

this particular part of the metropolis at any rate is not properly

protected.

In such a place the police should go in pairs, or, if one man is

deemed sufficient to guard it, he should be provided with some better

protection than a _bâton_ against the chances of losing his life

through being assaulted by wretches of Peace’s calibre.

It appears to us that the police on night duty are distributed very

unfairly. In many streets, for instance, where persons are constantly

passing all through the night more police than are necessary are to be

found, but in some suburban retreats the midnight quietude is seldom

disturbed by the constable’s measured tread.

You may walk through the leading thoroughfares of the West-end or the

tenantless streets of the City at any hour of the night, and meet with

a score of policemen, but on a tour of the same distance in the

suburbs where all or most of the burglaries are perpetrated, it

frequently happens that not a single guardian of the peace is to be

met with. There is evidently need for alteration here.

But none of Peace’s imitators, or rather those who strove to carry on

their nefarious practices after his fashion, ever succeeded in

reaching the same acme of perfection, if it can with propriety be so

termed, in any degree comparable to our hero.

Peace had been leading a sort of cat and dog life for some time past

with his two female companions in the Evalina-road. He knew perfectly

well that he was like a man who is at the top of a dangerous

precipice; the slightest mishap, one false step, would precipitate him

into the dark chasm in which sooner or later he was to be plunged.

He, therefore, strove as best he could to keep a tight hand over the

woman he most dreaded. He did not care what amount of money he

expended in ministering to her wants, with this proviso, that she was

to remain in doors. So Mrs. Thompson had her “drops” at home.

She had a weakness for strong drinks, and was an inordinate snuff

taker, and, according to Peace’s own account, she cost him a pretty

penny.

His weakness in respect to women is perhaps the most remarkable

feature in his character.

After ruthlessly slaying the ill-fated Mr. Dyson, which crime he

perpetrated not for gain, for it was clearly established that the

unfortunate gentleman met with his death from the hands of his

murderer simply because the latter had a sort of mad infatuation for

his (Mr. Dyson’s) wife.

And, stranger still, immediately after the commission of the foul

deed, he took up with another woman, whom he afterwards had good

reason to be in dread of.

Nevertheless, despite all these circumstances, he perseveringly and

persistently followed his nefarious calling, even while the sword of

justice was almost hanging over his head.

He had at this time perpetrated two murders. He had sent

Police-constable Cock, of Whalley Range notoriety, and Mr. Dyson, to

their account; and yet he professed to be a moral man in his new home

in the Evalina-road.

It would be impossible to follow Peace’s footsteps throughout his

extraordinary career while engaged in his various depredations in the

suburbs of London, but it will be necessary for the purposes of his

history to glance at some of the well-recognised events which are, so

to speak, almost public property.

It was not likely he would remain long quiet in his suburban

retreat――excitement was a necessity with him. He could not sit himself

down with his two female companions like other “gentlemen of

independent means”――he must be up and doing.

So, early one afternoon, the gate was thrown open and Charles Peace

passed through in his pony trap. He had to call on a friend, so he

averred, but on this occasion he had with him the lad “Willie Ward.”

He was going to give him a ride for a short distance, and purposed

dropping him at the “Bricklayers’ Arms.” Willie was then to return

home either by omnibus or the marrowbone stage――whichever he

choose――but he was not to go further than the appointed place with his

patron and stepfather.

As far as Willie himself was concerned, Peace had no reason to

complain, for he was in a measure attached to his relative, and was at

all times faithful and obedient to him.

An animated conversation was carried on between the two for the

greater part of the journey. The lad would have liked to remain in the

trap just to see what the driver thereof would be after, but he durst

not express any wish to that effect; so, when the “Bricklayers’ Arms”

was reached, and Peace brought the pony to a halt, Willie jumped out

and retraced his steps without a murmur.

Peace drove on.

He was, as the reader has doubtless already guessed, on one of his

marauding expeditions. It was as yet early in the evening――so early,

indeed, that few persons would expect burglars were abroad.

Peace, in the due course of time, arrived at Sydenham. He pulled up in

front of a roadside inn, gave the pony-trap in charge of the ostler,

and said he had to wait upon a gentleman in the neighbourhood, and

would return in about an hour.

He was not a man, as we have before observed, who was addicted to

drinking, but he thought it just as well to go to the bar and have a

small modicum of brandy and water; then he left, bag in hand; the

inference being that he was about to deliver some goods at one of the

neighbours’ houses.

He walked leisurely along till he arrived at a villa residence, built

in the Gothic style of architecture. With the greatest possible

effrontery he opened the gate and passed into the garden by the side

of the house. Nobody appeared to be about, and seeing a bay window

half open he crept through, and found himself in one of the back

rooms. He peered forth, and seeing the coast clear he ascended the

stairs. Somebody at this time was playing on the piano in the parlour,

and the noise of the instrument, which was most unmercifully pounded

at, effectually drowned the noise of his soft and cautious footfalls.

He found in the upstairs room a number of valuable and profitable

articles, such as watches, jewellery, and the like; these he at once

possessed himself of. The whole proceeds occupied but a small space,

and were carefully disposed of in the capacious pockets of his coat.

As he descended the pianist was still rattling away at the instrument.

When he reached the passage he found on a dumb waiter several silver

spoons and forks; he snatched up these, passed through the bay window

by which he had effected an entrance, and got off without being

observed by a solitary individual.

The family were out for a drive, and there was nobody in the

establishment besides the eldest daughter, who was taking a lesson of

her music mistress, and the servants, who were in the kitchen busily

occupied in preparing the dinner.

The astonishment of all, when they discovered the robbery, can be

readily imagined. Notice was given to the police, inquiries were made,

but Mr. Charles Peace laughed in his sleeve, and got clean off; but

his evenings work was as yet not over.

He bent his steps in another direction, and after walking about

three-quarters of a mile, or a little more perhaps, he came in sight

of another house he had “spotted.”

In front of this was a conservatory. As on the previous occasion he

opened the gate, and entered the grounds.

Then he passed along till he came to the conservatory. He looked

through the window, and saw that it was filled with the choicest

flowers.

But he suddenly withdrew his head as he heard the sounds of voices,

which evidently proceeded from the parlour or dining-room.

He was at no loss to divine that the family were at dinner, and to

judge from the number of voices he was under the impression that there

were several guests present.

He hesitated for a moment, being in some doubt as to his mode of

action. His object was to gain the upstairs rooms, lay his hands on

all within his reach, and then make off.

But this did not appear to be so easy a task as he had at first

supposed. Probably the servants were passing to and fro, and in such a

case discovery would be fatal.

But the greater the danger the greater appeared to be the fascination

to a man of Peace’s temperament.

He passed along the side of the house and found the back door wide

open. He looked in and saw no one. With unparalleled audacity and

assurance he crept into the passage, flew upstairs, and inspected the

apartments above.

He filled his bag with the most valuable and portable articles he

could lay his hand on, and up to this time had been undisturbed, but

the question was how he was to get clear off.

If he dropped from one of the upper rooms the chances were that the

noise of his descent would attract the notice of some one, besides

which the windows were so high up that to descend from them was no

easy matter.

“I shall have to risk it, I expect,” said he; “go down the stairs and

take my chance. It is quite clear they are all of them pretty well

occupied in cramming and guzzling. So here goes.”

He descended the stairs as quickly as he could, and was making for the

back door when he was suddenly confronted by a buxom, red-faced,

red-armed servant girl, who gave a start and a faint scream as she

caught sight of a strange man.

[Sidenote: No. 59.]

[Illustration: THE DEATH OF TOMMY.]

Peace was perfectly calm and self-possessed.

“Don’t be alarmed, my girl,” said he, in his softest accents. “Is the

governor in?”

“Yes,” she said, in the greatest possible state of surprise.

“Ah, that’s all right,” cried Peace. “Can I see him?”

“He’s at dinner just now,” returned the maid, completely thrown off

her guard, “but I’ll tell him you are here if it’s anything

particular.”

“Only a message from Mr. Woodward.”

“From who?”

“Mr. Woodward.”

The girl had never heard of such a person. It would be strange if she

had, seeing Peace had given the first name that had occurred to him.

“I’ll go in and ask if he will see you,” replied the girl.

“Do, please,” cried Peace.

The maid went into the dining-room to make the inquiry.

This was Peace’s opportunity, of which he was not slow to avail

himself. He flew out of the house, jumped over the garden fence, and

then ran off as fast as his legs would carry him.

“Tell him to wait――I’ll see him presently,” said the master of the

establishment, when the girl announced that a stranger wished to speak

to him.

The girl was astonished when she discovered that the stranger was no

longer visible. She went out into the garden, looked about in every

direction, but could not, of course, see anyone.

She went into the kitchen and made her fellow-servants acquainted with

the circumstance. The footman said no doubt the “fellar” was going to

call again, and that she, Jane, was a little fool.

She retorted, and for a few minutes there was an intestine war in the

kitchen. However, after this was over, and the strange man did not put

in an appearance again, matters did not look so rosy. The servant girl

was seriously concerned. What could it mean? The affair had to be

explained to her master, who was, of course, very angry, and till up

to this time no one had suspected that a robbery had been committed,

and it was quite an hour before the discovery took place and then

there was, of course, a fine hue-and-cry. But Peace long before this

had reached the roadside house where he had left his pony trap. But

his evening’s adventures were not nearly over as yet.

After he had cleared the fence and got far away from the scene of his

depredation, he decreased his speed, for he had become winded, and

therefore contented himself with walking at a moderate pace. This he

continued to do till the public-house was reached. When this had been

done, he thrust the bag containing the valuables underneath the seat

of his gig and gave the ostler a handsome gratuity.

But now a new danger threatened him. Just as he was getting into his

gig he heard a voice exclaim in a tone of surprise,

“Look at that fellow. I do believe it’s that scoundrel, Charles

Peace.”

