opened his case; showed that the Whigs, or, indeed, Radicals, were the good angels, and the Conservatives the bad demons of the country; and then, directing his looks towards Scorem, proceeded to demolish him with withering sarcasm. All was most properly done. “Sir, I have yet to learn,” “My honourable friend,” and other House of Commons phrases, abounded; and at the end of the speech, when Mr Flux sat down, Scorem looked so despicably small that Checketts felt for him.

But not for long. Scorem got up, pulled at his coat collar like a barrister does at his gown, and fixing his eye on Mr Pumps, who was smoking a dry pipe to look like the other sacred fathers, proceeded in his answer. He warmed with his subject; and when he had finished, Checketts felt that there never was such a clever fellow in the world, and that Flux was demolished for ever. The house rang with applause. Mr Slipper said it was a great night. Pumps proposed Scorem's health, and compared him to Demosthenes; and Barnett Slammers slapped him on the back.

"Look you here, old fellow; if you were a barrister, by jingo, I'd give you a brief to drag to justice the murderer of that poor woman whose case I've got in hand."

"Oh, thank you, Mr Slammers; praise from you, sir, is praise indeed. That woman, you mean, of Kensal-Green?" "Yes; the very same."

"Now, who did it, I wonder?"

"I can tell you more than any one about it," said Slammers, "because I've been just engaged in pumping the Inspector."

Here the good-natured Slammers, glad to find a listener, drew his chair between the friends, and told them, who were not unwilling to listen to so great a man, the whole history of the case.

"Then it was done by a young swell who smoked good cigars?" asked Scorem, refreshing his parched throat with one of his favourite Blenheim oranges.

"So it seems, from what I can learn."

Poor Checketts felt sick and dizzy, and complained that the smoke and excitement disagreed with him.

"Have another glass," said Scorem. "If you wait awhile, we shall have a little harmony."

"No, thank you, I couldn't, sir; I must go home. On what day did you say it occurred, sir?"

"The twenty-ninth — Michaelmas Day last-about nine o'clock, perhaps," said the reporter, proud of being the depository of that which no one else knew.

"My!"-then he paused-" my eye!" cried Scorem, staring as if he saw a ghost. "No, it can't be; it's too absurd."

It was his turn to be surprised now, and to find that rum and water, old age, and excitement can have the most mysterious effects, even upon the strongest constitution.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

<< THIS IS MY STORY. LET ME PLAINLY SPEAK."

MR BROWNJOHN had travelled so fast, that he had overrun his own letter; and therefore, after quietly lodging his little company in warmth and safety, contented himself by sending another missive by the twopenny post-a great boon to Londoners-by which he informed George Horton, Esq., that he had got his bird, and that he believed it would all turn up in the right way.

He saw his friend, Mr Stevenson; and that officer, who had already taken his side-as we all do, whether the question be one of love or war-looked very glum as Brownjohn sketched the cunning quiet of the old man, the near "toucher" he had had in capturing him, and the readiness in which the supposed culprit was found to get to sea.

"You found nothing on him?" asked Stevenson. "No corroborative evidence-eh?"

"Not likely that's another business. You see, he was away from us four days, and had plenty of time to get rid of anything. That will turn up in due time."

"I hope it will. It somehow always does. See how that man Edwards managed to fix Mr Arthur Thistlewood and company," added the Inspector.

"Mr Edwards was a spy," returned the Bow Street runner, with an adjective applied to the last noun which we will not

repeat. "I scorn such business. Give 'em all fair play, say I, however bad they may be."

"Well, we have got a riddle somehow, and I hope one of will get well out of it, that's all."

you

"Never fear, my son," replied Brownjohn, confident of having held his clue pretty tightly, and having done all, according to the rule of thumb, that an honest and not very scientific police officer could be expected to do.

As these two were talking thus quietly, who should come in, from his office in Homer Street-where he had been for letters -but Mr Tom Forster.

L

"Mornin', sir," said Brownjohn.

"Good morning, my friend."

This was said with a polite and distant bow.

"You've got your man, I hear, Mr Forster."

"We have a person on suspicion; but time only can tell us if it be the man."

"And I've got mine-that sailor fellow; and the tall boy will be here in a moment to recognise him."

"How do you know it is the same, if you picked him up at a distance?"

