CHAPTER CLI.

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

We must leave Charles Peace for awhile to gather up the tangled

threads of our story, and follow the fortunes of other characters who

have figured in this “strange eventful history.”

The capture and conviction of our hero, together with the remarkable

concurrence of circumstances connected with the history of the most

accomplished and desperate burglar of modern times, created an amount

of public interest which was altogether of an exceptional character.

This interest was not confined to one class of the populace. It

permeated throughout every conceivable class from the highest to the

lowest, and as a natural consequence the criminal portion of the

community were deeply interested in the fate of one who had proved

himself to be so much ahead of any of his compeers in crime.

Peace was looked upon as a sort of hero. Many admired him, and not a

few pitied him. His adventurous life, his daring exploits, found

favour in the eyes of rogues and thieves of a lesser degree, and his

exploits formed the theme of conversation among numberless sections of

the lawless portion of the thieving fraternity of London.

We must take a glance at one of the haunts of the dissolute and

depraved. It is Saturday night, and the hour is ten o’clock. All

London is alive, for Saturday night is the market-time of the poor.

The streets of Whitechapel presented remarkable scenes. Huge crowds

passed down them, and bought their Sunday dinners from the butchers’

stalls upon the pavement, where joints of raw meat were suspended upon

hooks, and which were lighted by pipes of blazing gas. Others crowded

into the fried-fish shops and supped ravenously on rank plaice

swimming in oil. Others resorted to the taverns, which were adorned

with portraits of pugilists, and regaled themselves with Old Tom for

which Whitechapel is so famous.

Close to one of these streets, where rioting and business seemed to go

hand in hand, there was a narrow lane, silent as death. Gigantic

warehouses rising on each side seemed to shut out heaven.

A man was walking down the lane――his appearance was dejected and his

eyes were bent on the ground.

When he had come to the end of the lane he dived into a dark alley,

which brought him out close to a railway arch.

Hollowed in the side of this arch was a hole like the mouth of a

cavern, and running under the railway supported by black pillars was a

street.

This was “the street of women,” described in the early portion of this

work; it was the place where Laura Stanbridge led the boy, Alf Purvis,

on a dark night.

Our pedestrian walked along the street, and the women who stood at

their doors brawny, repulsive, and naked as the ogresses of old, did

not molest him even with their tongues.

They looked upon him with kindness, for they had heard that he was the

friend and companion of the celebrated Charles Peace, the burglar, and

hence it was that they gazed at him in silence, with something like a

feeling of reverence.

He turned down a yard and stood opposite to a house dilapidated and

apparently untenanted, but from the cellar windows of which came

shouts of laughter and streams of light.

He entered by the same means as those previously described, and having

gained the kitchen, which was filled with thieves and beggars, sat

down in a corner by himself.

There were several men seated round a table; at a little distance from

the rest a tall pale man, who was clad in the dirtiest rags, but who,

nevertheless, could afford to drink gin――and doses in large

quantities――was speaking.

“It’s the greatest pity in the world as that gang got broke up by the

beaks; they were an honour to our English gemmen――they were an honour

to our land.”

“Ye――es,” said a man with a white comforter tied over his mouth,

“ye――es; so I thought till they got nabbed like that there in the

country. That was a pitiful job――old hands like that goin’ time arter

time on the same beat, and almost on the same lay, with the whole

vorld, as one might say, before ’em. It’s jolly hard――that’s what it

is.”

“I tell you how it happened,” observed another of the company, who was

smoking a short pipe, “the whole country laid awake at night a

watching for ’em.”

“There was somethink under the rose, depend on’t,” said a red-faced

man in a green cutaway, and his whiskers cropped in that peculiar

fashion which stamps the habitué of the race-course. “Smoucher and Jim

were both high-flyers and knew how to make their books as well as any

going; but there’s days on which even the knowin’ ones gets taken in,

though not so often as the knowing ones would have you believe. Well,

it’s a pity as how they were copped. They’d never have gone into the

neighbourhood if it had not ha’ bin for the Dandy.”

“Vell, there now, I hope as how he aint a goin’ to blame Alf for it,”

said the man with the comforter.

“In course not. Who says I do?”

“Nobody as I knows on.”

“I remember,” said the pale man, “the first night as the Dandy came to

this ’ere blessed crib, and sat at this ’ere table and drank Max with

Lorrie Stanbridge. She brought him here. I remember it well enough.

Why, he was only a boy then, but his eyes were as sharp as needles,

and his long white fingers seemed a ’itching for the game even then.”

“Ah,” soliloquised the gentleman with the white comforter, “Vat a

pictur that hand vos to be sure!”

“I was made a cadger on that night in the little room upstairs. The

‘Smoucher’ used to have it then, just as Lorrie has it now; but as I

was a coming out who should I see but these two――Lorrie and the little

bloke? I guessed as how he was to be ‘chanted the play’ too, but I

didn’t guess as how that smock-faced kid was a goin’ to turn out as he

has.”

“I never liked the ‘Smoucher,’” said the sporting man, “though I’ve

often been on the ‘flimsy-kiddy’ and the ‘ring dodge’ down at Ascot

with him. Still, I’m sorry he was made a target on, which, for sartain

I am he has bin.”

“But, Jim,” said the man with the muffled mouth, “he vas a good sort.

S’posin there vas any nasty or ticklish vork to be done on the fly,

sitch as breaking a bobby’s head, he vas alvays ready and foremost to

do it himself, instead of trying to put it on his pals.”

“Breaking a bobby’s head!” exclaimed another of the party; “‘taint so

easily done. It’s all very well for you chaps to talk, but I say it

aint so easy. But, Lord love yer, there aint anybody here as is fit to

hold a candle to Charley Peace――he was the man to knock over the

bobbies.”

“There aint no manner of doubt of that there,” said the pale man; “not

a shadow of doubt. Charley was a wonder.”

“That he was, and no flies,” said Cooney, for he it was who had

introduced the name of our hero. “He was allers straight and square

with me; I aint got a word to say against him. You chaps here talk

about the ‘Smoucher’ and the ‘Dandy’――why they were fools compared to

Peace.”

“I dare say they were, or indeed are,” observed the man with the pipe;

“but yer see, I never happened to fall across Peace. He was a bloke

who, from what I’ve been told, kept hisself to hisself. Vell, I don’t

care about blokes of that kidney. ‘Live and let live,’ that’s my

motter, and do as ye’d be done by.”

“Well, and who says Charlie wasn’t one of that sort? He allers acted

fair and square with his pals.”

“Ah, he was a wonder,” exclaimed the man with the muffler. “He stands

alone――there aint a bloke as can come up to ’im. Pity he’s been

nabbed, ’cause ye see he was a stunner in every way――leastways, I’m

only a speakin’ from what I’ve heard.”

“Oh, you are right enough,” returned Cooney. “You may take your davy

about Charlie. You won’t find such another throughout England.”

“I’m precious sorry for him, poor chap. I don’t know as I was ever so

broken down in the whole course of my life as when I heer’d of his

conviction, ’cause you see he proved himself to be a downright good

sort, as far as I am concerned.”

“But yer aint seen much of him of late, have yer?” inquired the

pale-faced man.

“No, not much; yer know he was like hide-and-seek, and he kept as much

to himself as possible; but, law, he wasn’t to blame for that, seeing

what were agen him, he worked on the quiet, all to himself as yer

might say.”

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

“Right you are, old man,” said Cooney, with a nod. “But for all that,

I wouldn’t mind doing a seven years’ stretch if I could see him out of

limbo, but Lord bless us, there aint much chance of that now. They’ve

got poor old Charlie pretty tight, and he’s done for.”

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

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

“Ah!” said the pale-faced man, “this is how we lose our friends; the

best on ’em get nabbed, them as we care most about go the first. It’s

the way of the world.”

“Who’s that old woman over there, talking to Bandy-legged Bill?”

suddenly exclaimed the sporting man.

“Can’t say,” said the man in the white muffler. “She comes here to see

Bill, and seldom speaks to any one else.”

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

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

“Thank you for the information. I am about as wise as ever. Who is

she, and what brings her here?”

“She wants to know about the Dandy, wishes to find him out, so I’ve

been given to understand.”

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

“Ah, no. Hark ye,” said the man with the muffler. “She’s greatly

interested about the Dandy, and I’ve been told she’s his mother.”

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

“That’s about the size of it,” ejaculated the other, with a mysterious

nod. “She was a bosom friend of Lorrie’s years and years ago; but they

chipped out, and my lady, I mean Lorrie of course, is a bit too much

for her. Oh, there’s a mystery about the Dandy and his belongings, but

I do honestly believe that yonder woman is his mother.”

“It’s a rum story, take it altogether,” cried Cooney. “That woman is

for ever following upon the heels of Bill Rawton. Why I cannot tell

you.”

There was a dead silence for some time after this, but the eyes of

most present were directed to the corner of the apartment where the

gipsy and his companion sat.

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

above a whisper.

“You are not so callous and hardened,” said the woman, “as to be dead

to all feeling for another. I ask you to find my boy. You can do

so――of that I feel assured. You know Laura Stanbridge, who is his

friend, or professes to be so.”

“Hold hard,” interrupted Rawton. Don’t be quite so fast, mother. I am

not her friend. I know her. She has done me a good turn more than

once, and I have had it in my power to return the compliment. What of

that?”

“What of it? A great deal. She will listen to you, and I wish you to

do me a turn. I wish you to help me to find my son.”

“I don’t believe Lorrie knows where he is, and I am quite certain that

I do not, and, what is more, I don’t want to know. He’s a chap I never

cared a bit about――he was a deal too uppish for my money, and thought

too much of himself; so you see it ain’t at all likely that I can

assist you.”

“In other words, you won’t.”

“I would if I could.”

“You can――of that I feel perfectly well assured. It was into this

house, years ago,” she murmured, in a low and concentrated voice――“it

was into this very house that she decoyed my poor innocent boy, and I,

loving him, I knew not why――crouching on the cold stones

outside――shivering under the bitter winds. But ah, woman without

heart! your day shall come, and it is nigh at hand.”

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

“I do not care who hears me.”

“But I do. You do not know the people here so well as I do. Your life

might be sacrificed if they suspected your purpose.”

“Is it wrong or wicked for a mother to strive to rescue her son from

the depths of sin?”

The gipsy laughed.

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

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

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

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

me, Rawton.”

“You and I are not likely to agree upon this subject,” returned he. I

must tell you frankly that he is as unprincipled as he is worthless.”

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

“Certainly not. But you must not place all the faults of this young

gentleman upon the shoulders of Lorrie Stanbridge.”

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

“We will not argue that question. He proved to be a pretty good pupil,

and was not good for much when she took him in hand.”

“What has she made of him? Oh, Rawton, you know but too well, although

you do not choose to say. Listen to me. I am growing old, have no tie

but one, it is my boy; restore him to me, and heaven will bless you.

Think of the many dreary and desolate years I have passed――think of

all I have suffered, and take pity on me.”

“I do pity you,” cried the gipsy. “I am sorry for you, but what’s the

use of that? You cannot be benefitted by my pity or commiseration. I

do not know anything about Purvis; if I did I would tell you all I

knew.”

“But you can find him――I am sure you can if you set about the task

with a free goodwill.”

“Ask Lorrie Stanbridge. She is the person to apply to. Alf, to the

best of my belief, is abroad. He has left his country for his

country’s good, that is all I know about the matter.”

“He did leave England, but he has returned――he must have returned by

this time. You can aid me. Oh, Mr. Rawton, you are kindly disposed,

are not sunk so low, but have, I am certain, some good left in your

disposition. I am a friend of Mrs. Bourne’s, and she speaks of you as

a man who is――――”

“Who is what?” cried Bill, with sudden vehemence, and interrupting the

speaker. “As what? Mrs. Bourne!――do you know her?”

“Yes. Have known her for many years.”

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

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

“I know. There is no occasion for you to tell me about that. I know

the whole history of his crime, and his end.”

“You acted fair enough towards her.”

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

moved.