The voice proceeded from one of the alcoves which were situated in the

gardens of the public-house he was about to depart from, and Peace

knew the tones of the speaker, who was a Sheffield detective, with

whom he had been formerly acquainted. The celebrated exclamation of

the Duke of Wellington of “Up, guards, and at them!” did not carry

greater dismay to the enemy than did to Peace the words spoken by the

Sheffield police-officer.

Peace endeavoured, successfully enough, it must be admitted, to alter

the expression of his countenance as he stepped into the gig, but he

was panic-stricken nevertheless, and for the moment all his fortitude

appeared to desert him. He heard a movement, a shuffling of feet, a

ringing of glasses proceed from the alcove in the garden. He did not

wait to hear or see any more. He urged on Tommy, who answered by going

at a rattling rate; the wheels flew round so fast that you could not

see the spokes. Presently the driver came in sight of a steep hill, he

turned round and observed in the distance two horsemen urging on their

steeds to the utmost; they were enshrouded in a cloud of dust.

Peace grew sick and faint.

“Curses light on them!” cried he; “they are giving chase. One is

Stackhouse as I’m a living man.”

There was no help for it; the pony had to be put out to the top of his

speed.

Peace urged him on with a few sharp cuts of his whip and then by his

voice, which had a much more powerful effect. The faithful creature

seemed to comprehend that the hour of danger and trial had arrived,

for it tore up the hill like a mad thing. The pursuers were perfectly

astounded at the speed at which Peace was going.

“But we shall have him yet, Clayton――have him as sure as a gun.”

“My brute is panting and roaring like a blast furnace,” observed the

party addressed. “I don’t think he’ll hold on if we come to another

such a hill as this. Confound it, there doesn’t appear to be a level

piece of ground in this locality.”

“Can’t be helped. We must have him.”

“Ah! if it be Charles Peace, which I am very doubtful about.”

“It’s him safe enough. Do you suppose he would go at such a pelting,

killing pace unless he knew he was pursued. I am pretty sure about

it’s being Peace, though he is a bit altered. But there, he’s got a

regular indiarubber face. He can do pretty much as he likes with

it――twist it up in all sorts of ways――I know him of old.”

“I am glad you do, and hope you are not mistaken. Lord, how this beast

of mine does bump one! He’s like a great elephant.”

“Put him along――never mind his bumping,” cried Stackhouse, in the

greatest state of excitement. “We shall soon be up with my gentleman.”

Peace knew every inch of the ground, while his pursuers did not. Had

this not been the case, the probability is that he would have been

captured, for Stackhouse was bent upon having him if he could compass

it by any possibility. Neither of the detectives was well mounted;

they were on hired hacks, which rebelled against being put to an

inconvenient pace. They had not been accustomed to gallop up hill, and

resolutely refused to accede to such an unreasonable proposition.

Stackhouse’s horse became restive, and had he not been a good rider

the chances were that he would have come to grief; but the urgency of

the case demanded desperate efforts on the part of the detectives.

Peace, when he reached the brow of the hill, turned sharply round into

a narrow bridle road. He traversed this, and then took another

turning, at the end of which were three cross roads.

Upon reaching this point, which he had done without attracting the

observation of those who were giving chase, he took the road which led

direct to Forest-hill.

Now he put Tommy out again to the fullest extent of his speed, and,

looking back, he could nowhere perceive the two detectives.

He had succeeded in doubling upon them; they did not arrive at the

cross roads till long after he was out of sight.

“He’s done us,” cried Clayton――“given us the slip in a most knowing,

clever way. There’s no telling which road he has taken, and, to mend

matters, my horse is as lame as a cub and as obstinate as a mule.”

“He’s the very devil himself, I do believe,” said Stackhouse. “Why,

what a pony he must have to be sure! But it’s no use hesitating――which

road had we better take?”

“I leave that to you, my friend. I should say, the one which leads

direct to London; he would be sure to go that way.”

“All right――then on we go.”

They did go on, as fast as their two hacks would take them. But mile

after mile was covered, yet not the faintest trace could they find of

Charles Peace.

Clayton was rather nettled.

“And suppose after all he is not the man. A pretty pair of fools we’ve

been making of ourselves,” said he.

“We’ve had a pleasant evening’s ride.”

“Pleasant you call it――I can’t see it in that light myself.”

“It won’t do either of us any harm.”

“Well, we shan’t find him now wherever he may be.”

“I’m afraid not. So here is a roadside house, we’ll give it up then

and dismount.”

The two officers went into the house and partook of some refreshment.

Meanwhile Charles Peace had been urging on Tommy, who never relaxed

his speed till Forest-hill was reached.

It then became painfully evident that the faithful little creature was

greatly distressed. He stumbled two or three times, and Peace

observed, with the deepest concern, that the pony was all of a

tremble.

“My poor Tommy!” he ejaculated. “I fear I’ve asked too much of you.

Hang it,” he said, in continuation, “but the pony is bad――can’t hold

itself still.”

The animal in question was in a complete lather, and was snorting and

panting in a manner that was painful to behold. Every now and then it

gave a cry of pain which went to the heart of its master.

“Ah, my faithful friend,” mused Peace; “you have saved my life; but at

what cost? and I dare not risk remaining here, though I have every

reason to believe that these bloodhounds are no longer on my track.”

He had at this time come to a halt, and listened intently to ascertain

if there were sounds of coming horsemen. All was, however, quiet, and

he had every reason to believe that the danger was over. He therefore

let the pony trot along at an easy pace, but even while doing this he

found that he every now and then staggered and appeared to be in

danger of falling from sheer weakness, so that it was a hard job for

him to reach the Evalina-road.

CHAPTER CXII.

A PAINFUL SCENE――THE DEATH OF TOMMY――PEACE’S GRIEF.

When Charles Peace arrived at his own residence he was almost as bad

as his steed. It was only by a miracle that he had escaped being

captured. Stackhouse was of course very well acquainted with all the

particulars concerning the Bannercross murder, and should he, Peace,

come across him, an ignominous death would be sure to follow as a

natural consequence, for the “gentleman of independent means” felt

that he could not impose upon the Sheffield detective. All things

considered, it was most necessary that the latter should not trace the

murder of Mr. Dyson to his residence in Peckham. Stackhouse, although

he affected to be quite certain as to our hero’s identity, was by no

means so well assured as he professed to be to his brother officer.

And in addition to this there were other circumstances which conspired

to break the thread of the clue.

Stackhouse was only in London for a few days, and after the chase

described in our last chapter, he returned to Sheffield upon other but

less important business. He told the officials there that he believed

he saw Charles Peace in front of a roadside inn at Sydenham; but the

general impression seemed to be that he was mistaken, and so the

matter was suffered to drop.

When the pony had been taken out of the trap, its master saw that it

was in a very sad condition; there was no use attempting to disguise

this fact, which was self-evident.

Tommy had not been quite right for some days before this. It had a

cold, and was out of order in other ways, but nothing very serious was

supposed to be the matter. A mash was given, and the usual remedies

applied, but the enormous stress that had been put upon it on this

ill-fated evening seemed too much for the beautiful little creature.

Peace removed the valuables from his trap, and concealed them in his

usual hiding-place. When this had been done he rubbed down the pony,

and tended it as carefully and affectionately as a mother does her pet

child. He was greatly concerned about the animal, perhaps quite as

much so as he had been about himself during the fearful half hour or

so he had driven so recklessly to save his worthless life. He was

greatly dispirited and depressed, and in this instance he had to keep

all his troubles to himself. It would never do to let the women of his

establishment know the danger he had passed through, or the real cause

of the change that had come so suddenly over his Tommy.

His thoughts, as may be readily imagined, were by no means pleasant

ones, and for upwards of two hours did he sit in the stable watching

his steed and musing upon the present and the past, and it might be

trembling for the future, like a guilty remorseless miscreant as he

was, for however callous and selfish a man of his type may be, he

cannot be altogether dead to the silent monitor within.

He had obtained a considerable amount of booty by his night’s

depredation, and it is surprising, seeing the amount of property that

fell into his hands, that he was not a rich man. It is a wonder where

all the money went to, and the probability is that he did not know

himself. It came and it went, how it would be difficult to say.

Upon his entering his domicile, he found both his ladies in the

parlour with Willie Ward. As a rule they did not ask him any

questions, or rather no more than was absolutely necessary, but they

were at no loss to divine that something had “put him out.” His brow

grew dark when spoken to, and his answers were sharp and by no means

agreeable in either tone or manner, and so but little was said by any

member of the select family. When he did not desire conversation, he

had recourse to an ingenious device――he took up his violin and

directed Willie Ward to accompany him with the guitar. He knew

perfectly well that his female companions would much prefer “magging,”

as he termed it, and sometimes he was disposed to indulge them, but he

was not on this particular evening; he was not in a mood to listen to

their discourse; he therefore laid hold of the fiddle he had bought at

the sale of Doctor Bourne’s effects, and began to play a prelude.

Willie was always but too glad to join in, and he began twanging at

one of the guitars.

The two females listened to the music complacently enough, but they,

of course, had had quite enough of it, and, first of all, Mrs. Peace

went into the kitchen on some excuse or another; in a short time she

was followed by Mrs. Thompson. Then a discussion ensued as to the

cause of Peace’s moody manner, and both agreed that something or

someone had put him out.

However, after putting his goat through some tricks and amusing

himself with one or two more of his pets, his ruffled temper became a

little more smooth, and Charles Peace was himself again.

The women returned to the parlour. A game or two of whist was played,

and then Peace arose, and said he must go into the stable.

“Into the stable?” said Mrs. Thompson, in surprise.

“Yes,” cried our hero. “I don’t like the look of Tommy――he’s very

queer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed Mrs. Peace; “but he’ll be better in

a day or two, I suppose?”

“I’m not so sure about that. He’s very bad, poor little fellow――refuses

his food.”

“May I go with you?” said Willie.

“Aye, if you like. Come along.”

“Oh, that’s what’s put him out,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“I knew there was something the matter. It’s the pony. Well, that’s a

bad job.”

