not another word was exchanged till the gloomy
walls of Newgate received the illustrious
prisoner.

CHAPTER XI.

ARTHUR returned to London within a few
hours of his brother, but feeling utterly unable,
under the changed circumstances, to face his
former home, engaged a small lodging in Skinner-
street, Snow-hill, and then (in accordance with
directions he had received from the police)
walked down to the prison, to communicate his
address. Requested to walk into the governor's
room, that functionary accosted him in a very
civil tone.

"You are claimed, I understand, sir," he
remarked, "by our latest arrival—a personage but
too well known—as his near relation, though for
many years a stranger. Is it so? Are you his
brother?"

Arthur replied that he had, at present, no
other testimony than the assertion of the person
in question; but that he was well aware that
his mother had had a son older than himself,
of whose death she had never received assurance.

"Nature, at all events, throws in her
evidence," said the governor, looking steadily at
him. "I have seldom seen a more extraordinary
resemblance."

Then adding that the prisoner had requested
that his brother, and he only, might be admitted
to his cell, he committed Arthur to the charge
of a turnkey, and in another minute, in the
strongest room in the prison, the two brothers
stood, once more, face to face.

"Sit down, Arthur Haggerdorn, and make
yourself comfortable," said Lord Lob, "and
don't interrupt me, so long as you understand,
for you speak an odd sort of lingo for a Briton.
We are quite alone (no, that fellow's a dummy—
stone-deaf)," glancing at a warder who sat in a
corner of the cell. "So you needn't sing out if
I own that I am the greatest miscreant that ever
scourged mankind. If I could only tell how,
when, and why, I embraced scoundrelism as a
profession, it might be useful; but I can't. I
was flung into the world, a little lump of
iniquity, and my soul was never scraped from its
beginning. There's a crack in the crust, now,
or you wouldn't be here to peep into it, take
your oath of that! Our father, Lord Hawkweed,
was a scoundrel (I beg the peerage's
pardon), a scoundrel, I remark, a poltroon, and,
I hope, for his own sake, a madman too. He
gave me bread, that's true—not much, even of
that—he cheated my mother—our mother, with a
mock-marriage (you've no chance of the
coronet, my boy!)—deserted her; very likely broke
her heart. How the devil, with such a fellow's
blood in your veins, you ever esc—–I forgot
our mother, child," added the robber, almost
apologetically, as he half-extended his hand, then
instantly withdrew it. "But time presses;
this is not what I want to say. You're in love,
boy. That's enough. Don't answer. In love
with Miss Jermyn-street—what's her name?—
Miss Humpage, who considers me the murderer
of her substantial sire, and has commissioned you
to track me out, as the price of her hand. She
gave you that snuff-box as a talisman, thinking,
I suppose, that it would leap from your pocket
at the owner's approach! How did she know
that box belonged to my mother?"

"She did not know that, nor even I  that,"
said Arthur. "My mother must have concealed
ze box, of purpose. Armour, ze officer, said it
had been yours."

"Not mine. My father's," said the robber.
"However, boy, it seems you've caught me.
And now?"

Arthur gazed wistfully at his brother, but
made no reply.

"Tell her," resumed the latter, speaking
slowly, "tell her—I am sorry to disappoint
you—sorry, too, for my own reputation, for, by
the blood of all the Hawkweeds that ever
poisoned air, it was as clever a thing as I can
remember; but, Arthur, boy, your own hand is
not clearer of that old man's blood than mine."

"God be praised!" said Arthur, fervently.

"That's kind, at least, since it may cost you
your bride!" remarked Lord Lob. "I owe you
something in return, my boy. Stay a moment;
let me think." (He paused for a minute.) "If
this Jermyn-street affair were the work of any
London hand, I must have known who was in it.
No; 'tis impossible. Now, there's a tidy knot
of Halifax boys—'tis much their style of work—
pluck, and finish. But, then, Caunter would
have been down on his old pals: that won't do.
Jilling George, of Liverpool? Just the cull.
Exactly the kind of fancy-business he takes to.
It's some foreign game, Arthur, rely upon it.
Now, my friend, Jilling George jabbers Dutch
and French like a magpie; there must have been
much to arrange; they could have gone to
nobody but him. 'Twas Jilling George, or nobody.
. . . . Be off now, boy, and come to me
tomorrow, at noon."

He made so imperative a gesture, that Arthur
was fain to obey without a word; and returned,
sadly enough, to his humble lodging.

News at that period was neither swift nor
sure. Nevertheless, the inhabitants of twenty-
seven, Jermyn-street, were still at breakfast,
when a rumour, dating from the delivery of the
milk, began to circulate in the house that the
past night had been signalised by an important
capture—no less than the redoubted chieftain
of the Black-Thumbs—while the apparition of
Mistress Ascroft at her window, making wild
and agitated but unintelligible signs, gave a sort
of colour to the further report that the Harwich
road had been the scene of, and the extra post-
coach a sharer in, the adventure.

Presently arrived Mr. Hartshorne, in high
excitement. Yes. It was true. The coach had
been stopped and plundered, the guard having
been first disarmed. Nothing could exceed the
cowardice of the passengers, male and female,
who, at sight of the black thumb, permitted