an i hamed of that hand the while-Brownjohn poured into the ear of the Maltese so dever and so succinct an account of Ali idea of the guilty person they were in search of, based upon ← information that he had received." that César's face grew Iuminous and prondy consciens. As Frownjoha painted the sturdy sailor, with his earrings, his sunbuma face, his blouse, and his foreign accent in speaking of Madame Marton." the idea was so fully received by the Maltese, that he jumped up hastily, and shock of the heavy hand of the thief-catcher.

-Stop! my dear frien1” he said—“ stop! enough! I can tell you, enough! Your picture is adminable. We will set I can see your picture. I shall not miss him Drink to our good success. Drink my Brownjohn. Drink Eke a Droch ish Ah! what is is to have a clear brain. Drink to fortune to victory!"

•Way, Negrestil have you lost your senses I asked Brownjohn. staring as he lifted the Squer to his Eps.

-Not so. my Erownjohn resumed Cesar. trimmerhandy. "Ah! how good sometimes is Madame Fortune! Than Sourreau has been kind to me at Malta Ikov de mun Trust me, my Brownjohn. I will kuns him down like a beast of Irey."

CHAPTER XVL

THE WATCHERS WATCHED.

Ma BROWNOEN found that in his new ally he had not attracted all that he could wish. The systematic Englishman was as sure as he was slow, and desired especially to move in a dignified and regular way.

Cesar Negretti Laughed at these notions, and was for capturing the enemy by a series of brilliant steprises. Sam Brownjohn was content to go to a certain place-let us say, to a low publehouse near Ratcliff Highway or the Docks-and there to await the advent of his victim, if “from information that he hal received," which mysterious and useful phrase was then in the

womb of time, he suspected that the said victim would pass that way. This, which may be called the spider system of building a net, and waiting till a fly falls into it, is very useful, and, on the whole, successful; but it was far too prosaic for the ingenious and ingenuous César.

"Behold! my Brownjohn," he said one morning. "Regard me as equipped. We shall now prosecute our searches without suspicion."

To the Bow Street officer's London eyes, Negretti had done that which would call all the gazers of Europe after them; and if there was anything Brownjohn loved, it was to do a thing "on the quiet." Negretti, on the contrary, evidently loved that which was noisy and loud. He had exchanged his waiter's dress for a seafaring costume prevalent in Malta, and to be seen in and about Naples; or, indeed, which might pass current as far as Marseilles or the "Rock." Some of the wild seafarers who are to be seen at the "Gib" do, indeed, indulge in such picturesque attire as at once suggested itself to the artistic eye of the Maltese.

"Why, my eye!" cried Brownjohn, "if you ain't dressed out as if you was about to take a part at the Brunswick afore it fell down, or one of the low gaffs at the East-end. They will smell a rat and chivey us."

"Pah! my padrone! Leave to César what he knows. We are to search among foreign sailors, look you. They are accustomed to such toggery. Behold!"

César here pulled out of the pocket of a sailor's reefing jacket-which he wore over a blue Guernsey shirt, buckled round the waist with a black leather belt and brass buckle—a red nightcap, about as long as a waist-sash, and with a distinct and finely-developed tassel at each end. This he deftly doubled into its own inside, and put on the back of his head; and then, putting his hands in his jacket pockets, struck a defiant and seafaring attitude.

"I remember in your theatres, my Brownjohn, actors who did not look so much like the British tar as I do."

Brownjohn groaned inwardly, and outwardly remonstrated thus

"Why, every one of the people will be up to our little lay.

They will be sure to smell out our plot. Why don't you keep it dark? There's nothing like doing a business thing in a business way, and on the quiet."

The restless eyes of Negretti, which watched Brownjohn quite as much as Brownjohn watched any other body, flared up into a kind of bonfire of contempt. César was one of those geniuses who felt contempt for everybody except hïmself, and who looked down upon all his employers—as he would, indeed, have looked down upon an archangel, had one asked him to go upon a message for him. Perhaps, if the archangel was one from the lowest depths, the Maltese might have accorded him some slight recognition, but not unless he had been so. "You shall see. Your quiet way would set all the foreign sailors in a fright. Now, I am your nephew; you are my uncle. We look for a brother of yours, and another uncle of mine. You understand, Signor Padrone?"

"Well, it's one way," sighed Brownjohn; "and I suppose, as I can't go mine, we may as well go yourn. It's a queer way, anyhow. Come outside the crib, and let's begin our journey."

Out of the crib they came, César still bearing his bundle, and looking round with a feeling of relief as he went on his way. Brownjohn was right enough. In his neighbourhood the nautical dress of Negretti attracted many a gazer, one of whom was so amused as to follow the pair.