“He cares a deal more for Tommy than he does for either of us――you may

rest assured of that. But then, you see, the faithful little animal

don’t cross him; so there is, after all, good reason for his

attachment.”

“He likes to have it all his own way. It’s the case with most men.”

“He’s got a temper――that all who know anything of him will readily

admit. But so have we all, I suppose.”

“I hope I’ve got a better temper than he has.”

“I dare say you have; but you mustn’t run Charles down. He’s not such

a bad sort after all――there’s many worse than him.”

The two women went on bandying words for some time. There was nothing

new in this; it was their custom, and had been so ever since they had

become acquainted with each other. It was, as we have before

indicated, not altogether perfect harmony in the house in the

Evalina-road, and wrangles were of frequent occurrence. It was perhaps

in the nature and order of things that this should be so.

Meanwhile Peace and Willie were busily engaged in the stables. The

pony seemed to be in great pain――he would not take his food for all

Peace’s coaxing――he was restless and fidgetty; nevertheless he pricked

up his ears, and strove to put a better face on matters when spoken to

and caressed by his master, but with all this it was easy to perceive

that he was not in his usual health. As a rule our hero was not

accustomed to give way to despair――his naturally sanguine temperament

led him to look difficulties or troubles in the face. Had this not

been so, he never could possibly have gone through what he had

throughout his guilty and chequered career. Without doubt he was a

most remarkable individual. The sanguine man can bridge over

difficulties, which one of the opposite nature would perhaps sink

under. His future, he will admit, presents the possibility of failure

or mischance, as well as the possibility of good fortune and success,

but with him the preponderance is immensely in favour of the

realisation of his wishes.

Let him make up his mind that the attainment of a certain object is

desirable and he has a wonderful knack of persuading himself that it

is easily attainable.

He will muse over it until he has clearly realised not merely the bare

object that would be all that would present itself to an ordinary

imagination, but the thing itself, decked out in all the tinsel and

trappings which a fervid fancy can create.

With him it is the goal which shines out large and luminous, and it is

the obstacles to be overcome in reaching it that are too hazy and

insignificant to be worth serious consideration.

The future always presents probabilities of both, but to the naturally

despondent and apprehensive the balance is always in favour of

mischance.

Both these peculiarities of character are open to serious objections,

and if a man might choose his mental constitution for himself no doubt

he would be wise to keep clear of both extremes. For all the ordinary

purposes of life the capability of regarding the future under the

clear and cold light of reason, untinged by the delusive colouring of

hopes and fears, is very valuable.

He who can do this will not be daunted by imaginary difficulties, or

waste his powers by needless preparation to meet them, and, on the

other hand, he will not court failure by undertaking the tasks that

lie before him, and neglecting to make due allowances for

contingencies.

But if the choice lay between the over-anxious and the over-sanguine

temperament, then for all the purposes of an active and happy life the

hopeful is infinitely preferable.

It is just possible that excessive care and caution would in the long

run more often prove right in judgment than injudicious hope; but even

that is perhaps doubtful.

Not merely the unforeseen, but that which cannot be foreseen by the

most anxious vigilance, is so potent a factor in human affairs that

the fortuitous and accidental may perhaps be said to shape as many of

our ends as all our cares can do.

Moreover, anxiety and fear and morbid apprehension are quite as

distorting as high-flown hope and confidence.

But even though it be granted that the more cautious temperament is

the safer of the two, any advantage in this way is more than

counterbalanced by the pluck and energy which a boundless hopefulness

is able to inspire.

There is, it must be confessed, very little “go” to be got out of

those who are habitually given to a despondent and over-anxious view

of things, however useful they may be as skids upon wheels that are

apt to go too fast; while, all the world over, it is and always has

been those who are dazzled by the brilliancy and colour in which they

themselves deck out the future who have done the greatest deeds and

excited the greatest influence.

All history almost has been made, wars have been waged, freedoms have

been won, dynasties have been overthrown, reforms have been brought

about, inventions have been perfected, not by men who have been

pre-eminent for their skill in forecasting difficulties, but by those

who have insanely “laughed at impossibilities.”

No doubt great caution as well as great hope has been characteristic

of many of the foremost men of history, but as a rule the greatest of

human works have been accomplished by those whose cautious fears and

prudent foresight have continually been borne down by their sanguine

temperament or some equivalent to it.

The utterances of oracles, the reading of the stars, omens and

prophecies, witchcraft and palmistry, and every other species of

infatuation have at all times been called in to inspire just that

confident hope with which capricious Nature has so largely endowed

some of her children, while to others of them she seems to have denied

it altogether.

That an over-sanguine person is incapable of taking an altogether safe

view of things, and that he is always in more or less peril, is true;

but it is also true that his very delusions are the source of an

energy and daring which must always be wanting to the timorous and

despondent.

His infatuation may, no doubt, be regarded as merely a mild phase of

insanity, since he will often see that which to the soberest sense is

undiscernible, while he often appears blind and deaf to the most

obvious facts before him. But if the delusions are akin to those of a

madman, the strength and the daring are the madman’s too.

Undoubtedly he who has this temperament should be regarded as one of

fortune’s favourites. The light that leads him on may often prove

delusive, but it does not always do so, and even when it does it sheds

a cheery glow upon his path that enables him to enjoy his life as he

goes along, and at times permits him to revel in the anticipation of

successes that are never to be his.

Cowards die many times before their death; The valiant never taste

of death but once,

says Cæsar. In the same sense the hopeful individual enjoys good

fortune many times, the anxious and despondent only once; and

sometimes not at all.

A more important consideration is the fact that whereas the cares, and

worries, and disappointments of life have a natural tendency to

intensify the over anxiety and apprehensiveness of those who yield to

a proneness in that direction, they tend in an ordinary way to correct

the opposite fault.

There are, it is true, some to whom experience seems to bring little

wisdom, and there are still more to whom experience brings wisdom,

only when it is too late to be very effective; but as a rule the

individual who starts in life with a superabundant dash of the buoyant

and hopeful in his composition, starts with, no doubt, a somewhat

perilous fault, but yet with a fault which time and experience will

greatly modify and reduce; while he who is wanting in this faculty of

hope has a no less serious flaw in his composition, and one which,

unless he strive against it, time and experience will but increase.

The sanguine temperament and self-reliant nature of Peace caused him

to surmount difficulties which other men would have sunk under. And

had he turned his thoughts and mind more in a proper direction, he had

sufficient qualities to have caused him to have cut a respectable

figure in the world; but it was not in his nature to abstain from

wrong-doing.

He was guided by no moral principle, but had been radically wrong from

his earliest childhood.

But we must return to the stable to which Peace and Willie Ward had

betaken themselves. The former was much concerned at beholding the

pony rear on its hind legs as if in pain; then the faithful animal

dropped on all fours again and looked inquiringly at his master.

In a minute or so after this a sudden shivering seemed to seize the

pony, who trembled in every limb, at the same time snorting like a war

charger.

“Poor little fellow! he is bad,” cried Willie, in a tone of alarm. “I

never saw him like this before. What can be the matter with him?”

“That’s not easy to say. He’s dreadfully bad at present, but he’ll get

better after a bit.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh! he’ll get better.”

Peace, despite the symptoms, which were of a serious character, was

still sanguine.

He strove to put the best face on the matter, and proceeded at once to

prepare a bran mash.

In this he was assisted by his step-son. “Tommy” was the most docile,

tractable little animal it was well possible to conceive, and took his

mash without hesitation.

“Will that do him good?” said the lad.

“I hope so,” returned Peace. “It is a simple remedy, and can’t do him

any harm.”

Peace endeavoured to get the pony to take his food; he led him to the

manger, and strove by every means in his power to persuade him to eat.

Tommy swallowed a few mouthfuls of oats, but this was evidently an

effort.

Presently he turned away from the manger and lay down upon the clean

straw which his master had previously prepared for him.

“We will leave him now,” said Peace. “Quiet and rest will do more than

we can do for him. Come along.”

The two passed out of the stable and returned to the parlour of No. 4.

“How is the poor little fellow?” inquired Mrs. Peace.

“I don’t like his looks. Very bad. I wish to goodness Bill would drop

in.”

“He was here when you were away,” said Mrs. Thompson.

“What! this afternoon?”

“Yes, between five and six o’clock.”

“Did he leave any message?”

“Said he would call to-morrow, in the early part of the day.”

“That’s well. Bill will be able to set him right if any man can. I

wish he was here now.”

“Whatever is the matter with the animal?” cried Mrs. Peace.

“He’s been driven at too sharp a pace for one thing, and in the next

he has been ailing for some days past. Bill will pull him together.”

“I’m sure I hope he may, but――――”

“But what?” said our hero, sharply.

“Why drive him beyond his pace?”

“Mind your own business. What do you know about the matter? Nobody

asked you for your opinion, which aint worth much at any time.”

His partner was silent. She knew perfectly well that he was irritable,

and would, to use a common phrase, “quarrel with a straw,” so she said

no more.

Peace bore up bravely against adverse circumstances, but his rencontre

with the Sheffield policeman troubled him much. There was no telling

what might follow. If he discovered the burglar’s snug retreat at

Peckham the game would be up.

As he reflected on this Peace’s brow grew dark, and his face wore a

troubled expression.

He had, however, a great desire to conceal from his two female

associates the trouble that for a time so seriously depressed him; he

therefore assumed an air of bravado, and discoursed upon matters in a

reckless and over-confident tone. Luckily at this juncture a neighbour

dropped in; this was a great relief, a little music followed, and

finally a game of cards, so by this means he was enabled to get

through the remainder of the evening. Before he went to bed, however,

he went into the stable and had another look at “Tommy,” who was

evidently in great pain; the poor animal could not rest for long in

one position. After attending to him Peace retired to rest.

Between twelve and one on the following morning Bandy-legged Bill

presented himself at the house in the Evalina-road. Peace was

overjoyed to see him.

