Andrew says he asked if there was a fireman
called Dodd: so Andrew said you had left; then
the swell asked where you lived, and Andrew
couldn't tell him any more than it was in
Pembroke-street. So I told him, says I, 'Why
couldn't you call me? It is number sixty-
six,' says I. 'Oh, he is coming back,' says
Andrew. However, I thought I'd come and
tell you." (And so get a word with Sarah, you
sly dog.)

Edward thanked him, and put on his hat
directly, for he could not disguise from himself
that this visitor might be Alfred Hardie. Indeed,
what more likely?

Messrs. Hurd and Peterson always tried to
stay one another out, whenever they met at 66,
Pembroke-street. However, to make sure of not
leaving Julia alone, Edward went in and asked
them both to luncheon, at which time he said he
should be back.

As he walked rapidly to the station he grew
more and more convinced that it was Alfred
Hardie. And his reflections ran like this. "What
a headpiece mamma has! But it did not strike
her he would come to me first. Yet how plain
that looks now: for of course I'm the duffer's
only clue to Julia. These madmen are no fools
though. And how quiet he was that night! And
he made papa go down the ladder first: that
was the old Alfred Hardie. He was always
generous: vain, overbearing, saucy, but noble
with it all. I liked him: he was a man that
showed you his worst, and let you find his best
out by degrees. He hated to be beat: but that's
no crime. He was a beautiful oar: and handled
his mawleys uncommon; he sparred with all
the prizefighters that came to Oxford, and took
punishment better than you would think; and a
wonderful quick hitter; Alec Reed owned that.
Poor Taff Hardie! And when I think that God
has overthrown his powerful mind, and left me
mine, such as it is! But the worst is my having
gone on calling him 'the Wretch' all this time:
and nothing too bad for him. I ought to be
ashamed of myself. It grieves me very much.
'When found make a note on;' never judge a
fellow behind his back again."

Arrived at the station, he inquired whether his
friend had called again, and was answered in the
negative. He waited a few minutes, and then,
with the superintendent's permission, wrote a
note to Alfred, inviting him to dine at Simpson's
at six, and left it with the firemen. This done,
he was about to return home, when another
thought struck him. He got a messenger, and
sent off a single line to Dr. Wolf, to tell him
Alfred Hardie would be at Simpson's at seven
o'clock.

But, when the messenger was gone, he
regretted what he had done. He had done it for
Alfred's good; but still it was treason. He
felt unhappy, and wended his way homeward
disconsolately, realising more and more that
he had not brains for the difficulties imposed
upon him.

On entering Pembroke-street he heard a
buzz. He looked up, and saw a considerable
crowd collected in a semicircle. "Why that
is near our house," he said, and quickened his
steps.

When he got near he saw that all the people's
eyes were bent on No. 66.

He dashed into the crowd. "What on earth
is the matter?" he cried.

"The matter? Plenty's the matter, young
man," cried one.

"Murder's the matter," said another.

At that he turned pale as death. An intelligent
man saw his violent agitation, and asked him
hurriedly if he belonged to the house.

"Yes. For God's sake what is it?"

"Make way there!" shouted the man. "He
belongs. Sir, a madman has broke loose and
got into your house. And I'm sorry to say he
has just killed two men."

"With a pistol," cried several voices, speaking
together.

ROMANCES OF THE SCAFFOLD.

THE literature of the streets in France has a
peculiarity which widely distinguishes it from
that of England. In this country, when a
felon is executed, the nature of his crime is
merely recorded in a broad-sheet containing the
culprit's apocryphal "last dying speech and
confession," which some hoarse ruffian bawls
through the suburbs of the town to gaping
listeners, who seldom purchase his unauthentic
wares. In France, on the contrary, an execution
rarely takes place without affording the
local chronicler an opportunity for displaying
more or less talent in the composition of a
poem, in which all the leading features of the
criminal's career are described with great
minuteness, and which is eagerly bought on all the
quays and market-places. These poems bear
the name of "Complaints," are dignified as
"Historical," are sometimes really poetical,
always quaint and striking, and usually close
with a moral, not always of the most direct
application. Their form is that of a pamphlet of
ten or a dozen pages, as the celebrity of the
subject or the resources of the poet may determine;
they are frequently illustrated by woodcuts
and typographical ornamentation, and
their price varies with their length from ten
to fifty centimes. Two of these publications,
acquired some years ago, are now before me,
and I think it worth while to give a full
description of one of them.

Its title-page runs as follows: "Complainte
Historique sur le Procès Du Glandier, Par
Jacquot, Ouvrier Forgeron et Poëte Naturel
Limousin. Prix: 30 centimes. Paris,
Breteau et Pichery, Passage de l'Opéra, Galerie de
l'Horloge, 16. 1840;" and that the public
may be quite sure they are buying a genuine
thing, the signature of the editor—in this
instance the publishers—is written on the opposite
page. Like the lays of the Trouvères, the