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

“Look here,” said Bill Rawton, after a pause. “You want me to help

you, and I aint the man to say no to such a request, but that is one

thing. I may have the will, which, to say the truth, I have, but I

have not the power, I know nothing about this young gentleman――no,

nothing about Alf Purvis, or Mr. Algernon Sutherland, as he now calls

himself. Let me give you a word of advice. Don’t trouble yourself

about the young scapegrace. You wouldn’t be much benefitted by finding

him.”

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

“I do think of it.”

“Well, what then?”

“He is better lost than found.”

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

“I have a very bad opinion of him.”

“I dare say he has become hardened, and, as a natural consequence, is

despised by many of his associates.”

“I am not one of his associates. Please to understand that,” said Bill

Rawton, “I never cared anything about him――a stuck-up conceited

jackanapes. I tell you frankly, I would never have anything to say to

him――‘cause why?――he wasn’t my sort.”

“You hate him then?”

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

“Oh, I do not want to know anything about his doings, or about his

enemies. All I want is my son. Will you help me to find him?”

“I’ll do what I can to serve you, but you musn’t bother me as you’ve

been doing lately. If I learn anything about him I’ll let you know.”

“You promise that?”

“I do. There’s a mystery about this young shaver, but it aint no

business of mine. You want to see him?”

“I do.”

“Well, if I can put you on the scent I will――that’s all I have to say.

So now you had better step it, for my friends yonder are wondering

what business I have with you, so make tracks as soon as possible, or

may be we shall get into the mire.”

The woman drew from her pocket a piece of dirty crumpled paper, which

she handed to Bandy-legged Bill.

“There is my name and address,” said she, “and, oh, Mr. Rawton, I pray

you to do your best. Restore my son to me, and I shall owe you a

lasting debt of gratitude.”

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

for yer.”

The woman rose and took her departure.

“Vell I’m blest,” cried the man with the cutaway coat. “Blow me tight

if Bill hasn’t got a woman on the hooks. We shall see a big wedding

presently, I s’pose.”

“I hope she’s got plenty of blunt, and that we may be invited, the

whole piling on us, to the wedding breakfast,” remarked the man with

the cutaway coat.

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

“Ah, I see, Bill’s going to marry her for her beauty――a love match,

eh?” observed another of the party.

“You’re a set of noodles to be talkin’ like that ’ere,” said Cooney.

“Don’t ye know who she is?”

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

“Vell, then, I do. ’Tis Mother Grover, as vas a friend of Lorrie

Stanbridge’s some years ago.”

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

“That’s about the size of it,” observed Rawton. “There’s a bit of

mystery about the Dandy. He came from a good stock, so I’ve been given

to understand, and the woman who has just left is his mother.”

“Tell us all about it, Bill,” exclaimed several. “You aint the man to

keep anything from your pals.”

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

“Ah, gammon an’ all,” exclaimed the sporting man, “but if you are

making up to the young and fascinating widow, and the matter is of a

private nature, vell, in course ve won’t ax any further questions.”

“Shut up,” cried Rawton. “Making up to her! You must be going off your

nut to be a-talking in that way.”

“Ah vell, I’m sorry I spoke.”

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

“You’ve got yer chaffing togs on to-day, it would seem,” observed the

gipsy. “But there aint no secret in the case. The woman, as I said

afore, is the mother of the Dandy――leastways that’s what I believe,

and I don’t see any reason to doubt what she says. She’s been on to me

for ever so long to find him for her. You know, all on yer, that he

aint now on good terms with Laura Stanbridge; why or wherefore this is

I don’t rightly know, and, as yer all know, he hasn’t shown up of

late.”

“He’s got a precious sight too proud to mix with any of us. He was

allers a la-de-da stuck up young shaver,” remarked the man with the

white comforter, “and wasn’t at any time quite my book. But that’s

neither here nor there. He’s mizzled, turned tail, and keeps

aristocratic company――so I’ve been told――and much good may it do

him――but go on. The old woman wants to find him. I hope as how he’s

come into a fortune.”

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

“Not the least doubt of that, old stick-in-the-mud,” observed another

of this choice assembly. “But stow magging――Bill’s got something to

tell us.”

“No, I’ve not,” returned Rawton. “You know just about as much as I do

myself, and if any on yer can find the Dandy, why it ’ill be doing the

old ’oman a service, and you won’t go unrewarded when you give her the

tip.”

“That’s business,” ejaculated the pale-faced man. “I likes a chap to

come to business without any long palaver. If any on us tumble over my

gentleman we shall know what to do. Do you see that, mates?”

[Sidenote: No. 85.]

[Illustration: WITH A SUDDEN PUSH, SHE HURLED HIM OVER THE CLIFF.]

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

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

“Plant, Lord love yer, no,” returned Rawton. “The old ’oman’s right

enough, right as the mail――I’ll take my davy on that; but she does

take on, and no mistake. She’d give her life to find the Dandy.”

“But, hang it all, she never took much notice on him when she was with

Laura,” said Cooney. “It’s a rum start, take it all together.”

“She didn’t take much notice on him at that time, I admit,” answered

Bill. “But why didn’t she?”

“Can’t say.”

“Then I’ll tell yer. She didn’t know then that he was her son. Do you

understand now, old thick-head?”

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

it’s square and straight.”

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

“I don’t care which way it is,” said Cooney. “Blow the Dandy, say I. I

only wish I could get Charley Peace out of quod.”

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

“Have you seen anything on him?”

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

“And how was he?”

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

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

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

“And what everybody says must be right――leastways, it can’t be very

far wrong,” said Bill. “But it aint of no manner of use a-talking

about that――Charley’s potted. There aint much chance now of his ever

being a free man, not unless he can get the Home Office to commute his

sentence, but I ’xpect there ain’t much chance of that.”

“Lord bless yer,” said Cooney, “yer might jist as well ’xpect to lift

up St. Paul’s in the palm of yer hand. Commute――blow me tight, there

aint no manner of chance of that there――and mind ye, Charley’s as

right as the mail――never turned round on a cove in all his mortal

days. Well, here’s to his good health.”

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

The woman known as Mrs. Grover, and who had been pleading so

pertinaciously to Bill Rawton, was no other than Isabel Purvis, the

mother of Alf Purvis.

The reader will doubtless remember that Laura Stanbridge had with her

as a companion a Mrs. Grover when she first took Purvis under her

protecting wing.

At this time her companion had no idea that the young bird-seller was

her own son, but she had taken to him by one of those unaccountable

influences which are past the comprehension of ordinary individuals.

As years passed over her head she comprehended that Miss Stanbridge’s

protegé was her own offspring.

When the fact became clearly established she was solicitous of finding

the young scapegrace, and for this purpose she applied to the gipsy.

Mrs. Grover, or more properly speaking, Isabel Purvis, had in early

life been associated with a tribe of gipsies, and here it was that she

had made the acquaintance of Bill Rawton.

She knew his wife, and had been mixed up with the wandering tribe, to

which he at one time belonged, and hence it was that she sought his

assistance in tracing out her son, the worthless young scoundrel, Alf

Purvis, or Algernon Sutherland, as he chose to term himself.

CHAPTER CLII.

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

Leaving the unwholesome purlieus of Whitechapel, we must journey to

the resort of City clerks, Jews, tradesmen, professional men, and, in

short, people of almost every denomination.

Margate, in the season, simply means London out of town. People flock

to this place in shoals. It is, of course, requisite for the Cockneys

to rejoice in buff slippers, nautical hats, and sea-side costume, and

it is equally necessary for them to throng the pier and jetty, and

ogle each other with a pertinacity which, it is presumed, is highly

satisfactory to themselves, and agreeable to everybody; but our

business is not with the select visitors to the jetty or the pier; for

the purposes of our story we have to take a glance at another part of

the well-known watering-place.

On the cliffs, just where the Infirmary stands, two figures might be

seen walking side by side――they are in close conversation――the time is

evening――the sun is set, and the vault of heaven is speckled with

myriads of stars.

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

One is Tom Gatliffe, of whom we have heard but little of late, and the

other is Laura Stanbridge, who, albeit somewhat faded, as far as her

general appearance is concerned, carried with her yet the traces of

that beauty which, in the years that are passed, stood her in such

good stead.

She has lost but little of that fascination of manner which may be

likened to that of the wily serpent――but she is more staid and

thoughtful――and we may add even more dangerous in many ways than she

has been heretofore.

Gatliffe had at one time been perfectly fascinated with her

blandishments, and for many years she held him in bondage. Now,

however, he could be esteemed only a sort of friend, if such a term

could, with propriety, be used; anyway the connection between the two

was now severed.

Gatliffe, who had betaken himself to Margate for a change, met Laura

accidentally there: people do meet at Margate in a most unaccountable

manner, and this was the case with those two. They became for the

nonce inseparable companions during their sojourn at the sea-side.

“It has been well said,” observed Laura Stanbridge, “that one has only

to go to the sea-side to renew old acquaintanceships. Such appears to

be the case with us. My dear Tom, of late you have not thought it

worth while to call upon me as of yore. Have had other matters to

engage your attention, I suppose.”

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

“I judged so. Do not for a moment imagine I am saying this as a

reproach. On the contrary I believe, and always have believed, you to

be genuine. Still, it would pain me much if it came to pass that we

should be no longer good friends and true. You understand my meanings,

at our age one does not so easily form new friendship; and this, I

suppose, is the reason why I cling so tenaciously to those whom I have

known in earlier and, I think I may add, in happier years.”

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

“Certainly, happier.”

“Oh,” answered her companion, “the brightest days of my life have long

since passed away, and I have not much to live for now.”

“Not much to live for? You are a prosperous man, and have reason to be

thankful, all things considered. It is true you have been deserted by

one who ought to have clung to you, but I expect you have cast from

your mind a woman who has proved herself to be unworthy consideration.”

“Silence!” exclaimed Gatliffe. “I do not care to listen to

observations of this nature. Do not speak disparagingly of one who,

whatever her faults may be, is far removed from either of us. I am

surprised at the observations you have made, and I must beg of you not

to allude to this subject. Indeed, I am at a loss to imagine why you

have chosen to broach it.”

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

“She is nothing to me only an honourable lady, whom I cannot do aught

else but esteem and admire; but pray how did you come to know about my

connections?”

Laura Stanbridge laughed.

“How?” said she. “Why, my dear Tom, I suppose you will admit that your

devorce is a matter of public notoriety?”

“It was so many years ago I wish it to be forgotten. I wish to forget

it myself if that be possible.”

“Then I will never again allude to the circumstance. My dear Tom, you

need not be told that I am not likely to say anything to offend or

annoy you. The past has passed away, and we have only to look to the

future.”

“That is true,” said he, “and do you know, Lorrie, I have serious

thoughts of beginning life again if that be possible?”

“And how do you propose to do this?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I propose going to one of the Colonies――to

America, or Australia, it doesn’t much matter which; but I am certain

I shall be able to do well in either place, and, to say the truth, I

am thoroughly sick of this country.”

“Why, so am I,” quickly rejoined his companion. “Let us go together, a

woman has a better chance there than in England. Take me with you.”

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

“You do not answer,” said she. “I’ll work and slave for you, and be

your faithful friend and companion. Oh, what happiness it would give

me, for I love you――and none other but you!”

She placed her arm round his shoulders, drew him towards her, and

embraced him fondly. She was like the syrens of old――false and

seductive.

“We will talk about this on some future occasion,” observed he, for he

had not altogether the faith in the woman by his side as he had during

the first few years of their acquaintance.

Nevertheless he was in some measure attached to her, and found it

difficult to shake her off. She was his evil genius.

At one time he had, like many others, been infatuated with her, but

this infatuation had in a great measure passed away. Still, even at

this time, she exercised considerable power over him, and most

unquestionably she had to a great extent lowered his moral tone.

It has been said, and there is no denying the fact, that we are all

creatures of circumstances. Poor Gatliffe had been the victim of

untoward events which were far beyond his own control.

There were times when he thought of the woman whom he in the earlier

years of his life indulged and almost worshipped, but she had left him

for rank and power.