“Well, Bill, old man, I’m glad you’ve called――have been anxiously

watching for you,” cried Peace.

“Oh, indeed; anything up?”

“Tommy’s very bad, cursedly bad. I don’t know what to make of him. I

want you to see if you can put him right.”

“Bad――eh? Attacked suddenly?”

“Well, yes, it is a bit sudden. But come into the stable and have a

look at him.”

“Right you are; I’ll see to him.”

The two went into the stable, and Mr. Rawton at once proceeded in the

most professional manner possible to make a careful examination of his

equine patient.

“Well, what do you make of him? inquired Peace, in an anxious tone.

“Umph!” murmured the gipsy. “He’s as bad as a ’oss well can be, that’s

what I make of him. He’s got a fever.”

“A fever!”

“There aint the least doubt of that, and the chances are――――”

“Are what?” cried our hero.

“That it ull finish him.”

“Don’t say that, Bill.”

“Aye, but I must say it. I think I ought to know something about

’osses by this time. Can’t you see that he keeps grinding his teeth,

that his eyes are distended, and that every now and then he is

convulsed. His sight and hearing, too, are both evidently affected,

and he is unable to swallow.”

Peace groaned and said――

“As bad as that, eh?”

“Has he been overdriven?” observed the gipsy.

“Yes, he has.”

“I thought so, and by whom?”

“By me.”

Peace hereupon proceeded to put the gipsy in possession of all those

facts with which the reader is already acquainted.

“Ah, Charlie,” said Rawton, after the narrative had been brought to a

conclusion; “you’ve knocked him silly. A ’oss is pretty much like a

man in many respects. If you make him do more than he ought to do it’s

pretty sure to find him out, even as it finds us out. He’s a purty

creature, was a free goer-he was none of you sleepy-headed brutes.

Worse luck, perhaps, seeing as how he’s done so much for his master.

Why, lor’ bless yer, he’d ha’ gone till he dropped――that’s what he’d

ha’ done. Don’t I know it――haven’t I put him into a pelting pace

myself afore now?”

“You have, and he was none the worse for it.”

“That’s just where it is――he was none the worse for it, but I expect

as how it was nothing to what you made him do.”

“I dare say not, but in my case there was no help for it.”

“I don’t deny that. I aint a blamin’ you. Should have done the same

thing myself under similar circumstances, but that doesn’t alter

matters as far as he is concerned. I’m afraid he’s done for.”

“Done for! You surely don’t mean that?”

“Ye see,” said Mr. Rawton, in an oracular manner, “I’ve had to do with

’osses ever since I was a youngster――a mere kid in a manner of

speaking――and can therefore judge pretty well about this ’ere animal.

He’s got a fever, he’s dull and heavy, his head hangs down, there’s a

chilliness about him, a staring coat, coldness on the surface and at

the extremities, and every now and then a shivering fit. These are the

first symptoms of what we call symptomatic fever.”

“Well, but can’t you do something for him?” cried Peace.

“I’ll do all I can――that you may rest assured of, but I can’t promise

you to effect a cure. I may, it is true, but I’m doubtful. He’s been

overdriven, that is one thing against him, but no doubt the disease

would have come on whether he had been overdriven or not.”

Bill Rawton went out at once and purchased at the nearest chemist’s

some drugs, which he made up into laxative balls, two of which he gave

to the pony. After this he took a small quantity of blood from his

patient, which seemed to afford great relief.

“Oh, you’ll pull him through,” cried Peace.

The gipsy shook his head.

“I’m afraid of it, Charlie,” said he. “It’s no manner of use

attempting to buoy oneself up by false hopes. I am afraid you must

make up your mind to lose the faithful little creature who’s done his

best for you, and has paid the penalty.”

Peace was sadly depressed as he listened to the words the gipsy had

let fall. Still he clung to hope, even as a drowning man clings to a

straw.

“It’s a bad business,” he murmured in a sorrowful tone――“a dreadful

business. It was a fatal evening, upon which I had to fly for my very

life.”

“It’s ugly altogether,” returned Rawton, “for one doesn’t know what

may follow.”

“There, that will do. Don’t make matters worse for us by anticipating

fresh misfortunes. Look after Tommy, and do your best for him. I’ll

leave him in your hands.”

“Are you going anywhere, then?”

“Yes, to Whitechapel.”

“Very well, I’ll do my best.”

“And so I leave my favourite in your hands for the present.”

Peace took his departure, and Rawton remained.

He did not leave the Evalina-road for the remainder of that day.

Peace returned at about dusk.

To his inquiry in the house, he was informed by Mrs. Thompson that the

gipsy was in the stable, and that he, the gipsy, had informed her some

hour or more ago that the pony was not expected to live.

Peace went into the stable, and found his equine pet stretched on the

floor. Rawton was kneeling by its side, and had its head on one of his

knees.

“Well,” cried Peace――“what news?”

“He’s a dead un,” returned the gipsy. “All his troubles are over. I’ve

done all it was possible for a man to do, but couldn’t save him, poor

little fellow!”

Peace sat himself down on an inverted pail, covered his face with his

hands, and burst into tears.

“It aint of no manner of use giving way so,” said Rawton. “It was to

be. I said so the moment I set eyes upon him this ’ere morning. There

wasn’t a ghost of a chance.”

“I’ve lost my best friend――my faithful companion,” murmured Peace.

“Ah, Bill, but this is terrible.”

“It may be so, but there are worse misfortunes than this. Keep your

pecker up, and don’t take on so. You laughed at me a few days ago when

I gave you an account of Hester Teige. Now you are worse than what I

was.”

“I would have given anything to have saved him.”

“So would I, but it wasn’t to be done――so it’s no manner of use

talking about it; ’cause why, talking or mourning won’t bring him to

life again.”

“Of course, I know that very well, but I can’t help grieving. He was

my pet, was to me as faithful and docile as a dog. There never was

such a faithful creature, and I have killed him. That’s what makes me

so miserable――I have killed him.”

“You’ve done nothing of the sort. He was bad at the time, and it is

likely enough that he would have died just the same if he had not been

put out to such a killing pace. Cheer up, Charlie, it can’t be helped,

there are other ponies in the world.”

“Ah, but not like him, none like him.”

“Maybe there are, who knows?”

“Ah, who, indeed? Not I.”

Despite the exhortations of Rawton, Peace could not readily get over

the poignant sorrow he felt at the loss of his pony.

This may appear strange with one of his callous temperament. But the

fact remains the same, and many persons could testify to the great

grief he demonstrated on this occasion.

It passed over, however, in the course of a few days, and Charles

Peace was then himself again.

CHAPTER CXIII.

MISS LAURA STANBRIDGE MAKES A MISTAKE――CAUGHT IN THE ACT.

Laura Stanbridge throughout her lawless career had been singularly

fortunate in escaping detection. She was known or suspected rather of

being a receiver of stolen goods, and while following this occupation

she had as yet not been entangled in the meshes of that net which the

law throws out to catch the unwary or less fortunate criminal.

But no one is wise at all times, and such was proved to be the case

with Miss Stanbridge.

Actuated by a mad impulse, or, it might be, from the desire of

excitement, this unprincipled woman chose to do a little robbery on

her own account.

There was no occasion for it, for she was rich, and therefore had not

the excuse of extreme need; but nevertheless she could not resist the

impulse.

She was stopping for a day or two in a small country town in the north

of England.

Clickborne, the place in question, was one of those clean dull towns

where the streets are always white, the pavement equally so, likewise

the houses.

Some persons called it a pretty place, and, as far as cleanliness and

salubrity were concerned, there was perhaps no reason for complaint.

But it resembled a huge white sepulchre――the names over the doors

forming the epitaphs, the cries of the commercial vagrants forming the

funeral hymn.

This is, perhaps, not a very flattering description of the place, but

it is one which a journalist gave in one of the London newspapers. We

do not, of course, vouch for its accuracy, for journalists are prone

at times to sacrifice truth to effect. That it was clean and

apparently dull is beyond all question.

Suddenly, however, the principal street was thrown into a state of the

greatest excitement. Windows were flung open, and a crowd of faces

protruded. Beggars basking in the sunshine returned to their feet, and

to an unpleasant consciousness of their starvation, which, while in a

dormant state they had perhaps forgotten; dogs awoke from their

slumbers, and aroused the neighbourhood with their sharp barks;

pigeons descended and fluttered round the cause of all this startle

and disturbance.

There was nothing of any great importance to cause all this flutter

and outcry, but the Clickbornites were very impressible, it would

appear.

The cause was simply this.

A lady elegantly dressed was walking quietly along the right-hand side

of the street, toying with a green silk parasol between her lavender

gloved fingers. The Clickbornites watched with a curiosity as

unfeigned as it was undisguised.

She was a lady, or supposed to be such――anyway she had the appearance

of one, and therefore it was taken for granted that she was such, and

she was dressed in the height of fashion――she was therefore not only a

stranger but a prodigy.

Now in most country towns there is one shop which is as large as

three, and which employs a fabulous number of young men. In some towns

it is a grocer’s, in others it is a fine art repository, in Clickborne

it was a draper’s.

Before the door of this well-known establishment one might see at a

certain hour handsome carriages, which were driven into Clickborne

every afternoon when the weather was fine.

It was also patronised by young gentlemen incipient in dandyism, who

attempted with Clickbornian scarfs and collars to rival the exquisites

of Bond-street or Belgravia, for it must be noted that in addition to

the drapery department there was one devoted to hosiery of every

conceivable description.

Every town, remote as it may be, and rude as its inhabitants may

appear, has yet its fashionable hours. In Clickborne no one shopped

till the afternoon; therefore when they saw the strange lady enter the

great shop at noon, the sensation rose to a climax, and the crowd

increased. It does not take much to arouse the curiosity of persons

who locate themselves in the country; there is generally such a dearth

of objects to create excitement that the good folks avail themselves

of any excuse for a surprise.

In half an hour’s time the lady reappeared. Her veil was raised.

