"Hah!" said Mr. Armour. "Yes? Good
night, sir. . . . . Meant you to be him, did she
then, my pretty?" soliloquised the officer, with
an odd confusion of persons. "Now who'd
have thought it? Deep, deep!"

Arthur found a lodging in the little village inn;
but to sleep was out of the question, and he
passed the greater part of the cheerless night
sitting with his head buried in his hands, a prey
to that complete despondency which, in such
natures, succeeds, on a sudden check, to the
highest hope. His guiding star had fallen, and
left him in darkness. Polly was lost to him.
His own brother was probably her father's
assassin. He himself might be called upon to
take some share in the convicting testimony, and
this officer would claim the rich reward.

Mr. Armour and Lord Lob rode together in
the chaise, two of the former's satellites, well
armed, seated on the box, and four others trotting
merrily alongside. There was no apprehension
of any attempt at rescue, and the worthy officer,
who felt the continued silence act painfully upon
his own exhilaration of spirit, did his utmost to
cheer and lead his companion into discourse.
The illustrious prisoner remained inscrutable.
He replied, courteously indeed, but curtly, and
neither smile nor retort rewarded Mr. Armour's
exertions. The white fine face gazed millions of
miles away, and the officer felt, with disgust,
that he was no better company for his captive
than an indifferently-trained baboon might have
been for Socrates.

Moreover, as they drew near London in the
early dawn, an expression passed at intervals
over the robber's face, which went near to appal
even Armour. Such a look it was that, in the
case of a wretched woman condemned some
years since to die for many murders, all but
scared the watchers from her cell. Frightful
throe of the awakened spirit, in its last despairing
effort to pierce upward through the load of
suffocating crime!

Sufficiently cognisant of the workings of the
guilty mind to form some idea of what was passing
in Lord Lob's, Armour resolved to make an
attempt to turn it to account, and, accordingly,
began in an easy tone:

"That was a nice May-game you played me,
my lord, now wasn't it? But, bless my body, of
all the queer matters you've put a hand to, that
what d'ye call it—yonder—Jermyn-street way—
was about the queerest! Whatever your folks
wanted with that old chap, bothers me; and I
don't mind telling you, in confidence, it did bother
me. We gave it up. Soon as we knew for
certain 'twas a plant of yours, up we gave it!
'It's just one of his games,' says the governor,
'p'r'aps for fun.' But there's people that don't
like mystery, and, I tell you what—no, I won't,
for you seem out o' sorts, and I, ah, ah——"
concluded Mr. Armour, with a yawn, and sinking
back into his corner.

The prisoner turned, and looked at him with
something of his old humorous expression.

"Out with it, Henry," he said.

"Come, that's better, my lord. That's what
I like to see!" rejoined the officer. "You and
me have jogged on together a good many years,
comfortable, on different sides of the way to be
sure. Now you win, now I. Lots of doubles
you've run upon us, but we've got three-fifths of
them originals you set up with, and now we've
got you, so that's even."

"Not quite," said the prisoner.

"Now what's the use of your contesting that?"
asked the officer, as if rather injured. "You
might do a deal better than that. Ah, here we
are in London. We shall soon shake hands, my
lord——"

"Shall we? Then push on, Henry, my boy,
with what you are dying to say."

"Well, here it is, my lord. You ain't a common
cracksman," said the officer, deferentially; "I
wouldn't be so rude as to say you was. Naturally,
folks like to know something of your ways and
workings, and what a man like you meant by
such and such things, that seemed no particular
good to anybody. There's nothing the public
pays for more sweetly than curiosity. Bless
you, they don't care what they pay to know
why's why! Now you're booked, you'll have
letters every day, perhaps bookys and billy-
doos, but all wanting to know about this,
that, and t'other. You'll want a secretary, my
lord!"

"Accept the post, my Henry," said Lord Lob,
leaning back wearily.

"I can't, my lord; you've no confidence in me
even now, when it don't signify this pinch of
snuff," said the officer, drawing out the
mysterious box, as if abstractedly. "Now, for
example, this reminds me. Here's a business,
which don't matter, for you're not going to be
bothered about that. Yet the old man's daughter
would give—I declare I don't know what that
girl wouldn't give—to know what went of her
father! But it's no manner of use your telling.
A thousand pound, nor ten, would be no good to
you."

"What does she offer?"

"As if you didn't know, my lord!" said the
other, with affected disbelief.

"Suppose me ignorant, Henry. What does
the young lady propose?"

"To marry the man who finds out who spirited
away her father, alive or dead. And her fortune,
which is her own, isn't less than one hundred
thousand pounds," said Mr. Armour, almost
solemnly. "Now, there's a chance in a poor
fellow's way!"

There was a minute's profound silence. Then
their eyes met. The prisoner made a slight
movement that might be interrogative, with his
head. Armour shook his.

"Can't do that, noways, my lord; but I'll tell
you what, if there's anything or anybody you
want looked to after the——you know, I'll give
you my bond for five thousand."

"I'll think of it," was the reply. After which