He did not blame――on the contrary, he made every possible excuse for

her desertion of him.

He was not, however, aware that his own illicit intercourse with Laura

Stanbridge had become known to her very shortly after his intimacy

with that heartless, designing, and worthless woman, who lured but to

betray.

It is just possible that he might have been prevailed upon to suffer

her to accompany him to Australia or America, but a circumstance

occurred which put that altogether out of the question.

This it will be our purpose to describe.

Gatliffe and Miss Stanbridge were walking close to the edge of the

cliffs, as the moonlight cast its beams on that part of the rocky

eminence running from where the Infirmary stands to a place known at

this time as Marsh Bay.

It will be perhaps needless to say that his female companion

demonstrated the strongest affection for him, and made use of all her

blandishments to draw him towards her.

A spectator at a casual glance would have conjectured that they were

lovers――albeit they were neither of them particularly young at this

time.

They had not gone very far when the figure of a man was observed

making towards them. He was coming in the opposite direction to the

one they were taking.

Laura Stanbridge was at no loss to understand who the stranger was,

and perhaps, of all men in the world, he was the very last she had any

desire to see.

As he approached he indulged in a low satirical mocking laugh, which

jarred upon the ears of Gatliffe’s companion.

“Ah, oh!” he ejaculated. “It is you, eh? and with your fancy man, too!

I am most charmed at this unexpected meeting, because it gives me

assurance that you are alive and well, which is vastly consolatory.

Taking a moonlight stroll, my charmer――eh?”

Gatliffe did not condescend to take any notice of these sneering

observations, but he was a little ruffled, nevertheless.

“You will be pleased, or, rather, I shall be, by your abstaining from

sneering observations, and if you have nothing better to say, pass

on.”

“Not until I have a word or two with you, madam,” said Alf Purvis, for

the newcomer was none other than he.

“Not until I have told you a piece of my mind. You think, perhaps,

that I am in ignorance of your doings. Who was it that betrayed me,

and set on detectives to find out the forged cheque business? A curse

light on you!”

“This lady is under my protection,” said Gatliffe, “and I must request

you to go your way.”

“You request?”

“Yes, most certainly; this is not the time or place for you to indulge

in personal and impertinent remarks.”

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

unworthy of notice.”

“It is of no use your endeavouring to carry it off with a high hand,

you worthless, base woman,” cried Purvis. “I know you, my lady. No one

knows you better, and it will go hard with me if I don’t have my

revenge. You have betrayed us. Do you hear, you infamous strumpet?” he

added, shaking his fist in her face.

“You audacious young scoundrel!” exclaimed Gatliffe, who was by this

time incensed beyond all reasonable endurance. “Begone, while you have

a whole skin.”

“You threaten, do you? Do you happen to know the character of the

woman you seek to shield and protect? Shall I tell you a little of her

history? It will greatly interest you, I dare say. Listen――――”

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

Gatliffe.

Alf Purvis indulged in a low mocking laugh, which so exasperated his

adversary that he raised his fist and gave him a heavy blow on the

chest, sending him reeling back several paces.

When he had recovered from this first assault, Purvis rushed at

Gatliffe and struck him in the face. The latter closed with his

younger opponent, and a struggle ensued, which was, however, but of

short duration, for Purvis was no match for the powerful and athletic

engineer, who threw him violently to the earth, and when he rose again

stood on the defensive.

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

a respectful distance.

“Come dear,” said Laura Stanbridge, “Let there be an end to this. I am

sorry to have been the occasion of this scene of violence.”

“You sorry!” exclaimed Purvis, “Have you any feeling? You care as

little about him as I do about you. I am sure a worthless creature

like you is hardly worth quarrelling about.”

Tom Gatliffe and his female companion walked on, followed by their

tormentor, who was bent upon mischief.

He gave expression to a series of taunts and degrading observations,

but now that the first outburst of passion was over Gatliffe had no

desire to recommence hostilities. Nevertheless he was greatly annoyed

at the pertinacity of Purvis, who continued to aggravate Laura

Stanbridge in a manner which soon became insupportable.

“You had better discontinue those impertinent remarks. Go your ways.

We neither of us have any desire to listen to your impertinence,” said

Gatliffe.

“I don’t want to pick a quarrel with you, sir,” returned Purvis. “You

have done me no wrong, but as to your companion, she has been the very

bane of my existence. She it was, who, when I was a helpless lad,

taught me to become a thief. I am not romancing. She has made me what

I am. Perhaps you don’t know that she is a trainer of thieves.”

“Silence! No more of this, you audacious miscreant,” cried Gatliffe,

in a violent rage.

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

“If you persist in annoying us, I will inflict summary chastisement on

you, let the consequence be what it will.”

“I say again I have no desire to fasten a quarrel on you, Mr.

Gatliffe. I believe you to be upright and honourable, but that’s no

reason for your espousing the cause of one who is so utterly

worthless. In the due course of time you will be convinced of the

truth of all I have been saying. Take my advice――have nothing to do

with that woman. Shall I tell you her early history?”

“I again request you to keep your remarks to yourself,” observed

Gatliffe, who was at this time everwhelmed with astonishment at the

turn the conversation had been taking.

“Well, sir,” said Purvis, “on consideration, it is doubtless neither

pleasing nor palatable to you to hear the truth spoken, but I warn you

to be careful in dealing with the odious woman by your side. In the

earlier years of her life she was under the protection of an old

gentleman, whom she robbed and afterwards poisoned. I have the whole

history of this part of her career by heart――she is an adultress and a

murderess. Listen to the story I have to tell.”

Alf Purvis was on the edge of the cliffs when he made these last

remarks. Laura Stanbridge, who was at this time pale with

ill-suppressed passion, sprang forward, and stretching out her arms,

she with a tiger-like spring, rushed full at her traducer. Throwing

the whole weight of her body in the sudden assault, she pushed Alf

Purvis with such terrible force that he reeled and tottered for a

moment, then a loud splash in the water told that the ill-fated young

man had fallen over the precipice.

“Gracious heavens, what have you done?” exclaimed her companion pale

as ashes and trembling in every limb. “He has fallen over.”

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

Poor Gatliffe was stupefied with astonishment and fear.

“But this is murder,” cried he.

“Not so,” returned his companion with perfect composure――“he has

_fallen over the cliff_. Do you understand?”

“I will be no party to such an act of atrocity,” said he. “Oh,

miserably guilty woman, have you no pity, no remorse?”

“Not any for him――none whatever.”

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

cliff.

The tide had been at the flood about half-an-hour before the murderous

act. It was now flowing out. Gatliffe saw a dark speck on the water,

which he judged to be the head of Purvis.

He rushed madly from the spot, and made for a narrow cutting which led

to the sea-shore.

But one dominant thought possessed him. He had a burning desire to

save the victim of the atrocious outrage.

But how this was to be accomplished he could not very well determine.

When he came to the end of the cutting, his eyes rested on a boat,

which had been moored against a stake driven into the sands.

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

Far out in the distance he beheld a black speck, which he believed to

be Purvis, who, despite the giddy height from which he had fallen,

might yet be swimming for his life.

“Pray heaven it may be so,” he ejaculated. “If he is lost I shall

never forgive myself.”

He pulled lustily at the oars. The sea was rather rough, and although

he was a tolerably good rower on the Thames, or any other river, he

had but little experience in the management of a craft on the sea; but

he did not care much about the danger and risk he was running――he was

actuated by a higher feeling.

His object was to save and succour a fellow-creature, and so he bore

bravely on. As he did so he heard Laura Stanbridge’s voice. Heard her

cry out――

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

He took no heed of the warning, and never stopped till he had come

within sight of the black speck. Then, to his dismay and horror, he

discovered his mistake. It was but a floating buoy.

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

tears.

His eyes swept the waste of waters, but he could discern nothing like

a human form; yet, nothing daunted, he rowed in almost every direction

in the hope of seeing some trace of Purvis.

Darkness now fell upon the scene――some heavy clouds obscured the moon,

and sadly and reluctantly the unhappy rower made for the shore.

When he had gained the cutting be moored the boat to the stake, and

slowly and sadly crept up towards the cliffs.

“Oh, that I should have lived to see this dreadful sight――this

infamous, cruel, and cold-blooded assassination!” he ejaculated. “It

is most horrible――most infamous! What is to be done? I feel as if I

had been party to a murder, and shall never know what peace of mind

means.”

His knees seemed to sink under him, and he was so utterly prostrated

that he felt as weak as a child.

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

“Well,” said she, “the attempt you have made has not proved

successful, I suppose?”

“Go, woman!” he exclaimed, bitterly. “I will have naught to say to

you. Go your ways, and never――never let me set eyes upon you again. I

cannot express to you my disgust and horror. A curse will cling to

you.”

“He deserved his fate, and it is useless now to indulge in

recriminations. He drove me to madness, and upon the impulse of the

moment I did an act which in cooler moments I should have shuddered

at. Do not upbraid me. It was but a sudden impulse. I was smarting

under his taunts, his infamous slanders, but it is done. The worst is

over.”

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

“Well, Tom, I regret――――”

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t call me Tom. The tie between us is broken now

and for ever!”

“Do you intend to betray me, then?”

“I know not what to do. I am so supremely wretched that I wish I sank

beneath the waves.”

“What folly is this? It was an accident――a mere accident. Of course I

never intended to hurl him from the cliff. Do you think it’s likely?

Listen――for my sake you must keep silent. It is known only to our two

selves. He fell over by accident――walked too near the edge, and then

you did your best to save him. Nothing can be plainer.”

“I’ll be no party to so infamous a crime. I will not tell an untruth.

No, not to save your worthless life. You are a monster, a murderess,

and I have done with you.”

“I am in your power to a certain extent, I admit. Still, at the same

time, permit me to observe that you will do well by holding your

tongue, for your own sake as well as mine,” she added, with something

like a sneer. “Do you understand?”

“Just Heaven! do you dare to threaten?”

“I don’t threaten, my friend――I merely suggest, and my suggestion is a

very natural and reasonable one, and when you have duly considered the

matter I doubt not that you will be of my opinion.”

Tom Gatliffe was perfectly appalled, not only at the observations

which had fallen from her, but at his own position.

If she chose to accuse him of the crime, what witness could he call to

prove his innocence?

He could not deny that he had struck the murdered man――that they had a

short but fierce struggle.

He felt that he was in a very dangerous position.

All these thoughts rushed rapidly through his brain, and he was almost

inclined to look upon himself as an accessory.

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

you.”

“It’s no use you talking in that way. We have known each other for

many years. There are numbers of persons who will vouch for that, and

so it’s no use your endeavouring to shirk the question. This miserable

business may, in a great measure, be attributed to my love for you.”

“Are you mad, woman?” cried Gatliffe, drawing back with ineffable

disgust. “Your love for me! I have brought myself to a pretty pass, it

seems.”

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

He now saw the nature of the woman with whom he had to deal, and the

last words uttered by Purvis seemed to be almost prophetic.

He stood for a moment or two gazing upon the woman who was so callous

and hardened that she did not demonstrate the faintest symptom of

remorse for the atrocious act she had perpetrated.

“So,” said she, “it would appear that you, like the rest, are disposed

to round on me. I confess I was not prepared for this, but after all

it does not matter.”

“I do not understand you, woman,” he ejaculated. “I am appalled, and

am utterly at a loss. A murder has been committed before my very

eyes――a crime so infamous that I stand aghast――and am almost petrified

with astonishment. Had I guessed your horrible purpose――――”

“Don’t make matters worse by abusing me――it will not serve any

purpose. It is necessary, for both of our sakes, that we should be

friends,” she observed, in a low tone.

“Friends!” he exclaimed. “Never again will I consent to even hold

discourse with you――never again will I hold out the hand of friendship

to a cold, cruel, heartless assassin. Get thee hence! I will not have

anything further to say to you.”

He turned and was about to take his departure.

“Oh,” said she, “it is thus you treat me. Stay a moment, if you

please. Possibly you are about to denounce me.”