"Bless you, he does not deny it, sir. I'm not likely to catch hold of the wrong bird. I ain't no speculative amatoor," answered Brownjohn, with a laugh.

"Let those laugh who win," interposed Mr Inspector, severely. "However, it is a fair race, gentlemen. One of them will swing some of these fine mornings."

The police officer spoke thus lightly, for in those days hardly a Monday morning passed by without some one swinging for sheep stealing, burglary, forgery, or other crimes against property; and to hang a man for murder was but a light thing. Professionally, too, these gentlemen looked at a race which must end in taking the life of some fellow-man in an artistic and interested way, just as sporting men look at the race between two noble horses, uncertain which will win.

"Hallo, here's the beak," said Brownjohn, and Mr Horton. entered.

"You have got your man, then, Brownjohn?" asked that functionary, hopefully.

He had begun to believe, against his own conviction, that Philip Stanfield might prove to be innocent.

"Yes, sir, after a long chase. We were on his track the whole time, but somehow he managed to give us the slip." "All's well that ends well," said the magistrate, cheerily. But although he spoke cheerily, he looked very ill and fagged. He had conquered his love-but by an effort; and he felt for Winifred as much compassion as the most tender father could have done. So, quietly he entered his office and sat down, exchanging a few words with Mr Forster; and those few words did not seem to exhilarate him.

"Bring forward your man, then,” he said.

Oh how weary he was of his profession-always meeting with guilt, finding that goodness and virtue were so rare, and that weakness and wickedness were so common.

The Père Martin was a fine specimen of one of those hardy sailors born on the northern coasts of France, who are as simple and kindly as they are brave. They lead a life of danger and hardship without repining; they live without luxury, rear their children on the gains of a scantily paid industry; attend to their priests, and pray to the Virgin regularly; enjoy their short holidays with their wine and their omelettes, and perhaps a fat hen added to their soup; grow gradually into old age, and seem to perish without regret, if they are lucky enough to escape the storms which vex their iron-bound coast.

When the old seaman entered, he saluted all respectfully, and turned to the magistrate with a pleading smile, as much as to say "Look here, my good seigneur-I am poor and without a friend. Don't bear too hard upon me, for I am a stranger."

"Have you an interpreter for him, or shall I speak in French ?"

"There is no need, M. l'Avocât," said the Père, in good English. "I have spoken your tongue since a boy. I have fished upon your coasts, and worked with your brave sailors -sea dogues." Put aside the accent, the tongue was good enough.

"You will understand all we say?"

"Without doubt. You will not detain me long?"

"We hope not," said the magistrate, kindly enough; “but we have a grave charge against you."

answer.

There will be no need to reproduce every question and The following was the result of his examination :"But you were with her upon that day, and the last person seen near the house."

The sailor smiled, as much as to say, "That may be."

"But that does not prove, M. l'Avocât," he said, “that I struck the blow. Why should I kill her? I loved her, sir— loved her. Do you know what love is?"

"If you loved Estelle Martin so much, how is it that you and she have lived separately so long? She has resided some years at Kensal-Green, and you have been but once or twice near her."

"It was because I loved her that I left her," said the sailor, paradoxically. "A man cannot live with a wife he loves, if his honour forbids him."

"Love and honour! A poor fisherman absolutely understanding and talking of such abstractions," thought the magistrate. "Now, if I looked upon the poor as some men do, I should at once condemn this man as a liar and a hypocrite." But he gave no tongue to his thoughts, saying merely, "Go tell us all you know of this."

on,

It is thirty

She was a

"The Widow Martin," said the old fellow, with a sigh, looking down at the ground, and then at his own strong hands, 66 was no widow at all-she was my wife. years ago, monsieur, since I fell in love with her. fine, beautiful girl-as beautiful as are our girls by the sea coast. We call them the belles anges de Normandie. She walked like a gazelle, trippingly. She had a carriage like a hawk; eyes full of wit, brightness, and fire. I fell in love with her. Alas! what could I do? My father did not like the family, and warned me against her. But I thought he was wrong. I have learnt, monsieur, now that I am a father myself, that other fathers may be sometimes right. However, I told him that, if Estelle was headstrong, marriage would tame her; that I was young, and had saved some money, and had a nice boat. I courted her, and she received me as she did les autres."