portmanteau, formed the clue. The Detective
employed in that case was for some time
indefatigable in seeking out knives with broken
blades. At length he found one belonging to
an under-waiter, who proved to have been the
thief.

The swell-mob—the London branch of
which is said to consist of from one hundred
and fifty to two hundred members—demand
the greatest amount of vigilance to detect.
They hold the first place in the "profession."

Their cleverness consists in evading the
law; the most expert are seldom taken. One
"swell," named Mo. Clark, had an iniquitous
career of a quarter of a century, and never
was captured during that time. He died a
"prosperous gentleman " at Boulogne, whither
he had retired to live on his " savings," which
he had invested in house property. An old
hand named White lived unharmed to the
age of eighty; but he had not been prudent,
and existed on the contributions of the " mob,"
till his old acquaintances were taken away,
either by transportation or death, and the
new race did not recognise his claims to their
bounty. Hence he died in a workhouse.
The average run of liberty which one of this
class counts upon is four years.

The gains of some of the swell mob are
great. They can always command capital
to execute any especial scheme. Their
travelling expenses are large; for their
harvests are great public occasions, whether
in town or country. As an example of their
profits, the exploits of four of them at the
Liverpool Cattle Show some seven years ago,
may be mentioned. The London Detective
Police did not attend, but one of them waylaid
the rogues at the Euston Station. After an
attendance of four days, the gentlemen he was
looking for appeared, handsomely attired, the
occupants of first-class carriages. The Detective,
in the quietest manner possible, stopped
their luggage; they entreated him to treat
them like " gentlemen." He did so, and took
them into a private room, where they were so
good as to offer him fifty pounds to let them go.
He declined, and over-hauled their booty; it
consisted of several gold pins, watches, (some
of great value,) chains and rings, silver snuff-
boxes, and bank-notes of the value of one
hundred pounds! Eventually, however, as
owners could not be found for some of the
property, and some others would not prosecute,
they escaped with a light punishment.

In order to counteract the plans of the
swell mob, two of the sergeants of the Detective
Police make it their business to know
every one of them personally. The
consequence is, that the appearance of either
of these officers upon any scene of operations
is a bar to anything or anybody being "done."
This is an excellent characteristic of the
Detectives, for they thus become as well a
Preventive Police. We will give an illustration:—

You are at the Oxford commemoration.
As you descend the broad stairs of the
Roebuck to dine, you overtake on the landing a
gentleman of foreign aspect and elegant attire.
The variegated pattern of his vest, the jetty
gloss of his boots, and the exceeding whiteness
of his gloves—one of which he crushes in his
somewhat delicate hand—convince you that he
is going to the grand ball, to be given that
evening at Merton. The glance he gives you
while passing, is sharp, but comprehensive;
and if his eye does rest upon any one part of
your person and its accessories more than
another, it is upon the gold watch which you
have just taken out to see if dinner be " due."
As you step aside to make room for him, he
acknowledges the courtesy with "Par-r-r-don,"
in the richest Parisian gros parle, and a smile
so full of intelligence and courtesy, that you
hope he speaks English, for you set him down
as an agreeable fellow, and mentally determine
that if he dines in the Coffee-room, you will
make his acquaintance.

On the mat at the stair-foot there stands a
man. A plain, honest-looking fellow, with
nothing formidable in his appearance, or
dreadful in his countenance; but the effect
his apparition takes on your friend in
perspective, is remarkable. The poor little fellow
raises himself on his toes, as if he had been
suddenly overbalanced by a bullet; his cheek
pales, and his lip quivers, as he endeavours
ineffectually to suppress the word " coquin!"
He knows it is too late to turn back, (he
evidently would, if he could), for the man's eye
is upon him. There is no help for it, and he
speaks first; but in a whisper. He takes the
new comer aside, and all you can overhear is
spoken by the latter, who says he insists on
Monsieur withdrawing his " School " by the
seven o'clock train.

You imagine him to be some poor wretch
of a schoolmaster in difficulties; captured,
alas, by a bailiff. They leave the inn together,
perhaps for a sponging house. So acute is
your pity, that you think of rushing after
them, and offering bail. You are, however,
very hungry, and, at this moment, the waiter
announces that dinner is on table.

In the opposite box there are covers for
four, but only three convives. They seem
quiet men—not gentlemen, decidedly, but well
enough behaved.

"What has become of Monsieur?" asks
one. None of them can divine.

"Shall we wait any longer for him?"

"Oh, no—Waiter—Dinner!"

By their manner, you imagine that the style
of the Roebuck is a " cut above them." They
have not been much used to plate. The
silver forks are so curiously heavy, that one
of the guests, in a dallying sort of way,
balances a prong across his fingers, while the
chasing of the castors engages the attention
of a second. This is all done while they
talk. When the fish is brought, the third
casts a careless glance or two at the dish
cover, and when the waiter has gone for
the sauce, he taps it with his nails, and says