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

“We will not argue that question. Do so if you please; but, hark ye,

Mr. Thomas Gatliffe, a word in your ear. If you accuse me of

committing this atrocious crime, as you term it, I must tell you

frankly, I shall be constrained, in self-defence, to declare that you

are the murderer of Alf Purvis. So it is, perhaps, just as well for

you to understand what you have to expect.”

“Infamous, abandoned, and guilty woman!” cried Gatliffe, who was at

this time driven to a state bordering on distraction. “I have no fear

for myself. Think not to escape by such a miserable device. I both

abhor and contemn you. Away, wretch! Away, murderess and adultress; I

am far beyond the reach of your malice――go!”

“I shall go when I feel disposed to do so. I am proof against your

taunts and abuse, and I should advise you to be a little more

temperate in your language. You don’t know at present whom you have to

deal with.”

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

“Very well, sir, as you please. We are to part in anger, it would

seem. The fault is not mine.”

“Yours!” exclaimed Gatliffe, casting upon her a look of unutterable

disgust. “Part in anger! Away, woman――away! I loathe the very sight of

you.”

She came forward with the intention of making an urgent appeal to him,

but he thrust her fiercely from him, turned on his heel, and without

uttering another word fled from the spot.

When he reached Margate he made for the station, booked for London,

and hastened on to the metropolis.

Laura Stanbridge, after he had left her so abruptly, remained for some

time lost in thought.

“Ah,” she murmured, “he’ll keep silent upon this subject――I think I

know enough of him to be assured of that. He is not likely to turn

against me for all his vapouring. I don’t think I have much to fear as

far as he is concerned; but if he does play me false, well, I have my

remedy, which I shall not hesitate to make use of. Anyway, he will

find it difficult to come out of the business with clean

hands――certainly not without a strong shade of suspicion. Let him do

his worst, then, if he means to turn traitor. Yes, let him do his

worst. That base, ungrateful boy has met with his deserts. For years I

have been thirsting for revenge, but never deemed it would be brought

about in this fashion.”

She walked slowly on in the direction of a small cottage, which she

rented furnished, for a few weeks during the season.

Upon her entering the habitation in question, her maid observed that

she looked troubled and careworn. The reason for this alteration in

her appearance the girl could not quite understand, but she said

nothing, laid the table for supper and then looked inquiringly at her

mistress.

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

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not any visitors to-night, Jane. Mr. Gatliffe is called suddenly

away. I shall be all alone this evening.”

The table having been laid, and the supper served, Miss Stanbridge

partook of her evening meal as if nothing had happened. Her heart was

as hard and petrified as the nether millstone.

CHAPTER CLIII.

THE STOKE FERRYMAN.

Tom Gatliffe, as we have already intimated, went direct up to London,

after the terrible scene on the cliffs.

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

held him in bondage.

Come what would, he was determined never to have anything further to

say to her. But his mind was distraught, and every turn he expected to

learn that a body had been picked up off Margate.

However, days passed on, and no news received of the ill-fated Alf

Purvis; but Tom could not dismiss from his mind the harrowing

circumstances connected with the tragedy, and deemed it advisable to

keep silent and await patiently the issue. It would be time enough for

him to be outspoken when he felt assured that silence would be

criminal.

The infamous woman――the perpetrator of the act of atrocity which we

have recorded――remained for a few days in Margate after the event,

then she, like her companion, returned to the metropolis.

She was quite calm and self-possessed, and did not appear to have any

remorse for the past, or fears for the future.

* * * * * * *

On the side of a dark-rolling river, half buried among willows and

rushes, stood a small cottage. Suspended before the door was a large

bell, the rope of which swung backwards and forwards in the breeze.

The road which passed the cottage consisted of two huge ruts, with

grass growing in the space between; it ended at the river bank.

To this bank were chained two boats――the one a kind of barge adapted

for the carrying of vehicles and large burdens; the other one of those

small flat-bottomed boats which may be propelled either by oar or pole

and which are called punts.

It was Stoke Ferry, the most desolate of all spots on the river as it

passes on its course to the sea. The cottage was the residence of the

ferryman――the bell was rung by those who wished to be ferried over to

the other side.

Some years previously the house and ferry had been put into the

auction-room. An old man whom nobody knew had bought them, and had

lived there since that day.

He was never seen outside his door, except to ply his calling as a

ferryman, and once a month to go to London, where he would always

remain a night and return the next day with a face, they said, more

pale and stern than before.

He had no servant in the house to help him; he did all his washing and

cleaning himself; he took his meat from the butcher, his bread from

the baker, and his milk from the farmer’s man at the door. He was only

known by the name of the Stoke Ferryman.

His habitation was well suited to a misanthrope; it was surrounded by

barren fields, exposed to cold winds, and in the winter the river

would flood his garden, and would beat against his primitive

residence, the walls of which were mossy and green from damp.

The neighbours looked with astonishment upon this man as a sort of

natural curiosity. He remained buried in solitude within sight of men;

he dwelt amongst waters, and seemed to live in eternal cold and

darkness, for no lights ever shone from his windows――no smoke ever

rose from his chimney.

When there was a dearth of scandal――it was not often this was the

case――but when there was a lull in this respect, the gossips would

always fall back upon the Stoke Ferryman.

Some said he was a sorcerer, that he had dealings with the Evil One;

some that he was a criminal hiding from the eyes of the law; others

that he was only an eccentric individual, who was a little crazed in

consequence of a great trouble he had met with in early life.

When the children in the neighbourhood were troublesome and could not

be brought to order by ordinary means, they were told that they would

be handed over to the Stoke Ferryman, and this threat invariably had

the desired effect.

At a little less than a half mile from the ferry stood the habitation

and fertile land known as Stoke Ferry Farm, and at about two miles

distance or a little more perhaps, was the residence o; Mr. Kensett,

the magistrate.

It was the hour of twilight. Frogs croaked hoarsely from the damp

ditches by the river-side, sometimes an owl flew past with its white

ghastly wings and hollow cry.

A woman stood before the ferryman’s house. Her face was pale and

haggard, her limbs were weary, and her garments were soiled.

She stood there for some minutes in a state of trepidation. Presently

she seemed to muster up courage, for she seized the rope and rang the

bell violently.

The cottage door was opened, and an old man with a lantern advanced

down the garden path slowly towards the gate.

Through the bars of the gate which was secured by a padlock, he

examined her face.

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

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

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

proceed.”

“I wish to speak to you alone.”

The old man extended his thin, horny hand towards the barren, dusty

plain, then towards the silent river.

“You may speak here safely,” said he, with a grim smile. “We are quite

alone, and I do not expect we shall be interrupted by visitors.”

“Ah, sir,” she cried, in a tone of anguish, “they say you know more

than other men, and if this be so, which I do not for a moment doubt,

you may be able to render me a service.”

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

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

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

“Do not refuse me the assistance I require. If I do not find my poor

boy, I shall die. My feet are blistered with walking, my eyes are sore

with weeping, and my heart is pining for him I cannot find. Oh, sir,

if you have the power to assist me, you will not――you cannot refuse.”

She fell upon the damp ground, and prayed with clasped hands to him

who looked at her through her gate.

“Such are women,” muttered the misanthrope. “When their own resources

have failed them, they make one shallow hope an assurance, and appeal

to a poor old man as if he were a god.”

“It is my last hope,” she moaned.

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

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

name.”

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

“Purvis.”

“Ah, indeed. I have heard it before, I think,” he ejaculated, as he

gave a convulsive start, while his eyes glared at her through the iron

bars like those of a caged wolf who sniffs blood in the air.

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

gate.

“You had better come in,” said he.

She entered.

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

She entered a room which was heated by a clear coal stove, and that

was why no smoke ever rose from his chimney. It was lighted by an oil

lamp suspended from the ceiling, while huge oaken shutters, and a

baize edging to the foot of the door, prevented a gleam of light from

penetrating abroad.

The walls and floor were hidden by books; a table in the centre was

covered with papers, and with instruments of a kind which she had

never seen before.

He trimmed the lamp, and sat down, leaning his face on his hand. He

seemed to be lost in thought, but all this while his eyes were bent

upon her――his eyes full of sorrow and compassion.

Under other circumstances, the woman would have been frightened, and,

as it was, she was not without certain misgivings; she was in the lone

habitation of a forlorn and mysterious man.

She was surprised at his pensive attitude, and his singular silence,

which appeared to her to be almost preternatural.

“Ah, sir, you already know my errand,” said she in a beseeching tone.

Do not keep me in suspense. If you can do anything in respect to my

poor boy, I feel assured you will not deny me the favour I ask.”

“If I can. Ah,” murmured the recluse, “does it not strike you as being

a little remarkable that you should seek the assistance of a poor old

hermit like myself? I have no home, woman――am poor――and, I may say,

dispised. How can I serve you?”

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

farmhouse.”

“From which place he ran away?”

“He was turned away. The cruel farmer tied a hare round his neck, and

beat him unmercifully. Small wonder is it then that the poor lad left

Stoke Ferry farm for good and for all.”

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

concerned.”

“He was the son of a gentleman, and could ill brook the cruel usage to

which he was subjected.”

“We will not quarrel about that, Mrs. Grover,” said the ferryman; “it

is hardly worth while. Mr. Jamblin was a worthy man――a litte

headstrong, perhaps, but he was a good man for all that. Do not speak

ill of the dead.”

“Oh, I don’t speak ill of Mr. Jamblin. Still, had he been a little

more tolerant, the boy would not have been driven to seek his living

in the streets; neither would he have associated with lawless

characters.”

“Isabel Purvis, the thoughtlessness of man, and the bleeding of your

own heart, drove you to a crime――you abandoned the child which you, as

its mother, ought to have cherished. Is not this so?”

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

“True, you have repented. You are punished now, but you will be

pardoned hereafter, let us hope,” he added, in a lower tone.

She shuddered, and felt half afraid of the mysterious man who spoke so

calmly, and appeared to be so self-possessed.

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

“Yes,” said she, “and they have sunk deep in my heart. It is quite

true. My son has led an evil life――so I have been told.”

“Who told you?”

“I have heard it from several.”

“Name one.”

“William Rawton.”

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

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I have seen him once or twice――that is all. Cannot he give you any

information about your son, whom, it would appear, you are now, all of

a sudden, so anxious to see?”

“It is not so sudden. I have been anxious to see him for a long time

past. You forget, sir, that it is only lately I have had reasons for

thinking he was my son.”

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

it earlier.”

“I divine your meaning,” she cried, seizing his hands. “You know he is

dead, and do not like to tell me. And yet――――”

“Yet what?”

“He cannot be dead, he is so young.”

The ferryman rose, and opened a small cabinet.

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

before him.

Now his face became stern, jets of fire seemed to dart from his

deep-sunken piercing eyes.

Mrs. Grover began to tremble.

“In this book,” he muttered, in a hollow voice, “are recorded the vile

deeds of a woman who is as nefarious as she is alluring.”

Mrs. Grover started to her feet.

“What is her name?” said she.

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

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

“Do you? Please to say then.”

“Her name is Stanbridge.”

The old man nodded and pored over his book.

“Am I right?” she inquired.

“Be silent!” he cried, “Have you no wounds in your heart which words

will open? Be silent, my friend, and listen to your woes which are

kindred to my own.”

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

the letters were all red.

“You need not be under any apprehension,” said her companion. “I am

not likely to do you or anybody else any harm, although my ways are

not altogether like the ways of other men.”

He turned to a particular page in the book.

“Listen,” said he. Then he read.

“Isabel Purvis.――Hiding from the police for the abandonment and

attempted murder of her child. Repentant, and desirous of gaining an

honest livelihood. The daughter of Satan discovers her――she pretends

friendship, worms from her the relation of her crime, threatens to

hand her over to justice if she refuses to obey her, and to destroy

her.”

Mrs. Grover groaned.

“Yes, yes!” she ejaculated; “all this is but too true――every word of

it. How could it have become known to you?”

