"S'pose you don't much frequent this ken—
that is, coffee-house —my kid—that is, my boy?"

Arthur replied that he was not in the habit of
selecting Mrs. Dowe's as his favourite resort.

"It's a very 'spectable place," said the grazier,
"but it's so dark, that folks sometimes comes
here that don't want to be twigged. You're
going fur to hear something."

Arthur naturally inquired what it was he was
going to hear?

"What'll turn your love-locks into green
phizmyjigs," was the mysterious reply, the
speaker's eyes peering earnestly into the dark
recesses of the room. "Al'ce! Hot flannel!"

Arthur almost started at the strange and
sudden order, but had hardly time to ask its
meaning, when Al'ce placed the answer on the
table, in the form of a pewter jug filled with a
mixture of gin and beer, further complicated
with sugar, nutmeg, and a crab-apple.

"You're sure you can bear it?" said the
grazier, with the manner of a man who spins
out time, or postpones a painful revelation.
"Take a toothful of this stuff. You'll want it."

Following the turn of his companion's head
rather than the direction of his eyes, Arthur
noticed that a dark object had glided in, and had
taken post, silent as a shadow, at the end of
their own table. It was a low stooping figure.

"Just as I expected," said Mr. Brightsom,
leaning across the table, and addressing Arthur
in a low, distinct tone. "That disappearance
job has done its work. A pity, that it is! 'Twas
as sweet a little creeter as ever I see—just like
my Matty, which is still in pantaloons—but
solider. I see her twice, when I was on formiliar
wisiting terms with Snells, silversmiths,
in Jermyn-street—them as was robbed, you
know." (He paused an instant, then continued.)
"Now I tell you what, my boy, your crib was
right opposite number twenty-seven, and you
must have known her! Well! She's dead!
Dead, sir!" repeated Mr. Brightsom, in a loud,
clear voice.

But louder and clearer was the heartbroken
cry that burst from the dark figure at the end of
the table, as, rising from its cowering attitude,
it flung its arms aloft, and fell forward across
the board. All present started up, and crowded
to the spot.

Brightsom caught Arthur by the arm.

"That's your man," he said hurriedly in his ear.
"See to him—I'm off. Nervous in a crowd. If
you want Bill Brightsom, advertise in Flying
Post—'pointment here."

"And Miss—Miss——" gasped Arthur.

"She's all right. Trap for a bolted governor.
Here's your bolted governor, headforemost on
the table here. Get him home!"

So saying, the timid grazier wound himself
into the crowd, and vanished.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE excellent Armour, though secretly inclining
to Lord Lob's opinion that five thousand
pounds, paid down, might be better adapted to
his ideas and habits than an uncongenial wife
with an income of that amount, could not at
once resign his brilliant dream, and ended, after
much cogitation, by resolving, as he mentally
expressed it, to at least "try it on." He understood
from what had passed between himself
and the prisoner, that Bob Caunter, the
lieutenant, and (next to his great leader) the most
accomplished of the Black-Thumbs, would be
put upon the track of the discourteous
practitioner of Liverpool, and he doubted not that
the latter's haunt would be reported to him
before many hours were over. That was as good
as settled. Whatever "jilling" might signify in
the thieves' vernacular, George—in just requital
of his rudeness and selfishness, in cracking a
crib entirely out of his legitimate beat—would
henceforth jill no more. He, Armour, master
of George and of the situation, was surely
bound to make the very best of his opportunity.

Thus it came to pass that Polly-my-Lamb's
next visitor of note was Henry, of Bow-street,
who, presenting himself about the setting of the
sun, with his air of quiet authority, requested an
audience, and was instantly admitted.

Polly was seated in her favourite large chair,
white as marble, and almost as motionless: her
only gesture being a slight inclination of the
head, accompanied by a look of inquiry.

Mr. Armour was conscious of a trifling amount
of embarrassment, but, recovering himself,
pounced at once upon the subject, as he would
have collared a thief.

"You are aware, madam," he said, "that we
have effected the capture of the notorious
offender, Lord Lob, and that he is safely lodged
in Newgate?"

Polly was aware of it.

"And that Sir James Polhill has always attributed
to this miscreant the singular outrage we
have all been so deeply interested in punishing?"

Again Polly was aware of it.

"With all deference to Sir James's acuteness
and great experience, I have presumed to form a
contrary opinion" (Polly looked up with some
surprise), "and the result has justified that
hardihood," continued the modest Henry. "The
man is totally innocent of any complicity with
that crime. Nay, he seems indignant—though,
it may be, not from the most exalted motives—
at its commission."

"Indeed, sir!" said Polly, with a curious
feeling, in which she would have been puzzled
to say whether relief or disappointment had the
larger share. "I—excuse me—you had something
to add."

"Merely that, although Lord Lob had himself
no hand in the business, he can help us to
the real criminal, and has given me the preference."

"Do I understand you to mean, sir, that you
possess some clue which the chief magistrate
does not?"