James took with him two of his most astute
thief-catchers, and went down in person to
examine the premises.

The window at which ingress must have been
effected was twenty-five feet from the ground.
It was at the side of the house fronting the elm-
trees, and looked down upon a narrow, but well-
frequented thoroughfare, faced on the off-side by
an iron railing, and leading into Piccadilly.

To believe that through such a window, in
broad daylight, a gentleman murderously
assailed in the very midst of his family and
dependents, could have been either forcibly
dragged or secretly smuggled, and borne safely
away, was more than the magistrate, familiar
with the modus operandi, and the usual hazards
of crime, could school his mind to. It seemed
absolutely incredible that no alarm should have
been given. Presuming that a sudden and well-
delivered blow had rendered the victim insensible
—how lower and transport away the inanimate
body, without exciting the curiosity and
suspicion of the passengers, from whose presence
the alley was scarcely for a moment free?

Sir James Polhill was leaning from the window,
revolving this question in his mind, and wondering,
casually, how far a slender leaden water-
pipe which passed up to the roof almost within
arm's reach might have been concerned with the
burglar's successful entrance, when a squabble of
the boys in the footway attracted his attention.

A little burlesque of a highly popular ceremony
appeared to be in progress.

The smallest urchin of the group, with his
elbows pinioned, his hands tied, and a dirty
Welsh nightcap half concealing his blubbered
face, was lifted on the shoulders of another, by
way of ladder, while an amateur Ketch in corduroys
endeavoured to adjust a fragment of rope
round his neck. A fourth performer, with his
black, frouzy hair smoothed down over his face,
and a sheet of street ballads in his hand, enacted
the part of reverend ordinary.

The juvenile culprit, however, evinced a
decidedly impenitent and contentious frame of
mind. It was clear that he repudiated the whole
proceedings, and now writhed, kicked, and
howled, to an extent that had already filled the
narrow thoroughfare with deeply interested
spectators, who, with an instinctive reverence for the
more majestic aspects of the law, offered no
interposition whatever.

Annoyed, as well he might be, at this unbecoming
travesty of one of our most venerable
and cherished institutions—the excellent magistrate
shouted angrily to the boys to disperse,
making signs, moreover, to one of his rosy-breasted
followers, looming in the distance, to scatter the
tumultuous assemblage. The condemned urchin
was quickly reprieved, and, with the tears undried
on his face, was in the act of joining with
the executioner and chaplain in a savage dance
round his deliverer, when the latter was seen to
pounce upon and recapture him.

After a minute, during which some inquiry of
much interest seemed to be proceeding, the
officer entered the house, accompanied by the
boy, from whose neck he had taken the piece of
cord. The boy had been found with it in
his hand early that morning, saying that he had
picked it up under the window of the dressing-
room. It bore at that time fresh marks of blood,
and there was a noose at the end, which circumstance
had perhaps suggested to the juvenile
population of the vicinity the little amusement
that had just been interrupted.

There was no reason to doubt the boy's statement.
After all, the discovery was of no great
moment; suggesting nothing more than a supposition
that the cord might have been a portion
of that used in lowering the merchant's body.
The crime and its perpetrators remained as dark
and doubtful as before.

Sir James dangled the rope thoughtfully in his
hand, as though weighing an imaginary criminal;
"I am much mistaken," he said, "if I do not
perceive the print of a black thumb in this."

The officer glanced at his chief, not at the rope,
for he understood his meaning.

London—among its other public scandals,
tolerated no man knows how or why—was at
that period infested by a gang of skilled ruffians,
organised and directed by the greatest miscreant
of the number, a fellow half-nobleman, half-
gipsy, commonly known as " Lord Lob." Touching
this title, the works of Sir Bernard Burke
are silent; neither have we been able to trace
in the archives of the Heralds' College the arms
and crest of Lob. But there was at that time no
question that the credit of having added this
unit to the human family, was due to the wild
and eccentric Earl of Hawkweed, whose protection,
for a long time freely afforded, this
young villain had alienated by a course of crime.

Seldom, even among the most depraved, can
an individual be found, who loves guilt solely for
the pleasure he experiences in its commission.
Human nature, fallen as it is, seems to proscribe
purposeless crime. If, however, we may put
faith in this robber's recorded history, he must
have been an exception to the rule. It was
known for certain that he invariably refused to
participate in the proceeds of any one of the
multitude of nefarious enterprises he planned
and helped to execute. These were generally of
a lofty, that is to say, impudent range. My lord
interested himself in nothing of a low and pitiful
character; nothing, in effect, that did not demand
both power of combination and hardihood.
Victory was worthless without the delight
of strategy. There were the points of a good
partisan leader about Lord Lob. Alas! that he
had never skirmished against anything but law
and justice, harassed nothing but social order,
despoiled no foe but his peaceful fellow-citizens!

The pillage of a bank, an opulent City warehouse,
a goldsmith's shop, the waylaying of a
distinguished band of travellers, the forging and
uttering of notes of startling amount occasionally
(by way of change), the running a perfect argosy