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

“Alfred Purvis runs away from Stoke Ferry Farm, and sells birds’ nests

in London. The fiend finds him in a low lodging-house in Westminster,

takes him to her den, depraves his mind by slow degrees, teaches him

to cheat, places him under a notorious thief, sends Mrs. Grover upon

the streets because she, warned by the instincts of a mother’s

love――――”

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

woman.

“Possibly not. Indeed it is certain you did not; but listen. Alfred

Purvis was placed under the care of Mr. Jamblin――he ran away to

London. In different hands he might have been a credit to his

relatives――I say he might――it is not certain――but he might; but under

an obstinate agriculturist he became mischievous, and under a

fiend――――”

“Why do you not continue?” exclaimed the woman. “There is more writing

on the page. Go on. Pray go on. I can bear it――indeed I can. I am

quite calm, as you see.”

He closed the book, she sprang towards him with a yell, but his eyes

repelled her; it was not because they were stern――it was because they

were so sorrowful. She crept back from him.

“Tell me, sir, for mercy’s sake――tell me if he is alive or dead. His

grandfather, Lyme Kensett, yearns to see him. Already he has saved

this unhappy and ill-fated young man from being convicted――now he

wishes to make him his heir. Is he alive?”

“He is,” said the old ferryman――“he is alive.”

“Bless you for telling me this. It has given me new life. I may yet

see him. Tell me where he is. Oh, give him to me!”

The old man shook his head.

“I cannot do that,” he slowly answered. “_She_ must do that, I

cannot.”

“She――Laura Stanbridge?”

He bent his head.

“Is she in London?”

He made the same sign.

“Now leave me,” he said.

She arose and went to the door and gained the garden beyond. He

followed her to the gate. As she opened it he laid his hand upon her

shoulder, where it felt like hot steel.

And he hissed into her ear――

“When the cup is full come to me.”

CHAPTER CLIV.

THE UNEXPECTED MEETING――LAURA AND MRS. GROVER.

We are again in London――it is night――the day’s work is over with many

of the inhabitants of this mighty human hive. But there are thousands,

however, whose work commences after dark. Journalists, reporters,

printers, and those who minister to the pleasure of the public as

entertainers, have each and all to ply their vocation after what are

the recognised working hours of the great body of the people.

The doors of the theatres had opened for the second price; from the

cafés, saloons, and taverns, of the Haymarket and its purlieus red

lights began to gleam――hoarse voices to swear――and this fearful

quarter, where, but a few years back, vice and debauchery reigned

undisturbed, now began to fill with the votaries of vice and the

victims of vanity――men who covered their natures of beasts with the

garb of gentlemen――women, who, with sad gaiety and lurid smiles,

walked, walked, and walked, in order that they might not starve.

In a dark street near Leicester-square two women met beneath a

gas-light. Both started. One of them tried to pass. The other seized

her.

“No, I must speak to you, Laura Stanbridge,” said the elder of the

two.

The woman whom she addressed affected surprise.

“Why, is it really you, Mrs. Grover?” said she.

“Yes, it is me,” she answered, gloomily. “It is years since we met,

but I knew you in a moment.”

“Indeed! In that you had the advantage of me, for at first, I confess,

I was at a loss to understand who you were.”

“That is likely enough. Time has altered both of us, but me more

especially.”

“I don’t see that it has. But do you want anything of me?”

“Yes, I do, or I should not have troubled to make myself known to you.

I desire to have a little conversation with you.”

Laura Stanbridge hesitated.

“Humph! Something to say, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I may learn something from her,” she muttered to herself,

“better keep in with her.”

Then aloud she said――

“You are the last person in the world I should have expected to meet.

Still, of course, I am glad to see you.”

“Oh yes, I dare say you are.”

“Let us enter this café,” said Laura.

They entered the establishment in question, which was provided with

some marble tables and luxurious ottomans.

It was divided into two compartments.

They passed into the further one, where they could converse with

privacy.

First, however, it was requisite to order some refreshment.

“Garcon!” cried Laura.

[Sidenote: No. 86.]

[Illustration: LAURA STANBRIDGE AND PURVIS’S MOTHER IN THE

RESTAURANT.]

A waiter, with shaved cheeks, and a small black moustache of the true

Frenchman style, answered the call.

“_Une verre de parfait amour_,” said Miss Stanbridge.

He bowed, vanished, and returned with a tiny glass filled with a

liquor red as a girl’s lips, luscious, and perfumed as the nectar of

the gods.

“Now, my dear Mrs. Grover,” said Laura, as she sipped the beverage and

reclined in a voluptuous attitude, “I am all attention. Pray tell me

what you have to discourse about. The wickedness and vanity of the

world――or what?”

“There is no occasion for you to make a jest of a subject which to me

is, alas! a most serious one,” returned her companion. “I have come to

ask what you have done with my child.”

“Your child?” cried Laura, raising her eyebrows. “The person to whom

you allude is no longer a child.”

“Well, then, my son, if that term pleases you better.”

“We will not dispute about terms――I presume you allude to a young man

who was at one my time protégé.”

“The boy whom you adopted from the streets and taught to be a thief

was my son. I always loved him,” said the unhappy woman. “I always

loved him without knowing why. But he was the babe I nursed at this

breast, and carried in these arms, and kissed with these lips――the

babe I abandoned when I was mad and foolish, and whom they tore from

me, and made me fly for my very life. I never knew this until lately,

and I have been searching for you for months past. I asked Bill Rawton

to put me on the right track, and I have asked everybody I could think

of.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Yes, I have.”

“This is very curious and romantic; and you really mean to say that

you have not seen or heard of your young friend for all these long and

weary years?”

“No never――never once have I set eyes upon him. But what could I do?

You threatened me with the police if I tried to baulk you and I was

altogether at your mercy. I did not know that he was my darling son,

and if I had,” she said fiercely, “the rope itself should not have

held me back, but I did not know that then. I only knew that I loved

him, but I did not know why.”

Laura Stanbridge sipped her _parfait amour_.

“This is really very dramatic, Mrs. Grover――very dramatic indeed,”

said she with perfect composure, “And I suppose there will be no harm

in grattfying your curiosity, especially as it may serve you as a

lesson not to play at pitch and toss with babies in the future.”

“I do not care a pin for your taunts. Jest at me as you will――it will

not harm me; only tell me where he is.”

“I should be clever indeed to tell you that, seeing that I do not know

myself.”

“Have you quarrelled then, and do you never see him then?”

“I never see him and never wish to do so; he was my friend――he is now

my bitterest enemy. I suppose you have heard of Dandy Sutherland, as

he is termed.”

Mrs. Grover turned pale. “Eh,” she murmured, “Then my boy has fallen

into his hands? All is lost, all is lost.”

“Dandy Sutherland is the Bully Grand of the Forty Thieves, and the

standing toast of every boozing ken between Westminster and

Whitechapel. While other men have been content to shine in one branch

of the profession, the Dandy has made himself master of them all, and

is equally notorious as a drummer, as a mobsman, a shofuller, a

smasher, and a cracksman. In this last capacity he is only surpassed

by the celebrated and famous Charles Peace, who surpasses all others

as a daring and accomplished burglar.”

The Dandy, therefore, is not to be named in the same day with Charles

Peace, but he has other accomplishments――practises other forms of

villainy which Peace never attempted.

“Gracious heaven! Can this be possible?”

“It is not only possible, but true.”

“Admit that it is so, but this does not help me to find my son. Where

is my boy?”

“His genius for calculation would have made his fortune at cards

before the hells were abolished,” observed Miss Stanbridge, not taking

any heed of her companion’s queries. “And could he obtain an _entrée_

into the ‘Ottoman’ or ‘Cocoa-nut Tree,’ where hundreds of pounds are

frequently staked upon a game, his skill at billiards would speedily

enrich him.”

“And is he not rich now?” inquired the other, stifling her rage that

she might obtain the information she desired.

“He was not rich when I last saw him; on the contrary, he was poor,

but this is some time ago. I have not seen anything of him for a long

time past. He is unsettled and extravagant. Besides, he is an

unprincipled corrupter of our own sex, and so spends more thought upon

vice than upon crime. Vice is a safe game because it is played at by

all the aristocracy, but it is the reverse of lucrative.”

“And this man, this Dandy Sutherland, as you call him, am I to

understand that he is an associate of my son’s, or is he my boy

himself?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, forlorn and afflicted parent,” said

Laura Stanbridge, “Dandy Sutherland, with his fifty aliases and his

thousand crimes, is no other than the youth whom I had the honour of

initiating into his profession.”

The mother did not speak. She stared at Laura stupidly as if she had

not understood her, but she turned pale, and breathed very hard.

“I repeat,” said Laura, “that your son is now called, by the thieving

fraternity, Dandy Sutherland, and that he has been compelled to fly

from the officers of justice in consequence of a burglary and

murderous outrage he has been engaged in, and, I think, seeing that he

is wanted by the police, that it is very doubtful about your finding

him――for some time to come at all events. If he is caught they’ll give

it him pretty hot, I fancy,” remarked Laura, carelessly, as she sipped

her _parfait amour_.

“And you will be glad to see him in trouble. If you say that again I

will throttle you,” cried Mrs. Grover, with a sudden burst of passion.

“Now don’t be noisy, my dear old friend,” returned her companion, with

a smile. “It is, of course, very dramatic, but we don’t want to bring

down the house just now――we don’t, indeed.”

The unhappy mother fell into a chair, and the tears streamed in hot

torrents from her eyes. Suddenly she sprung to her feet.

She snatched a handkerchief from her bosom, and showed Laura

Stanbridge a golden ring and a slip of paper, on which the ink was

brown and faded, as if it had been written years before.

“I will save him yet!――I will save him yet!” cried the woman. “Do you

know what I will do?”

“Can’t possibly imagine.”

“I will go to him, and will show him this ring and paper, and I will

tell him that he is not base born, but born in lawful wedlock, and

heir to a squire’s land. That will tempt him to turn from his evil

ways, and he will go to his grandfather, and, of course, he will not

know what my son has been, and what he will never be again, but will

make up some clever story, and it will be all right.”

“Oh, it must be a wonderfully clever story to put your son straight

with Squire Kensett――wonderfully clever, indeed. Why, don’t you know

that the worthy magistrate in question has already had Dandy

Sutherland before him upon the charge of attempting to defraud the

Saltwich Bank?”

“Before Squire Kensett,” cried Mrs. Grover, perfectly aghast at this

piece of information.

“Most certainly.”

“Alf is the squire’s grandson.”

“Is he?”

“Most certainly, he is the son of Mr. Robert Everhard Kensett――read

that,” said Mrs. Grover, handing her companion the paper.

“Ah I see a marriage certificate, and your husband――this Mr. Robert

Everhard Kensett――is dead.”

“Yes, he is. The ship he sailed in foundered at sea and all hands on

board were lost.”

“How very unfortunate――very sad indeed! But this instrument appears to

be genuine.”

“When I show it my son he will do as I wish; will he not?”

“No one could refuse to exchange constant anxiety and danger for

perpetual substance and respectability.”

“You think he will come with me then?” asked Mrs. Grover, for the sake

of hearing such words again.

“I am sure of it, if you find him.”

“If I find him!”

“Yes, at present that little difficultly stands in the way.”

“Oh, how happy I am, and the thought only came into my poor weak head

lately. My boy will be a squire, and perhaps they will make him a

magistrate. Only fancy his being a magistrate.”

“I confess I cannot fancy it. At present he is hunted like a wild

beast, and has been compelled to leave the country――so I have been

told. He had better keep out of the way, and no doubt he will, for he

is cunning as a fox.”

Mrs. Grover looked at the speaker anxiously.

“What are you doing with my certificate?” said she.

“I am folding it up to put in my pocket. It is a very important paper,

and perhaps you might lose it.”

“Oh, no, I am not likely to do that,” said the other, earnestly. “I

have kept that paper and the ring my husband gave me ever since I was

a young and wicked girl. Don’t put it in your pocket. I shall want it,

you know, to show it to my son.”

“But I don’t mean to let you show it to your son.” And she sipped her

_parfait amour_.

“Not let me! Why not?”

“Because I don’t wish your son to become a squire and a magistrate. He

would be too proud to remember his old friends.”