Before she wore it down. However, they had time to see that she was

beautiful. Her handsome face inspired the male passengers with awe,

the females with envy, and the beggars with hope, although hard

experience teaches us that the ugliest people are the most charitable.

Beauty is a shrine at which we involuntarily worship, and which we

ever invest with the attributes of compassion. This is evidenced but

too frequently; and it is not possible for the most determined

caviller to contravene. In trials we invariably find that there is but

little interest manifested by the outside public in a female prisoner

who is unmistakeably plain or ugly.

The lady to whom we are now referring was almost lost sight of round

the distant corner, when the shop door was suddenly opened and three

young men rushed out into the middle of the street with bare heads and

a wonder-struck expression on their countenances. On perceiving the

lady they gave a shout, and rushed after her like harriers.

The excitement was by this time at its height. What could it mean? was

the question repeatedly asked, but which no one seemed able to answer.

The spectators poured down from their windows to their doors, and from

their doors into the street. Something extraordinary had taken place,

and everyone was desirous of knowing what that something was.

They saw the shopmen leading back the fashionably-dressed female, who

expostulated with them loudly. She was most indignant, and told them

that they should be severely punished for the indignity they had

offered her.

One of them carried a bundle of lace in his hand, which, with a

triumphant wave of his hand, he presented to the owner of the Titanic

establishment, who, panting and almost breathless, had come up with

his subordinates.

They were immediately surrounded by a horde of men, women, and

children, who had come to see what was the matter. These persons cried

out in loud voices, and, addressing themselves to the master draper,

asked what the poor thing had done.

There was a general feeling of sympathy for the lady manifested by the

crowd, some of whom were disposed to take her part at all hazards.

The proprietor of the drapery establishment saw this, and he appealed

to them impetuously. He was not very logical, but that did not much

matter.

“Was it right,” he said to the gaping bystanders, “that he should

have, he’d be afraid to say how many pounds worth of lace, lifted out

of his shop without trying to protect himself?”

“Oh, gammon and all!” cried a rough navigator, who had been working on

the line for the last few weeks.

“No gammon, my man,” said the draper, with sudden warmth, “it’s a

fact. Isn’t it a duty I owe to myself and to all my brethren in the

trade to resent such an act――to punish the perpetrator? Isn’t it

incumbent on me as a Christian and a church-goer to expose such

dishonest practices? I ask you that.”

“I always thought it was the duty of a Christian to forgive his

enemies,” said the navigator. “Leastways, that’s what I’ve bin taught,

guv’nor.”

“You mind your own business, my friend,” cried the draper, “and I’ll

mind mine.”

“Don’t you attempt to cheek me,” said the navigator, who stuck to his

post manfully――“’cause I tell yer plainly I aint one as ell stand it.

You may keep a fine shop, but that’s no reason for your being better

than other people. Let the woman alone, and if so be as she’s done

anything wrong, she’ll have to answer for it; but I don’t b’lieve she

has.”

“No more do I,” cried another.

One of the town’s people, touched by the beauty and sadness of the

prisoner, put in a word for her. He besought the draper to take his

goods back, and pass the matter over as a mistake, which he hoped it

really was.

“No, no, my friend,” said the tradesman, “I’m for making an example of

persons of this description. I’m as straight as an arrow myself, and

there is but one course to pursue. I’ve sent one of my lads for a

policeman. I pay him by the day, and I can’t afford to let him waste

his time.”

“But, my dear fellow, consider――” interposed the townsman, who had

before spoken.

“I have considered. If it was a poor man who tried to steal something

because he was sick or starving, it would be a different thing

altogether――I might take compassion on him; but look at the clothes

the woman has on, they are of the most costly description. I can’t

afford to dress my wife like that, although I work hard and have done

so early and late for the last thirty years.”

“You work hard!” exclaimed the navigator, in evident disgust.

“You don’t know what work is. Come along wi’ me, and I’ll show yer.”

“I don’t want to have any conversation with you,” cried the draper.

“Shut up, then,” said the navigator. “Go back to your flarey shop, and

let the woman go about her business.”

“I have no answer to make to this man,” said the other, addressing

himself to the crowd.

By this time one of the rural police had succeeded in squeezing his

way through the crowd of persons.

The circumstances were explained to him, and the stolen articles

displayed. He endeavoured to look as wise as he could, reflected for a

few moments, and then said, interrogatively――

“Do you charge her?”

“Of course I do――charge her with robbery, with shoplifting.”

“She couldn’t lift your shop, old man, if she tried ever so,” said the

navigator, “so don’t tell no lies.”

At this there was a roar of laughter from the crowd.

“You have him there and no mistake,” cried one.

“So you charge her then?” again repeated the policeman.

“Yes; do your duty,” returned the draper majestically, “sawing the

air” with his right arm.

“You must come with me to the station-house,” said the constable,

addressing himself to Miss Stanbridge.

She bowed her head without speaking, and walked quietly by his side.

“I should like to land him one on his nose,” said the navigator to a

companion in the crowd. “That’s what I should like to do.”

“What’s that you are saying? Have a care,” cried a ci-devant

detective. “If you don’t you will get yourself into trouble, my man.”

“Ugh! he aint worth getting into trouble for,” answered the navigator;

“so I shall step it. Make your mind easy, old penny-three-farthings a

yard. I hope she’ll be discharged by the beak.” And with these words

the knight of the pick and spade took himself off.

“I should say she’s an old hand,” observed the detective. This is a

conclusion they generally arrive at in cases of this sort.

“Why is she an old hand?” inquired a butcher of the town. “Tell us

that. Do you know her?”

“Can’t say that I do,” returned the detective, “but, you see, a raw

thief would have turned as white as a turnip when the man said

‘station-house,’ and cried a pailful of tears, pretty nigh. But this

moll’s too clever to waste words and tears when it’s no use. She can

see that the old man means pulling her, and she knows well enough, I

dare say, that one might as well talk to a post as a ‘bobby,’

specially a country ‘bobby.’ Only wait till to-morrow, and you’ll see

how white her cheeks and how red her eyes will get.”

“Well, she didn’t look like a thief to me,” said the butcher, “and as

to her being an old hand, I don’t b’lieve it. It’s all moonshine.”

Laura Stanbridge was lodged very roughly that night, and brought up

the next morning before two of the borough magistrates.

As the detective had predicted, her cheeks were very pale, and her

eyes inflamed with weeping, but in her case they were real tears.

She bitterly regretted having been so imprudent as to commit so

foolish and unnecessary a robbery; indeed, she could not very well

understand what induced her to run such a risk, and for the greater

portion of the night she was plunged into the very depths of sorrow.

Her tears and protestations of innocence, combined with her beauty,

might, perhaps have saved her if her judges had been gentlemen of the

country, who, as a rule, take a merciful view of cases of this

description. But they were tradesmen.

The injured draper was a magistrate himself, and, though not allowed

to act in his own case, sat close to the Bench, which he watched with

his eyes.

[Sidenote: No. 60.]

[Illustration: THE YOUNG CHAPLAIN STARTED AS HE BEHELD THE GRACEFUL

FORM OF THE PRISONER.]

The consequence was that they committed Miss Stanbridge――or Clara

Johnson, as she called herself, upon this occasion――for trial.

After this had been effected the three magistrates returned to their

counters――one to sell reels of cotton marked with mendacious numbers;

the second to regulate his false weights and measures; the third to

superintend the adulteration of articles of food of various

descriptions.

The fair culprit was then placed between two policemen and escorted to

the gaol, followed by a ragged and sympathising crowd. Indeed, it was

impossible not to be affected by her face――so dignified, so pale, and

so resigned.

Clickborne Gaol is one of the prettiest specimens of the model prisons

in this country. We may contrast it with those of the old style, as we

contrast the fairy-like colleges of Cambridge with the grand

picturesque but sombre piles of the senior university.

Built of no dark grey stone, but of variegated bricks, which were

adorned with fantastic designs and with an assemblage of graceful and

picturesque little turrets, it presented nothing of the appearance of

a receptacle for thieves and lawless characters, with the exception of

thick bars before the windows, and in the ponderous locks attached to

the doors.

Laura Stanbridge was conducted by the deputy-governor and the head

turnkey of the prison to a building separated from the establishment

by the ground in which the prisoners were exercised. The

deputy-governor preceded them up a flight of stone steps, and knocked

at a small iron door. It was instantly thrown open, and two women of

repulsive appearance stood before them. They were both dressed in

black, and both had ponderous bunches of keys suspended at their

girdles.

Laura was forcibly impressed with the depressing nature of all these

formalities, but she bore up as best she could, and endeavoured to put

a good face on the matter.

Having handed over the prisoner to the care of these ogresses, the

deputy-governor and turnkey returned to their own sphere of action. No

man was permitted to enter the female ward but the governor, the

chaplain, the visiting justices, and the surgeon; and so, having

handed Miss Stanbridge over to the female warders, her two male

conductors retired.

The shoplifter would have much preferred their remaining, for, to say

the truth, she had more faith in those of the opposite sex than she

had in her own.

But the rules of the prison could not be infringed, and she therefore

submitted to them with the best grace possible.

She was taken to a reception cell and subjected to the usual course of

bathing and searching, with those thousand indignities which felons

and suspected persons have to suffer. When this was over she was

conducted to her cell, which was on the same model as those of the

male prisons, and which has been described in a previous chapter of

this work.

Miss Stanbridge was disgusted with her narrow prison-house, and she

did not fail to express her dissatisfaction.

“Pray tell me,” said she, in angry tone, “is it customary to put

prisoners before their trial in such a miserable hole as this?”

“Most certainly it is,” was the answer of her janiters. “We have no

other cells.”

“Then I must tell you plainly that I think it an act of great

injustice,” said Laura――-“of gross injustice! Am I to understand that

a prisoner before conviction is treated in the same manner as a

prisoner sentenced to imprisonment, without hard labour, after

conviction?”

“Well, yes, she is. Unless she happens to have money.”