This was no less than Patsy Quelch.

Patsy's curiosity was of a longer date than the transformation of César; and Patsy is himself a character that must be introduced to the reader.

In the lower regions of the Strangers' Hotel-which was supposed to be brimming over with choice dishes, heads of game, haunches of venison, curious patties, and all sorts of foreign delicacies; but which only held one simmering stock soup, converted as occasion demanded into the soups asked for, and which brimmed over with no other game than cockroaches-lived the cook, the padrone, and Mr Quelch, named Patsy.

Patsy, the son of an Irish gentleman, a native of the Holy Land, as St Giles's was then profanely called, and of a Scotch

lady who had tramped up to London from one of the least salubrious wynds of Glasgow, was a London sparrow, or gutter bird of a well-known type. He had been so knocked about by father and mother-the father, who ill-used the mother, taking some pleasure in seeing her pass on the rude blows to their son, to whom he generously now and then dealt a spare blow himself that when he came to years of discretion-that is to say, when Patsy was about ten-he one fine morning gave them leg-bail; that is, he ran away from the ancestral cellar.

one;

When his mother summoned him, with an affectionate oath, to fetch the milk in the morning, there was no answer; and although the paternal voice was heard to address him in a fond way as the "thafe of the wer'rld," and to beg him "to come out o' dat, or else ivry single bone" in his skin would be collectively broken, Patsy never responded. He had followed a Punch and Judy firm to its West-end pitch; had got lost near Shepherd's Bush; was taken up by the watch; declared he was an orphan; he was treated as such, by being affectionately sent, to a workhouse, and in due time apprenticed to a shoemaker. The shoemaker was not a bad master, but a severe and in a short time it occurred to Patsy that he might escape hard and confining work, with now and then some strap oil, by running eastwards into town. Being decently clothed, and asking civilly for employment from door to door, Patsy was soon engaged as waiter at the Hôtel des Etrangères, in Rupert Street. Here the boy, who had blossomed into a good-looking "gossoon" of fifteen, found he was in his element. He had very little to do, had plenty to eat, and now and then picked up some halfpence from the couriers and valets who frequented the hotel. He even learnt something of foreign languages; and was in the height of success and happiness, when the superior attraction of César Negretti nipped his hopes in the bud. Patsy was banished to the kitchen, to help the very clever but uncertain genius who cooked for the hotel; to bring up dishes to the top of the stairs; to be seen, but not heard; and to meditate within his warm and impulsive heart a deadly hatred to César.

As for that foreign gentleman, he looked upon Patsy as a grub, a mere reptile. He would have put his foot upon him

134

With a quick ear to with as little compunction as a worm. inflection, he soon discovered Patsy's country, and called him —as it is—to belong to that Irish; not as if it were an honour— beautiful and fertile land, but as if the very fact carried with it a disgrace. Patsy burnt for revenge, and set his quick wits to work to find out a way to accomplish it.

César's presence brought no luck to the Strangers' Hotel. With a volubility not at all confined or bound down by any conscientious adherence to truth, Signor Negretti had assured the padrone that his presence would not only be an attraction to the hotel, but that he had many friends-let us say princes in disguise, or dukes wandering in search of the picturesquewho would be quite delighted to come and honour the salon; nay, who might, perhaps, give dinners thereat to the members of the English aristocracy, whose names César so volubly rattled out. Perhaps the padrone was sanguine; perhaps he was desperate; mayhap he was convinced. At any rate, he closed with César's proposition, and installed him as chief waiter, in which responsible station Brownjohn had found him.

It happened that on the very day that César kicked the kitten into Brownjohn's stomach, he had commenced the morning by kicking Mr Quelch, whom he called an Irish cochon.

Patsy knew enough of foreign languages to appreciate the insult; and the warmth of his feelings towards his Maltese superior and guide gained somewhat in intensity. A courier who breakfasted at the hotel-upon Parmesan cheese, stewed with tripe, onions, pieces of ox cheek, and small circles of carrot, washed down with a pint of vin ordinaire-was so pleased with his breakfast, that Patsy saw, with a pang of bitter regret, that Negretti pocketed a shilling as a douceur. Perhaps the courier had himself been paid extra wages; perhaps he regarded the voluble César as his friend and countryman; certain it was that Patsy saw him finger and pocket a The wild spirit of coin which he looked upon as his own.

revenge which inspires Patsy's ejected countrymen took possession of him. Was he not ejected too?

The interview between Brownjohn and César, the passage