“Oh, Laura!” cried the miserable mother, “you cannot find it in your

heart to hold him back from a life of honesty and drive him to sin and

death. Ah, woman, you have made him everything that’s bad. Have you

not done enough?”

“No!” shrieked Laura, rising to her feet――“no, I have not done enough,

for, do you know, woman, how this precious son of yours turned round

upon me?”

“No, I never heard.”

“Hark ye, woman! I knelt to that man――I, Laura Stanbridge――and he

spurned me as if I had been a leper. I became a woman for once, and I

was trodden on. Do you think I am likely to serve him――the recreant,

heartless scoundrel? No, no, madam. You know little of me if you

imagine I can forget the bitter wrong done me. I fostered a serpent,

and now I both hate and despise this precious sample of manhood. Go

your ways. Do as you will――you cannot count on any assistance from me.

Find him if you can――but I tell you once and for all that I have done

with him.”

Mrs. Grover listened to this sudden burst of fury at first with a

shudder, afterwards with an icy calmness.

She had taken a resolution. Without replying she moved towards the

door.

“Stop!” cried Laura Stanbridge. “Understand me distinctly. I have

nothing to say against you personally. I do not dislike you, but as

for him――――”

“No more. Say no more. You have done your worst.”

“Do not be sure of that. Possibly worse is to follow.”

Mrs. Grover moaned and sank back in her chair. There was no life in

her eyes but one tear which struggled freely down her cheeks――no life

in her frame but a slight quivering in her hands.

Laura Standbridge looked at her with a smile. Then she drew the

marriage certificate from her pocket and read it over carefully, and

she took the last sip of her _parfait amour_.

After awhile her companion recovered herself. She arose, and, holding

up one hand in a deprecating manner, she passed out of the café.

“Unhappy woman!” exclaimed Miss Stanbridge, after she had gone, “She

little thinks that she is not likely to see her son this side of the

grave. Strange that the body has never been found――drifted out, I

suppose, and never will be recovered. All things considered we must

deem ourselves fortunate.”

CHAPTER CLV.

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

The incidents described in the preceding chapters came to a

denouement; this we shall have to chronicle a few chapters further on.

Meanwhile we will put the reader in possession of other facts in

connection with our hero.

Charles Peace, at this time occupied the attention of the detectives

in a most remarkable degree, and every effort was made to bring the

crime of murdering Mr. Dyson home to him.

Every effort was used to give as much publicity to the leading

circumstances attendant on this crime. The public were furnished with

the following account:――On the night of the 29th November, 1876, a

civil engineer named Mr. Arthur Dyson, who resided at Bannercross-terrace,

near Sheffield, was shot by a man whom he found lurking on his

premises. That man was subsequently sworn to as being Charles Peace, a

notorious character, who had been convicted of felony, and who was

known to be a desperado.

Immediately after committing the murder Peace decamped across the

adjacent fields, and from that time all trace of him was lost. A

coroner’s inquest, sitting on view of the body of Mr. Dyson, returned

a verdict of wilful murder against Peace, and on this a warrant was

issued for his apprehension, and it is believed that he at last has

been captured.

Peace was an “old bird,” and eluded those who were on his track. He

was so successful in that, that many believed he had made away with

himself by jumping down some old coal pit, and thus hiding his body

whilst ridding the world of himself.

But the police officers who had had to deal with him did not believe

this story. “Peace,” they said, “is not a man to do that; he’ll fight

before he’s caught; he’s not dead.”

On the night of the murder there was a “handicap” in Sheffield, in

which men were the competitors, and the railway stations were crowded

with those who were returning home after viewing the pedestrian

exhibition.

It was thought that Peace mixed up with this motley crowd and so

effected his escape for the time being.

As to where he had gone was a question, but the police were almost as

rapid in their movements as was Peace, though for the time being he

appeared the most successful in the accomplishing of his purpose――the

effecting of his escape.

Within five hours after Mr. Dyson’s death the whole of the large towns

within a radius of two hundred miles of here had been warned of the

crime which had been committed, and the railway stations of Hull,

Huddersfield, Leeds, Manchester, Bradford, Liverpool, and Halifax,

were most vigilantly watched, and it was known that Peace, being an

old hand, knew the thieves’ runs and hiding places in those

localities.

Notwithstanding every effort there was no indication of the whereabout

of the man.

The houses of some of his relatives in Sheffield were searched almost

nightly; nocturnal visits were made to the domiciles of other friends,

but yet there were no tidings of “Peace,” and the closest scrutiny

failed to show that he was having the slightest communication with any

of those who in Sheffield had been regarded as attached to him, and

with whom he had been in the habit of associating.

One Sheffield detective watched the Manchester Railway station for

almost a month, but, of course, unsuccessfully.

The almost universally accepted version of the murderer’s escape was

this――that Peace took train to Hull within a couple of hours after

shooting Mr. Dyson.

Indeed, an officer who went to that town afterwards and who knew the

“crimping places,” as he himself, graphically describes them, said he

had no doubt that Peace had been there, and had remained a week or

two, but after that there was no trace of him.

There was but one other theory left, and that was that the fellow had

taken ship and gone to Hamburg――he being well versed as to the

thieves’ haunts there.

It should here be stated, however, that before committing the murder

Peace went to “a friend” and said he was short of cash. He borrowed

£15――and forgot to return it.

Thus it will be seen that he was not short of funds when he set out

with the intention of committing the murder――for that he intended to

commit one there can be no doubt, although his particular reasons for

doing so are, for the present, a complete mystery.

The authorities took care to circulate throughout the police districts

of the United Kingdom a complete description of the man who was

“wanted,” together with photographs of him, showing his visage when

shaven, when wearing a beard, and, indeed, under all the appearances

he had worn whilst in the hands of the police.

The authorities on the Continent and in the United States received

similar advices, but still there was no trace of the man, and this

only led the incredulous to be more firmly of opinion that Peace had

committed suicide, and would no longer be heard of amongst the living.

It will be seen, from the official notice which we append, that if

Peace fell into the hands of the police, there were marks on him which

would make him somewhat easy of identification. For his apprehension a

reward of £100 was offered by Government. The police notice was as

follows:――

“MURDER.――£100 Reward. Whereas on the 29th ult. Mr. Arthur

Dyson, C.E., was murdered at Bannercross, Sheffield, having

been shot in the head, in the presence of his wife, by

Charles Peace, who escaped in the darkness of the night, and

is still at large; and whereas at the coroner’s inquest held

on the 8th inst., upon the body of the said Arthur Dyson, a

verdict of ‘wilful murder’ was found against the said

Charles Peace.

“Notice is hereby given that a reward of £100 will be paid

by her Majesty’s Government to any person other than a

person employed in a police force in the United Kingdom who

shall give such information and evidence as shall lead to

the discovery and conviction of the said Charles Peace.

“Peace is a thin and slightly-built man, about forty-six

years of age, but looks ten years older, five feet four or

five inches high, grey (nearly white) hair, beard and

whiskers (the whiskers were long when he committed the

murder, but may now be cut or shaved off), has lost one or

more fingers off left hand, cut mark on back of each hand,

and one on forehead, walks with his legs rather wide apart,

speaks somewhat peculiarly, as though his tongue was too

large for his mouth, and is a great boaster.

“He is a joiner or picture-frame maker, but occasionally

cleans and repairs clocks and watches, and sometimes deals

in oleographs, engravings, pictures, &c., associates with

loose women, and has been twice in penal servitude for

burglaries near Manchester.”

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

He had been a daring poacher when a young man, and always carried a

revolver on him.

As a “cracksman” he stood in the foremost ranks of the thieving

fraternity; he was a capital hand at opening a “safe,” and was utterly

reckless as to consequences, and notoriously cruel.

Such was the man whom the police desired to apprehend, and it was well

known that if he had a chance he would resist his capture, and not

hesitate to resort again to the use of firearms. There is now almost

every reason to believe that Peace has at length fallen into the hands

of the police.

THE IDENTIFICATION.

A prisoner of the notorious character indicated above, was, of course,

the object of special care and precaution. As a consequence it was

found that there were marks on him of a singular description, and a

word or two which he had dropped to a fellow-prisoner gave rise to a

suspicion in the minds of the authorities that “John Ward” was not

altogether what he professed to be――a half-caste American, and a

juvenile in the art of thieving.

Inspector Phillips took the matter in hand, and as a result of his

searches, came to the conclusion that the prisoner was no other than

Charles Peace, of Sheffield, the murderer of Mr. Dyson.

He examined the prisoner more closely, and found the numerous

discolourations and disfigurements on his body to coincide with the

police description.

The photograph of the missing Peace was evidently that of this

prisoner, and a number of other circumstances tended to prove the

identity of the guilty man; so the police came to the conclusion that

the man in Newgate was none other than the Bannercross murderer;

indeed, it was generally understood that the prisoner did not attempt

to deny that he was Charles Peace.

In addition to all this Mr. Jackson was in possession of some valuable

information which he was not at liberty to divulge till the inquiry

assumed a more definite shape.

Certain legal forms had to be gone through before Peace could be

removed from Newgate to answer the charge made against him in the

county in which the crime had been perpetrated.

One difficulty, however, stood in the way. The question at this time

was, how to find out Mrs. Dyson; without her evidence the case would

break down.

Mrs. Dyson was now “wanted” as badly as Peace had been. Some time

after the murder she left this country to return to Ohio, United

States, and was indeed seen on board the vessel at Queenstown by

Sub-inspector Walsh.

There were persons who thought she would not remain long in America,

and that she had returned to this country.

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

naturally suggested itself.

Her appearance in Sheffield was a matter of great importance, for

without her Peace might be kept outside the law which he had so long

defied.

The public had at this time, perhaps, as much interest centred upon

Mrs. Dyson as upon Peace himself.

There was a general belief, however, that Mrs. Dyson knew a great deal

more than she divulged at the inquest――not, indeed, about the actual

facts of the murder, but with reference to her previous knowledge of

our hero, and her communications and transactions with him.

Certain letters produced at the inquest tended to show that between

Mrs. Dyson and Peace much correspondence passed.

This was flatly denied by Mrs. Dyson, who declared that she had never

seen the letters before, and in this unsatisfactory condition things

remained for some time. When the Bannercross tragedy was occupying

public attention, information respecting the appearance, conduct, and

antecedents of Mrs. Dyson were read with interest.

Mrs. Catherine Dyson was married at Cleveland, Ohio, about the year

1866, to Mr. Arthur Dyson, civil engineer. In 1873 they returned to

England, and lived at Tinsley, with the mother of Mr. Dyson.

Afterwards they removed to Highfield, and then to Alexander-road,

Heeley.

Darnall was their next abode, and at Darnall Peace first came upon the

scene. He took a house near the Dysons, and endeavoured to become

intimate. Mr. Dyson treated his advances with coolness, and then Peace

altered his tactics, and endeavoured to make disturbances between

husband and wife. Failing in this he spread mischievous reports about

them, and finally threatened to shoot Mrs. Dyson.

For this a summons was issued against him, and neglecting to answer

it, the summons was followed by a warrant. Upon this Peace left the

neighbourhood, or at any rate endeavoured to give that impression to

those who knew him. Mrs. Dyson, however, never believed that he had

gone far.

Though letters, purporting to come from Germany, and signed apparently

by Peace, frequently came to the house, she had the impression that he

was still about the town, and at his tricks. At this time the Dysons

went to Bannercross, where the murder subsequently took place.

Mrs. Dyson was then about twenty-five years of age, or half the age of

her husband. She was a person of considerable muscular development,

and not without personal attractions of face and figure. Her

countenance was round and ruddy, her hair raven black, and neatly and

fashionably tied up in coils.

After the murder of her husband she appears to have been animated by a

profound hatred of Peace, and naturally so. The various statements she

made tend, nevertheless, to show that she had an intimate knowledge of

him, and knew his real character.

She scouted the then prevalent idea that he had drowned himself or

otherwise put an end to his existence. She was certain, she stated,

that he was not so far away, but that he would return and “finish”

her.