“Oh, indeed. Money, eh?”

“Yes.”

“And what if she has?”

“Oh, that makes all the difference.”

“Does it? Then it’s still more discreditable. Well, assuming she has

money――what then?”

“She will be allowed to buy books, clothes, and food.”

“Will she?”

“Certainly.”

“And bedding and furniture?” she asked, glancing at the bed which was

rolled up and bound by a strap, and at a wooden stool with no back to

it by the wall.”

“You cannot buy furniture; the governor would object to any prisoners

making themselves so comfortable in prison. He might perhaps let you

have a chair or an extra blanket to your bed; but, of course, we are

only subordinates. It rests with the governor.”

“Whom I cannot see, I suppose?”

“Oh, you can see him whenever you like. He is a very genial gentleman,

and does all he can to make prisoners comfortable who behave

themselves――but they must behave properly.”

“I am not likely to misbehave myself,” said Miss Stanbridge, “but I

must tell you frankly that it appears to me that suspected felons are

not allowed so many comforts as convicted first-class misdemeanants,

who are swindlers, and therefore only felons on a grander scale.”

She pointed to the rule which applied to the treatment of first-class

misdemeanants, and which she had discovered with her first glance at

the printed board.

“We don’t make the rules,” said one of the female warders.

“I don’t say you do. All I object to is being treated like a guilty

person before conviction. I am innocent, and this I shall be able to

prove when my trial comes on.”

The women smiled.

“You don’t believe me?” cried Miss Stanbridge.

“Everybody is innocent until found guilty,” was the quick response.

“I don’t expect much sympathy from anyone here; but that does not so

much matter. While I am here awaiting my trial it is but fair that I

should be treated with some little consideration.”

“Certainly you will be――without doubt.”

“I can send for my luggage, I suppose?”

“If you choose to do so you can. Where is it?”

“At the hotel where I was stopping when this shameful charge was

made.”

“We have a prison messenger, who will fetch your luggage if you pay

him for doing so.”

“I will pay him,” cried Miss Stanbridge.

“You forget, perhaps,” observed one of the women, “that you had only

seven-and-sixpence in your purse.”

“I do not forget. I have good friends who will assist me in the hour

of my trial and trouble. I am not without means.”

Upon this both the women were much more conciliatory in their manner.

“We will do our best to make you as comfortable as possible,” they

both ejaculated. “We always do that to those who have the misfortune

to be charged with any offence.”

“You are very kind, I’m sure,” cried Miss Stanbridge, with something

like irony in her tone.

“You had better let me keep the seven and sixpence,” said one of the

female warders, “and pay it to the prison servant to clean your cell,

otherwise you will have to do it yourself every morning.”

“Clean it myself! Is that in the rules?”

“Yes, it is a rule always exacted.”

“Very well, I’ll leave the amount in your hands. That will be the best

course to adopt――won’t it?”

“I think so. There is a bye-law in most gaols against prisoners

keeping their own money. Besides, you know you would soon spoil your

fine clothes if you elected to clean your own cell, which I suppose

you won’t think of doing?”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

“Then in that case you had better wear the prison dress if you mean to

do prison work. It is grey cloth, very comfortable and becoming.”

“May I wear it in addition to this dress?”

“Oh, dear me, no; you must wear our dress or your own.”

Laura Stanbridge hesitated. “I don’t want to be arrayed in the garb of

a felon,” she ejaculated. “Not unless there is an absolute necessity

for my doing so. I will, therefore, wear my own.”

She reasoned that in the gloomy dress which these poor criminals wore

she would lose many of her fascinations. Besides, it was like putting

on a badge of guilt――a thing that was most repugnant to her.

Having invited her to study the prison rules, the warders left her to

herself. When alone, she gave full vent to her rage, and paced her

narrow den with masculine strides, tearing her lip with her white

wolfish teeth.

She bitterly regretted having made the false step which brought her

into her present awkward predicament. It was a sort of mad infatuation

which had led her to attempt the robbery at the draper’s. She could

not any way account for the impulse which had so suddenly prompted her

to commit such a foolish act.

Crestfallen and humiliated she felt the danger of her position. She

felt also its degradation, for this was the first time she had been in

prison; but, worse than all, she was fearful of being baulked of that

revenge for which she had so long and so patiently waited, and of

which she believed herself secure.

Alf Purvis was at large, and she was in “durance vile.”

“Oh,” she ejaculated, “it is indeed bitter to be locked up here when

all was working so well without. I must have been mad to run any

risk――worse than mad――seeing that there was no earthly need for it.”

She screamed with rage, and climbing up to the window like a cat, she

shook the bars with her white hands till the dust flew from the

stones.

Uttering frightful imprecations she sank back exhausted.

“This is the worst of folly,” she ejaculated; “I cannot escape with my

hands and arms. I must use a woman’s real weapons――her voice, her

beauty, her falsehoods, with a man’s mind and nerve to guide them.”

She sat down, and, leaning her head against the wall, with her arms

folded and her face slightly upturned, she began to reflect――as a

mathematician commences the solution of some abstruse problem――as an

actress studies the looks and gestures of a new and difficult part.

Man forgets and forgives, but the woman whose pride has been injured

can never forget and will never forgive. Alf Purvis had cruelly

wounded her vanity, and this vanity, which when flattered will decoy

women into vice, when angered will drive them into crime.

Laura Stanbridge had taken a tigress-like fancy for this man, who was

so much younger than herself, and whom she had taught to steal. She

had spent pains and money upon him, believing that thus she would

secure a powerful weapon; but it had proved a weapon with a sharp edge

which stabbed the hand that endeavoured to direct it.

Spurned in her passions, thwarted in her schemes, she had conceived an

incredible hatred against him.

It is true she had solaced herself by making a conquest, and for a

long time nothing disturbed her friendly and familiar terms of

intimacy with Tom Gatliffe. This had continued even up to the time of

her arrest; but for all this she had not forgotten her hatred of

Purvis, whom, sooner or later, she had determined to bring to ruin.

Now she was powerless; she trembled when she thought of the exposure

and ignominy that might follow.

She was surrounded by stone walls and iron bars――by persons who would

be stone to her entreaties and iron against her bribes.

The stern faces of the warders gave her no hope. Besides, they were

women.

She had seen the governor for a moment in the corridor. He had

scarcely deigned to honour her with a cursory glance as she passed;

and as they were taking her through the yards, her eyes, busy as her

thoughts, had observed a number of children playing in the garden,

which was separated from the yards by an iron railing surmounted with

huge spikes, yet enclosed within the walls. The governor was probably

old and possibly phlegmatic. It was at least certain that he was

married and the father of a large family. He would not be assailable.

Her beauty, her falsehood, and dissimulation would be of no avail, as

far as he was concerned. It would but be a waste of time for her to

endeavour to propitiate him; besides, from what she could gather, he

was a man, who, although reputed timid and considerate, was withal a

strict disciplinarian and not easily turned from the path of rigid

duty which he had followed for so many years.

She ran her eyes down the rules, and from thence discovered that one

of the visiting justices was by law compelled to visit each prisoner

once a week alone, in order that the presence of the governor or

turnkeys should not intimidate the prisoners from making complaints.

This gave her hope, but it was but a transient one.

“Once a week,” she ejaculated. “Ah, that is not of any great import. I

would it were once a day――then there would be some chance for me. In

two or three visits it would be difficult, or indeed impossible, to do

much, if anything, but in fifteen or twenty――well, I might yet

triumph, but I will watch and wait; it is not possible to say at

present what my chances may be.”

As she spoke the door of her cell was opened, and a young man of

prepossessing appearance presented himself. He was dressed in a suit

of black, with a plain white cravat round his throat. His countenance

was indicative of deep and anxious thought, and his brow was furrowed

with long thin lines. When she saw his face her heart seemed to beat

more audibly, her eyes flashed for a moment, then she bent forward her

head, and gazed abstractedly on the floor of her cell.

“He is young, and I think impressionable,” she murmured, “and has, I

hope, a good heart.”

Then she took a pose.

CHAPTER CXIV.

THE PRISON CHAPLAIN.

The gentleman who had so suddenly and unexpectedly entered the cell in

which Laura Stanbridge was confined was the ordinary. He was an

enthusiast, and during his brief term of office had striven hard to

bring the persons he visited to a sense of their miserable position,

and the evil effects of criminal careers. In some cases――in very few

it is to be feared――he had succeeded in bringing the culprits to a

right way of thinking.

His father, William Leverall, returned to England at the age of

sixty-five. He had spent his youth and strength in the East Indies,

where he had shed so much of his blood. Covered with honourable, but

fatal, wounds, he came home to breathe the fresh air of his native

land and to die.

He had not succeeded in amassing a fortune, which many less worthy

persons than himself had done, for he had never at any time of his

life been a devotee at the shrine of mammon. He, however, bequeathed

the sum of two hundred pounds a year to his wife and two children. It

was all he had to leave them. His will directed that he was to be

buried with his hands crossed on his breast, and that his sabre should

be by his side.

To pay for her children’s education, which in England costs so much,

Mrs. Leverall went to service as companion to a rich relative.

Thus, she seldom saw her children; but they were always with her in

her thoughts and dreams, and the letters which she received from them

gave her the brightest hopes, for they were both affectionate and

obedient to a fault.

It was her wish that her son might take honours at the university and

enter holy orders. His father had always been religiously disposed,

and therefore the pulpit seemed to his widow to be the pinnacle of

human greatness. It was far better, she thought, than following the

calling of a soldier.

When her son William (he was named after his father) was twenty years

of age, it was time he entered for matriculation; but her daughter

Bertha was only seventeen, and though accomplished, was too young to

commence life as a governess or teacher of music.

So they had recourse to speculation. Mrs. Leverall gave her son

sufficient out of her ten years’ hard savings to pay his expenses to

Cambridge, where he intended to compete for that truest of all

lotteries――an open scholarship.