It was not her husband he intended to shoot, but herself. She

regretted she had not a revolver when she met Peace; in that case she

should herself have shot him dead. She was convinced that he would

escape capture till he had put a bullet through her head as well as

her husband’s.

Her only protection was to have a revolver herself, and if he came she

declared she should use it. These and other statements show the views

Mrs. Dyson had at that time.

Her examination at the inquest was looked forward to with great

interest. Then it was believed revelations would be made by her as to

her knowledge of Peace, but in fact nothing transpired.

She positively repudiated the notion that there was anything kept

back, or that Peace was anything more to her than he had been to her

husband.

The following are some of her replies in answer to the Coroner, who

pressed her very closely upon this point:――

Had there ever been a quarrel between you and your husband with regard

to Peace?――No. No quarrrel.

You are quite sure that he never quarrelled with you on account of

your familiarity with Peace?――No; I am sure he has not.

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

to speak to him.

Has he ever found fault with you for speaking to him?――No, he has

never found fault, because he told me never to speak to him, and I did

not.

The letters found near the scene of the murder created a good deal of

bewilderment as to what they related to, and who were the authors of

them.

These letters were found the morning after the murder by

police-constable Ward, in Mrs. Else’s grass field, opposite Mr.

Dyson’s house, and handed over to Inspector Bradbury.

Amongst them was a pink envelope enclosing a cent. American coin, the

envelope bearing the words “C. Peace, Esq.”

The directions and other writing on the covers were evidently in a

woman’s hand, and written by one who apparently was carrying on an

intrigue with Peace.

These letters and papers were by the police evidently believed to have

been written by Mrs. Dyson to Peace, for during the examination of

Mrs. Dyson by the Coroner, the letters were handed to the latter, who

thereupon closely cross-examined the witness as to her knowledge of

them.

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

Have you ever seen this writing before (handing witness a quantity of

letters)?――No.

Have you looked at them?――Yes.

Did you ever lend Peace a book?――No.

The Coroner (to the jury): These are letters and memoranda, gentlemen.

They are not addressed to anyone――so it is difficult to say what

bearing they have on the case. Addressing witness: Did Peace never

write to you?――No.

You are quite sure of that?――Yes.

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

The Coroner (to the police): I suppose some one will give evidence as

to where these came from?

Mr. Inspector Bradbury: Yes.

The Coroner: It is difficult, gentlemen, to know what to do with

regard to those letters; they are not addressed. There is one here. I

do not like to read it, because it does not say for whom it is

intended. It runs:――“I write you these few lines to thank you for all

your kindness;” and so on. It is not addressed to anyone, and might

have been written to Mrs. Dyson or not. To witness:

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

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

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

Just be careful, please. Do you mean to swear you never have written a

word to him on paper?――No.

Never at all?――No.

Mr. Bradbury explained that the letters were picked up by a constable

about fifteen yards from where Peace was seen to get over a wall. They

were found the morning after the murder. Peace had been in the

neighbourhood to several places, and showed the papers, which he said

were in Mrs. Dyson’s handwriting, and written by her at the time she

lived in Darnall.

The Jury: Are they all in one handwriting?――Some are in ink and some

in pencil. There is one scrap in Mr. Dyson’s handwriting, telling

Peace that he would have nothing to do with him.

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

Is it in your handwriting?――No.

Can you write?――No, I never do write.

The Coroner said they were not addressed, but one scrap was identified

by witness as her husband’s handwriting. It was, “Charles Peace is

requested not to interfere with my family.” (To witness.) Do you know

Peace’s handwriting when you see it.――Yes.

Witness then went over the letters, and thought that some of them were

in Peace’s handwriting. The writing was similar to that contained in

the threatening letters which were at Mr. Chambers’s office.

Inspector Bradbury explained that the letters had been given up to the

chief constable, who had intended to be present at the inquest, but

his brother’s death had prevented him.

The Coroner (to witness): I understand you to say that, with the

exception of the threatening letter, Peace never wrote to you, or to

him?――No, I never did.

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

my husband.

Then he never wrote to you a threatening letter or any thing

else?――No. The letters threatened both. Peace never wrote to me.

Then again with regard to the pink envelope and the cent coin the

following took place:――

Mrs. Dyson (recalled) was examined by the coroner, who said: Are you

an American by birth?――No.

You have been living in America?――Yes.

Where did you see this coin last (meaning the cent)?――I cannot say

where I have seen this. I have seen several.

Do you know where Peace got it?――No.

Did you give it to him?――No.

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

The papers, after Peace’s identification, published an account of the

interview of Peace, before the murder, with the Rev. E. Newman, in

which he made charges of a very gross kind against Mrs. Dyson, and

produced letters, &c., in support of his allegations. There can be

little doubt that these letters are identical with those afterwards

found by the police-officer.

It is said that one great object Peace had in view in trying to get

Mrs. Dyson to follow his fortunes was that she would be useful to him

in disposing of the proceeds of his burglaries. At one time he offered

her £50 to take a trip through the country with him.

Peace had a great liking for arms, and succeeded in stealing four

revolvers in his burglarious expeditions.

With one of these, a six-chambered weapon, he shot Mr. Dyson at

Bannercross, and he used the same revolver when he encountered

Police-constable Robinson at Blackheath, and shot him in the arm, just

before his capture.

This was his favourite revolver, but he had another, a smaller one,

with five chambers, which he practised with at home.

It carried only a very little bullet, not much larger than a pea, and

when fired its report was scarcely louder than the crack of a whip. A

capital revolver for practice, he frequently used it in his garden,

firing at a bottle for a mark, and gaining great proficiency of aim.

The third revolver had seven chambers; and the fourth ten chambers.

The six-chambered one was his constant companion, however. He always

carried it loaded, slept with it under his pillow, and kept the other

three weapons, likewise loaded, in a drawer within easy reach of his

bed, so that if his house had been surrounded by police, and they had

endeavoured to arrest him, there is no doubt whatever that Peace would

have fought to the last, and that he would have been captured at a

terrible sacrifice.

He devoted a good deal of attention to his weapons; frequently drew

the charges and cleaned them, and always had them ready for use.

The six-chambered revolver was wrested from his grasp at Blackheath by

the police; but the other three, together with the ammunition, were

sent down to Nottingham, and by a relative of Mrs. Thompson’s were

dropped into the canal near the town.

The arrangements for conveying the prisoner to Sheffield, to be then

and there examined upon the charge of murdering Mr. Dyson, had been

made in what was supposed to be a satisfactory manner, and it was at

this time that our hero committed one of the most daring acts in his

whole career.

On Wednesday morning, of June 22, 1878, Charles Peace was taken in

charge of two stalwart warders to the King’s-cross Station, for the

purpose of being conveyed by express train to Sheffield.

But the proceedinge came to a standstill in a most extraordinary

manner.

On Wednesday morning by a determined and nearly successful attempt at

escape, by leaping from an express train, Charles Peace, alias

Ward――notorious as the hero of the Blackheath burglaries, and accused,

on the evidence of Mrs. Dyson, of having murdered Mr. Dyson at

Bannercross, near Sheffield――added another startling chapter to the

strange, eventful history with which the public are already familiar.

The facts of this daring attempt are briefly as follows:――The prisoner

Peace left King’s-cross, London, by the 5.15 Great Northern train,

accompanied by two warders from Pentonville Prison, where he had been

confined, and he ought to have arrived at Victoria Station, Sheffield,

at 8 54 a.m. The warders, who have been very much censured in

Sheffield, have stated that when they brought Peace from London he was

exceedingly troublesome throughout the whole journey, and wanted to

leave the train whenever it stopped, and indeed when it was

travelling.

At Peterborough he was allowed to get out, and the warders had

considerable difficulty in gettlng him back when they urged him to

return, as he was keeping the train waiting. He answered them

sneeringly, “What have I to do with caring for trains?”

By way of precaution against this annoyance the chief warder states

that he provided himself with a number of little bags, and that

whenever Peace required it one of them was handed to him, and was

afterwards thrown out of the window.

It is clear that the desperado had been on the lookout for a

favourable opportunity of making his escape, and at last it came. He

pretended great weakness, and used several of the bags on the way.

This may partly account for the fact that he had no irons on his lower

limbs. His handcuffs were fastened with a chain about six inches long

between them, and another chain for the warders to hold him by.

The point selected was peculiarly favourable to the attempt.

Between Worksop and Shireoaks――so called from certain oaks under which

the three shires of Nottingham, York, and Derby meet――the ground is

comparatively level; the country is also well adapted by the

neighbourhood of the forests, as well as by old lime-pits and

coal-workings, to offer temporary shelter to a criminal.

Peace, it is known, is well acquainted with the district, having

tramped it repeatedly when some of his many enterprises were

unsuccessful.

The warders, through Chief Constable Jackson, of Sheffield, have

stated that when the train had passed Worksop, and was going at full

speed, the prisoner asked for another bag.

The chief warder gave him one, and he stood up with his face to the

window to use it, the under-warder being close behind him.

The window was dropped for him to throw it out, and, quick almost as

lightning, Peace took a flying leap through the window. The

under-warder sprang forward and caught him by the left foot. There he

held him suspended head downwards, Peace kicking the warder with his

right foot, and struggling with all his might to get free.

The chief warder, unable to render his colleague any assistance in

holding Peace, inasmuch as he occupied the whole space of the window,

hastened to the other side of the carriage and pulled at the

communication cord to alarm the driver and secure the stoppage of the

train.

The cord would not act, and some gentlemen who were in the next

compartment, seeing the position of affairs, assisted in the efforts

of the warder to stop the train.

All this time the struggle was going on between Peace and his warder,

and eventually the prisoner succeeded in kicking off his shoe, and he

fell, his head striking the footboard of the carriage, and he dropped

on the line.

Supposing that the burglar had been able, as he came very near being,

to jump clean through the window and alight on the soft embankment,

fortune would also have favoured him in the matter of a fair start for

Sherwood Forest.

The struggle lasted during about two miles, and even after Peace got

out the train ran on for about a mile before the speed slackened

sufficiently to allow the warders to follow him.

A three-mile start would have given the desperado such a chance of

availing himself of the features of a very peculiar country as he of

all men would have delighted in. When it had slackened speed

sufficiently to allow the warders to alight the express train went on,

and the warders hurried back along the line.

Mr. William Barlow, fruiterer, of Retford, who was a passenger by the

train in which Peace was travelling, accompanied the warders, and in a

plain, unvarnished manner he states that between Shireoaks and Kineton

Park he heard a noise, and looking out of the window saw one of the

warders with a shoe in his hand.

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

The two warders and Mr. Barlow at once got out, and ran back along the

line, and when they neared the spot where Peace made his plunge, they

found him lying insensible on the line.

He had been dragged for about twelve yards, and appeared much hurt,

but when he was moved to the side of the road consciousness returned,

and he begged them to cover him up as he was very cold.

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

The warders shouted to the guard that Peace had jumped from the train

and was lying there. The train was pulled up, and the criminal, who

was now in no condition to offer resistance, was placed in the guard’s

van.

He was then bleeding profusely, and apparently in great pain, but the

guard made him as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.

Meantime, in Sheffield, the scene was highly exciting. As early as six

in the morning a crowd began to gather round the Town Hall and at all

the approaches, and long before the time the convict was expected to

arrive, the assemblage had become very dense. Several persons fainted,

and were taken away; but still the crowd waited most patiently until

the rumour spread that the convict had escaped.

Then the excitement was redoubled; the people surged backwards and

forwards; they almost attempted to force the doors, and the police had

hard work to keep their places at the railway station.

When the train which should have brought Peace arrived without him and

ten minutes late, the great crowd outside commenced shouting and

yelling in a most excited manner, and the utmost confusion prevailed.

The prisoners’ van, which was awaiting to convey Peace and the

warders, was drawn up opposite the large hall-door.

The train being brought to a standstill, a surprising announcement was

made by the guard.