She would have preferred Oxford as the arena of his struggles and

trials, because her father and brother had both belonged to one of the

colleges there. But then it was more expensive, add every sovereign

had to be looked at.

Young Leverall was persevering and studious; he was therefore

successful. He returned in triumph, while his mother stifled him with

embraces.

Bertha, who was sternly classical, crowned him with a wreath of

laurels. Then she gazed at his black and silvery hair, from which the

green leaves peeped forth here and there like Dryads sporting in a

dark cave.

She gazed at his soft hazel eyes, and at his cheeks, which care and

thought had made so pale. Unable to restrain her inexpressible love,

she flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him and toyed with his

hair till the leaves fell one by one crumpled to the ground.

Mrs. Leverall shook her head, and then burst into tears; she saw it

was a bad omen. Her son and daughter laughed at her, for these

superstitions are only cherished by children and the aged, as shadows

are longest and darkest in the morn and in the eve.

With the little which he had earned from _alma mater_, and with the

little which his own mother could afford to give him, he was able to

pay his college fees, his room rent, his kitchen bills, and to buy

himself clothes. But he was obliged to be very economical, and it was

this very economy which drove him within himself and to habits of

solitude.

At first fresh from school, where his mother’s straitened means had

not prevented him from joining in the amusements of his fellows, he

would sometimes pause in his work and look and listen with something

of envy to the windows which were blazing with light and to the gay

laughter, and the loud chorus of the bacchanalian song.

Soon, however, he learned to despise these boisterous pleasures, for

he discovered from the faces and words of their voteries that they,

despite their forced uproarious merriment, were not so happy as

himself.

He would have become a misanthrope had not his heart been touched by a

gentler and more refined influence.

A new spirit seemed to seize him. It did not descend in the shape of a

vulture or a raven, as it descends upon fanatics and bigots――if it

ever descends upon them at all――but rather in the form of a white and

gentle dove.

One morning he awoke a different man. He no longer confined himself to

his solitary room or pored over his ponderous books.

Stamping out the last spark of foolish pride with the iron heel of an

indomitable will, and disregarding the professed scorn of his college

companions, he joined them, and talked with them, hoping that some day

he might be able to do them good.

When they found that he was unlike the other needy scholars who, to a

man, condemned those innocent luxuries which they were too poor to

afford, they began to like him, in spite of his shabby clothes and the

tallow candles which he burnt over his Whately and Æschylus.

By the time he had taken his degree with high honours there was not a

man in the college who did not respect him, and there were many who

were deeply attached to him.

Mr. Leverall was a general favourite, and it would have been strange

indeed if it had been otherwise, seeing that he was so unassuming, so

gentle and kind to all who came within his influence. The old adage of

“winning golden opinions from all sorts of people” might be applied to

him.

He had studied hard, was an enthusiast, and looked hopefully to the

future. But man’s hopes are not at all times destined to be

fulfilled――indeed, but too frequently the reverse is the case.

His mother spoke to him of those distant and almost unknown lands,

where savages, with wandering feet and restless hearts, existed in a

state of barbarism.

His imagination was fired by the idea of treading where no white foot

had ever trod before, of encountering dangers, of civilising a whole

nation to the science and commerce of man, and of leading it to the

right faith.

A new society had been formed, who were preparing a crusade against

the wooden idols of some obscure Indian tribe in South America.

He applied for the post of missionary. His fame and learning and the

great eulogiums which his tutors had passed upon his character

obtained him the appointment.

The vessel was to sail in about three weeks, and this time he was

invited to spend with one of the members of the society.

He had never been in the metropolis before; his eyes and brain were

bewildered by the vast chaos of men and houses through which he

hurried in an open vehicle.

The next day he walked out alone to study the great city which he

might perhaps never see again.

He was looking with wonder at one of those shops, which are as large

and massive as a castle, and pondering upon the wealth and enterprise

of his countrymen, when a horrible sight met his eyes.

It was a woman so thin, so miserably thin, that she was almost a

skeleton; her bones seemed to protrude through her skin, her eyes were

hollow, her features pinched and shrivelled.

She wore no dress but a tattered shawl, which could scarcely conceal

her shoulders, and a skirt which hung round her wasted limbs in

tatters.

Two infants naked and blue with cold were clinging to her for warmth,

which she tried to give them with her attenuated arms.

When he saw this he was nearly overcome. Several persons passed her;

some were tradesmen, other professional gentlemen, and some were

well-dressed ladies with kind benignant countenances.

With words so faint that they resembled moans, and with hands

outstretched, this wretched woman appealed to them for alms, but they

passed by without deigning to take any notice of her or her

supplication.

This continued for some little time, during which Mr. Leverall looked

at each passenger as he or she went by.

Presently a policeman came upon the scene, he ordered her, in a sharp

angry tone, to move on. She looked tearfully at his face, saw no mercy

there, and was about to leave the spot.

Leverall could bear it no longer――he gave her all the money he had

with him, and walked quietly away without listening to her shrill and

almost delirious exclamations of delight.

In ten minutes he regretted that he had not gone home for more money,

but in ten minutes more he began to learn that it required unlimited

means, boundless wealth, to relieve the distress one witnesses in

certain parts of the metropolis.

Anxious to learn the worst he turned down the narrowest and darkest

street he could find, where the shops were of the lowest and filthiest

description, where the atmosphere was tainted as with a pestilence,

where the streets were knee-deep in mud and putrid vegetables, where

squalid children were paddling about, heedless of the unwholesome

atmosphere and its surroundings.

Where all starved, and sinned, and drank――the men to nerve themselves

for deeds of crime, the women to gain the high spirits and false

smiles wherewith to deceive their victims, the children because their

mothers taught them to, and because they were hungry.

It must be conceded that this picture is a repulsive one, but is

nevertheless such as one sees in the noisome dens of the great city.

It is in vain to legislate for people of this class so long as their

homes and the internal arrangements of their habitations remain as

they are at the present period.

It is in vain to attempt to disguise the fact.

Mr. Leverall was in the midst of a populous district, where infants

were born and old men and women died with no hand stretched out to

feed their bodies, to ameliorate their condition of squalid misery, or

to save their souls.

He saw enough in one day to convince him that there were thousands at

home who were quite as demoralised as the savages abroad.

That night he sent in his resignation, stating his reasons. Half the

mission disbelieved him and called him an impostor――the other half

believed him and called him a madman.

His friend remonstrated with him, showed him what a brilliant opening

he was about to throw away, and assured him that several missions had

been started to ameliorate the condition of the London poor, that

every effort had been made to bring about a better state of things,

but that in almost every instance the success had not been at all

commensurate with the time and money expended.

Leverall had his own opinion upon the subject. He could not bring

himself to believe that the mission or those appointed as its agents

had set the right way about the work of reformation.

The arguments, therefore, made use of by his friend only strengthened

him in his resolution.

The missionaries he had worshipped then were only cowards who

abandoned a difficult task at home in order to obtain an easy victory

abroad. To him difficulties in his narrow path were but mountains by

which he could climb to the goal upon which he had set his heart.

He visited the husband of the lady whom his mother had served as a

companion. This gentleman was rich and had influence in several

quarters. He had an antipathy to foreign charity and home

heartlessness; he was a practical man, who was not easily bamboozled

by cant or hypocrisy, and he could not restrain his admiration as he

listened to the glowing description of the young man who, on the short

but incontestable experiences of a few hours, had given up a liberal

income from motives which, to say the least, were both honest and

reasonable.

“I think I understand you, Leverall,” said his patron. “You think that

there is plenty of work at home for a zealous minister――more than

enough work in the dens of London.”

“I feel assured of it, sir.”

“But the task is not an easy one, and hence it is that so many who

have undertaken it have given it up as hopeless.”

“I do not intend to follow their example,” said Leverall, in a tone of

confidence.

His companion smiled.

“You will have to cope,” said he, “not with untutored savages, who, as

a rule listen readily, I am told, to the words of those whom they

acknowledge to be superior to themselves, but with men who are seared

by crime, brutalised by drink, and embittered by misfortune. At

present you are young; you have energy, patience, and hope, but you

have no experience.”

“That I admit; but experience I shall get as I proceed with my task.”

“My very excellent young friend, be assured that no great design has

yet succeeded which has not been matured with profound thought and

deliberation.”

“Without doubt that is so.”

“Therefore, all things considered, I bid you think twice before you

start on a crusade which might after all turn out, not only immensely

laborious, but perhaps in the end unsatisfactory.”

“I do not view it in that light.”

“Perhaps not, but I do.”

“You are without doubt the best judge.”

“Well, Mr. Leverall, I have been thinking the matter over for some

little time, and I am glad you have come here to seek my advice in the

matter. I tell you what I can do――at least I hope I shall succeed, if

it meets with your approval. The chaplaincy of one of our county

prisons is at present vacant, apply for the appointment, and I will

exert my interest in your favour.”

“Oh, sir, I am indeed obliged by this kind offer.”

“Then you consent?”

“Most willingly.”

“In prison you will meet with criminals of the worst type――you will

also meet with many whom a timely word of warning will turn to the

path of rectitude. It will be a fine arena for you to study the human

character, and in a very short time you will have a practical knowlede

of erring man. Your salary will not be very large, but will suffice

for your immediate necessities, and I will give you a certain sum of

money to expend upon books and whatever else you may deem necessary

for the good of those placed under your charge. Keep an account of

this money, with a diary of your doings, and send them to me every

three months.”

“Accept my most sincere and heartfelt thanks,” cried the young

minister.

“When I see that you have grown wise enough to be the leader of a

mission,” said his patron with a winning smile, “I will liberate you

from your apprenticeship.”

Leverall applied for the appointment, which he readily obtained,

through the influence of his friend and counsellor.

Had Laura Stanbridge been able to see into this young man’s heart,

which was so gentle and so pure――could she have guessed this divine

scheme which was germinating in his brain, and which raised him above

all vulgar passions, she would perhaps have despaired of destroying in

a few days that which had been implanted at his birth, and which gave

promise of such fair fruit.