“Peace has jumped out,” cried that official. The statement was for the

moment treated by the crowd as a hoax, and meant as a “blind” in order

to get the platform cleared; but when, instead of Peace, a sword, a

bag, and a rug belonging to one of his warders were handed over by the

guard to Inspector Bird, it was generally believed that Peace had

really escaped, and that the warders were on his track.

It was rumoured at the station that Peace had escaped through the

railway carriage window, and had succeeded in making off; but several

of the more incredulous, however, would have it that he had been taken

out of the train at Darnall, and would be from there quietly conveyed

in a cart to Sheffield. Many persons lingered on the platform in order

to satisfy themselves of his non-arrival.

At the Sheffield Police-court the few persons who had taken their

seats in court by a quarter-past nine o’clock were astonished when, a

few minutes subsequently, the chief constable entered, in a state of

considerable excitement.

Addressing his audience from the bench, Mr. Jackson said he was sorry

to tell them that they had put themselves to inconvenience in

attending thus early in the day, all to no account.

“In short,” he exclaimed, “Peace has escaped from the warders; at

least, that is what I hear.”

Meanwhile, the court very slowly filled, and a minute or two before

ten o’clock the witnesses for the prosecution were admitted from the

magisterial entrance.

Mrs. Dyson, it was noted, looked wonderfully well, and even more

collected in her demeanour on Friday last, notwithstanding the fact

that she was to undergo the ordeal of a special examination.

She again wore a black hat and feather, but eschewed the veil which

before she persisted in keeping drawn close down over her features,

and the thick waterproof, with which she formerly enveloped her

figure, had given place to a mantle of a lighter description.

Punctually at ten, the stipendiary, Mr. Welby, took his seat. Mr.

Pollard and Mr. W. E. Clegg, the prosecuting and defending solicitors,

were also in their places, but the dock remained untenanted.

A quarter-past ten, and no Peace. The rumour was whispered around that

it was doubtful whether he would be able to appear at all that day,

and this view of the situation was strengthened when, after an

interview with Mr. Jackson, the stipendiary hurriedly left the court.

Presently Mr. Welby came back and said――

As to this case, in consequence of the injuries the man Peace has

received this morning it is necessary to remand him for eight days.

Therefore, the cuse is adjourned for eight days.

There will be nothing further done this morning. Do not disperse in a

hurry, for there is a large crowd outside.

Another correspondent telegraphed:――The news was again and again

repeated that Peace was dead, but the fact is that this report was

founded upon his fall from the carriage. No fears are entertained as

to his ultimate convalescence.

On reaching the police-offices at Sheffield, the convict was carried

to a cell where he was seen by Dr. Spowart, the police-surgeon, and

Mr. Hallam, a surgeon of large experience. They found he was suffering

from a severe scalp wound in the head and concussion of the brain, and

he appeared in a very exhausted state. He vomited freely, and it was

with some difficulty that stimulants could be administered to him.

His wound was carefully dressed, and he was laid on the cell bed, and

covered with rugs. After a little time Peace was able to speak to his

warders. The Sheffield police cells have the advantage of ample space,

light, and warmth.

The furniture in each cell consists of a long wooden bench: but the

apartment occupied by Peace has had added to it a mattrass and

pillows, together with an ample supply of rugs.

There the little old man lies, his grey head curled down under the

rugs, and near the door stand his two keepers.

During the first hour he was frequently aroused, and brandy

administered to him. At first force had almost to be used to get him

to take it, but afterwards he drank it without any objection; though

at one time, with that thoughtfulness for himself for which he has

been distinguished, he expressed a preference for whiskey, “if he must

take any stimulants.”

The vomiting with which he was at first troubled, soon ceased under

the influence of the restoratives, and the medical men have been

unremitting in their attention. There are some officers in the

Sheffield force who were very doubtful as to the injuries he had

sustained, and believe that he has been up to his old cunning and

shamming a bit.

These constables stated that when he was lifted up, and the bottle

placed to his lips, he ground his teeth and clenched his fists, and

appeared to be struggling in a fit.

He was laid on the bench, and force was about to be used to make him

take the stimulant, when one who knew him well said very sternly,

“Now, Charley, it’s no use. Let’s have none of your hankey pankey

tricks here. You’ll have to take it.”

Charley recognised the voice, opened his eyes, and replied, “All

right; give me a minute.” A knowing wink passed among the officers,

and presently he sat up and took the brandy. Indeed, he seemed rather

to like it, for he drank two gills in a comparatively short time.

He is now resting quietly, the only request he makes being that he may

be well covered, as he feels the cold, which is in Sheffield

exceptionally severe. When the Great Northern express train reached

Retford the carriages for Sheffield and Manchester were detached and

“made up” for the Manchester, Sheffield, and Lincolnshire Railway.

The compartment occupied by Peace and his warders was a third-class

one in a composite carriage, immediately in front of the guard’s van.

In the next――a first-class compartment――were Mr. Benjamin F. Cocker,

who resides at Retford, and another gentleman.

Mr. Cocker says: We had got about half a mile past Shireoaks Station

when I heard a loud shout from the compartment where I knew Peace was.

The gentleman with me said, ‘Peace has got out,’ and tried to open the

window on the near side, but it was frozen fast. I tried the other

window, and, opening it, leaned half my body out and tried to pull the

communication cord. I saw the warder, who was doing the same thing.

The warder said, ‘I have got hold of this cord, but cannot make it

ring.’ After trying this all we could, at Branchcliffe siding we

signalled to the signalman; again and again we tried the cord, and the

train slackened speed. As it did so, I exclaimed to the warder, ‘You

are a nice sort of fellow to let the man get out of your grip.’ The

warder answered, ‘He jumped right through the window in a second. I

held on him by the leg, but his boot came off, and of course he

dropped then.’ The warder’s hands were covered with blood, for Peace

had kicked him very severely while struggling at the window.”

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

At half-past ten p.m., Chief-constable Cosgrove and his colleagues

reported that Peace was slumbering in apparent comfort; but as the

warder――who looked very wearied, and who evidently regards his charge

as something entirely out of the ordinary run――remarked, “With one eye

open.”

A little earlier in the evening the medical attendant had found it

necessary to order the prisoner a little medicine.

[Sidenote: No. 87.]

[Illustration: PEACE’S LEAP FROM THE TRAIN.]

This he refused to take; “but,” said the warder, “it was the doctor’s

orders, and we were bound to carry them out.”

Peace screamed violently, and the warder stated that he found a good

deal of force necessary to compel the prisoner to take the potion,

which, it is believed, was a slight opiate.

“Even now, after all he has gone through,” said the warder, “he seems

to have more than the strength of an ordinary man.”

The warder added that, having been himself afoot since two o’clock in

the morning, he felt much exhausted. After taking the medicine the

prisoner was less excited, but did not seem to sleep at all easily.

The police understood that the prisoner was to be retained in

Sheffield till all is over. Not only in Sheffield, but at Darnall and

Bannercross, where Mr. Dyson was well known, at Shireoaks, Kineton

Park, and Worksop, near where the prisoner lived, and all round the

district; an unparalleled interest was shown in the prisoner’s latest

escapade.

The following further particulars are given by a correspondent:

The window was let down, and Peace, stooping in front of it, was using

the bag, which the warders thought he was going to throw out as usual.

Suddenly, with all the agility of a cat, Peace took a “header,” and

threw himself out of the window. The under warder sprang forward, and

was just in time to catch him by the left foot.

There he held Peace, head downwards, dangling out of the window――an

extraordinary sight to those who happened to be passing at the time.

Peace with his other foot kicked the warder’s hands, and struggled

most determinedly to get free from the warder’s grasp.

The chief warder, finding the space too narrow to help his associate

in the struggle, seized the rope communicating with the guard’s van,

and endeavoured to stop the train.

Peace, knowing that the window was too narrow to let the other get

forward, became more savage and ferocious still, and kicked and

wriggled about with great violence.

Still the warder clung to him, and, for a distance of two miles, Peace

was hanging head downwards by the carriage side. At last, by supreme

effort, he managed to wriggle off his boot, which was left in the

warder’s hand, and the convict fell on the stepboard of the carriage,

from which he bounded upon the ends of the sleepers.

The train was still travelling very rapidly. The communication cord

having failed to work until a gentleman in the next compartment,

hearing a noise, and suspecting something was wrong, managed to pull

the rope, and the warders had the satisfaction of hearing the deep

“boom” of the gong.

The train slackened speed and the warders got out and ran back up the

line for nearly a mile, where they found Peace lying as he had fallen,

having evidently received injuries sufficient to prevent his getting

away.

He was conscious, however, and gave the warders a smile of

satisfaction as they came up to him. They found him in the act of

trying to wriggle the handcuffs off his wrists.

Blood was flowing from a wound in his head. They picked him up, and,

as the slow train which arrives at Sheffield at 9.20 a.m. was coming

up, they signalled it to stop. The convict was put into the guard’s

van, where for the rest of the journey the warders kept a sharp

look-out.

He asked to be wrapped up in a rug, as it was a very cold morning,

exclaiming, “Oh, my head!――oh, my poor head!” precisely the same

observation he made when he was brought to Greenwich Police-station,

after his encounter with Police-constable Robinson, the morning he was

caught.

On his arrival at Sheffield, an immense crowd awaited the train, but

Peace was promptly seized by four officers, conveyed to the van, and

was soon at the Police-office, where he looked a piteous spectacle.

As he was lifted out of the vehicle and removed inside the

police-station he appeared in a very exhausted condition, but after a

little time he spoke a few words to the warders and took a pretty

stiff dose of brandy, which was administered to him by medical orders.

PEACE’S EFFORT TO ESCAPE.

Various versions were very readily afloat after the express had

reached Sheffield as to how this daring convict had succeeded in

eluding his custodians, but they were all more or less wide of the

mark.

Through the courtesy of the chief constable, we are able to give the

following authentic particulars of this last and most astounding feat

of this remarkable man.

It appears that when the warders brought Peace from Pentonville on the

previous week he was exceedingly troublesome throughout the whole

journey, and wanted to leave the train whenever it stopped; and indeed

when it was travelling.

At Peterborough he was allowed to get out, and the warders had

considerable difficulty in getting him back into the train.

The chief warder adopted a plan of his own on the present occasion,

and he provided himself with a number of little bags, and whenever

Peace required it one of them was handed to him, and was afterwards

thrown out of the window.

From the moment of their leaving Pentonville he appeared to set

himself deliberately to work to annoy and irritate and vex the

officers to the utmost of his power.

And no one unacquainted with him can form any conception of his

matchless powers in that direction.

Having been in prison so many times, he is as well acquainted with the

rules which guide the warders as they are themselves; and any

infringement of those rules on their part he would quickly detect and

make a noise about.

His set purpose seemed to be to provoke them to a breach of the rules,

and to serve him as he too richly deserved to be served.

He behaved more like a beast than a human being, until the carriage

became almost unbearable.

The train had passed Worksop, and a part of the country was reached

which Peace knew too well. All the way down on this, as in his

previous journey, he had been adopting the most ingenious and cunning

devices to put the warders off their guard, but without success.

Now was his last chance of eluding them, and if he could but escape

from the carriage, he could follow, perhaps, well remembered “cuts,”

steal into Darnall or some other place of refuge, and, profiting by

past experience, be no more discovered.

The train was whirling along at express speed; but what of that? To

such a man to regain freedom was worth a supreme effort――though he

died in the attempt. He had used several of the bags referred to on

the journey, and he asked for another.

The chief warder gave him one, and he stood up with his face to the

window to use it, the under warder being close behind him. The window

was dropped for him to throw it out, and quick almost as lightning

Peace took a flying leap through the window.

The under warder sprang forward and caught him by the left foot. There

he held him suspended head downwards; Peace kicking the warder with

his right foot, and struggling with all his might to get free.

The chief warder――unable to render his colleague any assistance in

holding Peace, inasmuch as he occupied the whole space of the

window――hastened to the other side of the carriage and pulled at the

communication cord, to alarm the driver and secure the stoppage of the

train.

The cord would not act, and some gentlemen who were in the next

compartment, seeing the position of affairs, assisted in the efforts

of the warder to stop the train.