He was not satisfied with the one hour of communion with the prisoners

appointed by the law――it was his practice to visit them all in their

cells privately every day.

He had heard that No. 43 was a noted female thief, and he approached

her cell with some little mistrust. This statement, however, was

altogether erroneous, as many other statements sometimes are, either

out of prison or within its walls.

Laura had never been before in trouble――that is, in other words, she

had never been in prison, albeit she had been living by dishonest

means for a number of years.

The chaplain had expected to find one of those hardened women who are

worse than the vilest of men, and who so often replied to his kind

words with coarse invectives or obscene jests.

When he entered the cell he started, for he saw a young woman, pale

and beautiful, who was seated on a wooden stool, with one hand, limp

and motionless, in her lap――with the other supporting her head, half

concealed in her beautiful brown hair.

The chaplain gazed for a moment, wonder-stricken, at the graceful form

of the prisoner, who was the very personification of grief and

resignation. Her manner was subdued, and it might be said refined.

Mr. Leverall thought there must be some mistake. Surely the fair

creature before him could not be a hardened offender. He came at once

to the conclusion that the authorities were in error, and nothing

could dispossess him of this impression.

Laura Stanbridge had observed his start, and the expression of

surprise which sat on his countenance. She was about to play a part,

and all her hopes depended upon the skill with which she performed it.

“You are one of the fresh arrivals in this gaol, I believe?” said Mr.

Leverall.

She answered by an inclination of her head.

“Charged with shoplifting――is that so?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered; “I am charged, that is all.”

“You hope to prove your innocence?”

“Indeed I do.”

“I also hope so.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He took a volume from his pocket, and said kindly――

“Will you allow me to read to you a little from this book?”

She did not reply by words, but again nodded her head, and then heaved

a profound sigh.

“Poor thing! She is in great trouble, evidently,” murmured the

chaplain.

He then commenced reading. She listened intently, not to the words but

to the voice, through the tones of which she hoped to read his heart.

She was an adept in divining the disposition of a person by the tone

of his voice. She found his was firm and melodious, but also firm and

regular in its accent. She looked earnestly at his face through her

long eyelashes――an art which is much studied by women, and which she

had practised to perfection. In cunning she was almost a match for

Charles Peace, and this our hero was very well aware of, for he had at

all times been duly impressed with the powers of discernment. He knew

her to be a remarkably clever woman, as false and unprincipled as she

was clever. These were qualities which were duly estimated by the

notorious burglar.

She continued her scrutiny of the prison chaplain, but could discover

no symptoms of an amorous or voluptuous temperament in him. His

complexion was clear, his forehead high, his eyes mild and open, while

his chin was strongly marked and his mouth finely but firmly modelled.

From his voice and face she learnt that he was not only virtuous but

firm. Her first glimpse had caused her to hope; her scrutiny almost

made her despair. But this shadow of despair strengthened her

determination, as those fight most fiercely who stand on the brink of

a precipice with their backs to the abyss.

“It is my only chance,” she reflected. “If I fail with him――if he will

not listen to my entreaties――I am lost, irretrievably lost. I can do

nothing with my gaolers――who will be women against a woman and fierce

men against the prisoner. I can do nothing with the governor, who is a

regulated machine. This man is young and pious――he is in all

probability inexperienced and innocent. So much the better for my

purpose. He is human――is to be wrought upon――not by gold, but by

words, and――well, we shall see.”

Absorbed in these thoughts she did not hear what he said to her; she

only heard an indistinct sound, like the murmuring of distant waters.

When it ceased she glanced through her eyelashes, and saw that he was

preparing to go. As he opened the door he looked at her compassionately.

She listened to his retreating footsteps till they became inaudible.

Then she clenched her hands together.

“He started. I have made an impression on him――perhaps he admires me.

Ah, I will teach him to adore me.”

She gave a laugh, and walked to and fro like a leopardess in an iron

cage.

“He looked at me sadly as he went out. Good――that is well. I think he

is impressionable, and has, moreover, one spark of pity for me in his

breast. Out of that one spark I will raise a fire which may light me

out of these accursed walls.”

CHAPTER CXV.

LAURA STANBRIDGE HAS CONFEDERATES――A VISIT TO THE PRISON.

The few shillings Laura Stanbridge had on her when cast into gaol were

of course soon expended. She found out that a supply of money was

absolutely requisite, and she began to consider how this could be

obtained. She had a large balance at her banker’s, and a considerable

sum in her house at the West-end of London. She had a great objection

to doing anything that might advertise her present position to her

friends and associates, and she did not care about making a confident

of Alf Purvis. She hoped to get through her present difficulty without

letting either Alf or Tom Gatliffe know that she had been charged with

shoplifting. Unprincipled woman as she was, she had nevertheless a

vast amount of pride, and of course this was greatly wounded.

After considering the matter over for some time she determined upon

her course of action. Charles Peace was the very man for her purpose.

She had befriended him on more than one occasion, and he was in duty

bound to do the same towards her. Anyway, she felt that she could

trust him, as there was no reason for him to round upon her.

Peace was therefore much disconcerted upon receiving a letter

addressed to him in the Evalina-road from his quondam companion, Laura

Stanbridge. In it she begged of him to pay her a visst――he was to pass

as her brother on this occasion.

“Look here,” said our hero, addressing himself to “Bandy-legged Bill,”

“Lorry Stanbridge has written fool to the end of her name at last.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Bill.

“Mean! Why, just this――she’s been charged with shoplifting――been

caught in a lace net, and they’ve run her in.”

“The devil! you don’t mean that? Where did it occur?”

“Down in the country where she went for change of air. Gad, she’s got

a change now, and no mistake.”

“Well, I’m blessed, that’s the last thing I should ha’ thought of.

Why, I thought she was all over money.”

“So she is――leastways I’ve always understood so. She wants to see me

to arrange about her affairs――don’t care about anybody knowing that

she’s in quod, and all that sort of thing. That’s not to be so much

wondered at. It is hard, but you see, Bill, it won’t do for me to

trust myself inside a gaol――’taint likely.”

“But you won’t desert her?”

“I’ll do what I can――bound to do that――but as to paying her a visit,

that’s all my eye――won’t do at any price. So you see, old man, I’ve

been thinking the matter over, and have come to the conclusion that

you might serve poor Lorry.”

“Me?”

“Yes, there would be no harm in you running down to Clickborne, and

having a squint at her. She wants to arrange a few matters, and keep

the whole affair dark, for the present at all events, till she sees

how matters go. Perhaps she may be able to pull through, do you see?

and in that case her friends here in London will be none the wiser.”

“She’s not given her own name, I suppose?”

“Oh, Lord, no! She’s too fly for that. Well, what say you? Are you

willing?”

“In course I am. She’s done a good turn when I hadn’t a shoe to my

foot, or a rag to my back. Will I go?――like a shot! Tell me where it

is, and I am all there.”

“You are a good fellow, Bill; I always said so, and are the first to

help anyone who is in distress.”

“Oh, gammon and all! Don’t lay it on too thick, Charlie.”

“I mean what I say.”

“I dare say yer does; but now let’s know the rights of it. Fire away!”

Peace explained to the gipsy that Lorry was in want of some ready

cash. This he, Peace, was willing to furnish her with. In the next

place she wanted somebody to call at her house and inform her maid

that she was unavoidably detained in the country.

“As far as the cash is concerned, that there will be no difficulty

about; the other matters will require some little consideration. The

first thing to be done is for you to see her.”

“I’ll run down this ’ere blessed day,” cried Bill.

“No; to-morrow will do. Start early in the morning, and do your best.

You must, of course, not give your own name.”

“I should think not――I’ll call myself Mr. Bourne.”

“Yes, and say you are her uncle. Better to pass as a relative. Her

uncle――do you understand?”

“All right, I’m fly. But Lord bless us! this is a pretty business.

Why, what could she be thinking about?”

“I expect she did it without thinking; it’s the way with women, but

she’s got her head screwed on right enough, has cut her eye-teeth long

ago. I certainly shouldn’t have thought she would have let herself be

caught tripping in that fashion, but there is none of us know what may

happen. It was to be, I suppose; that’s the best way of looking at the

matter.”

“She’s proved herself to be a downright good sort to me, and I’d do

any mortal thing to serve her,” cried Bill, in an earnest tone.

“Whatever she wishes I’ll do, if it be possible――that’s all I can say.

Hang it all, but this is a bad business.”

“Don’t you say anything about it to a soul――mind you that.”

“I will not.”

“Not to the women of this house, or Willie.”

“Oh, dear me, no; I shouldn’t think of such a thing. She may still be

able to pull through.”

“I hope so, I’m sure. Well I never――blowed if this hasn’t queered me

and no mistake.”

“Let’s have some grog, old man. It’s put my pipe out――to-morrow

morning, you say?”

“Yes――by the early train. You will be able to learn more then, for of

course she’s obliged to be a little pinched in her letter to me, which

commences with “My dear brother.”

The gipsy burst out into a loud laugh.

“That’s a caulker,” said he. “She looks a deal more like your

daughter, old man.”

“There isn’t the least doubt of that. She looks wonderfully young, all

things considered.”

“She’s what I call a fascinating woman, and, when togged-up, is right

up to the knocker. Well, I am sorry for her, poor soul――very sorry.”

Mr. Rawton drained off the remainder of his whiskey-and-water, and did

not refuse a fresh supply when Peace pushed the bottle towards him.

Bill could take a pretty good amount of spirits and beer, and did not

appear to be much the worse for it. Peace, on the contrary, seldom

exceeded the bounds of moderation.

“Keep your head cool for to-morrow’s business,” said he to the gipsy,

“for you’ll want all your wits about you to dodge the gaolers and to

throw dust in their eyes.”

“You don’t want to be very clever to do that if it’s gold dust.”

“Yes, that’s right enough. You’d better take a little with you. It

will be serviceable, I dare say――that is, if you know how to work it.”