themselves to be stripped like lambs, until one
of the party (a very young man, who had hitherto
been unable to disengage his arms from his
roquelaure) leaped from the carriage, flung
himself upon the assailant, and, though dragged
through a hedge and several fields, succeeded
at length in mastering his antagonist, and
delivering him up to a mounted patrol, who most
opportunely made his appearance.

Great as was the difficulty of identifying this
intrepid champion with the slight and delicate
young artist, love might have overcome the
obstacle, had not the arrival of more authentic
tidings saved him the trouble. A note from Sir
James Polhill, without especially mentioning
Armour, announced the capture of the noted
robber by a party of police, detached with that
express design.

Then passed a long and anxious morning,
unrelieved by further news, Polly wandering about,
utterly unable to devote her thoughts to any of
her usual occupations. What was to be the
result? Was Lord Lob in reality the guilty
person? Hopeless as was the unfortunate man's
situation, would he not surely confess? The
conviction of the authorities that the outrage
was of this man's contriving was strong as ever,
and Polly herself had learned to regard it as a
fact. The vengeance she had invoked was about
to descend. Her father's death would be
expiated. And, then—the reward? . . . .

Later that day, the prisoner requested an
interview with his captor.

Mr. Armour, who had taken care to be within
easy call, hastened to the prisoner.

"Henry, you're an ass," was Lord Lob's
greeting. "It won't do. Stick, my boy, to the
shop. You understand me perfectly, and you'll
take my advice, Henry, because you can't help
it. I entertain for you (it grieves me to think
you won't believe it) a sincere professional regard.
Had partial fortune placed you in my gang, you
would shortly have been a man, sir, equal to
myself—nobility excepted—in every quality that
commands the respect and obedience of energetic
practitioners in the higher walks of that art
which gives you and your fellows bread. You
might have bequeathed a reputation. But why
dwell upon lost opportunities? As I was saying,
I like you, and I don't mind putting a tolerable
thing in your way, though not precisely what
my worthy Henry—misled by a low but pardonable
ambition—proposed to himself. Hear, then,
my friend. We Black-Thumbs knew nothing of
the Humpage plant. It was a foreign seed,
sown, impudently enough, in my parterre. You
wronged us, Henry—but the injury is lost in the
compliment—for, by my coronet, 'twas a
masterly thing! Now, sir, I can put this black
thumb upon the man who did it, and I will."

Armour's eyes glistened, and he had some
difficulty in concealing his satisfaction; but,
aware that Lord Lob, when in a talking mood,
especially disliked interruption, discreetly held
his peace.

"This, Henry," resumed his lordship, "is the
business. I will point out the individual I speak
of, to—to the Honourable Arthur Haggerdorn,
second son of the Earl of Hawkweed, brother,
that is, to your humble servant. The young
dog, forgetful of his noble blood, has fallen in
love with the plebeian heiress of this Humpage.
He must marry her, good Henry, not you, do
you see? The hopes of Hawkweed centre in
him, and they are of greater import than the
promotion of a jolly redbreast like thee. Besides,
Henry, you know too much of rascal ways. Once
admitted among the swells, not a man of them
would be safe. But, mark me, on the day the
Honourable Arthur Haggerdorn marries Miss
What-you-may-call-it Humpage, Henricus
Armorius pockets five thousand pounds. Is it a
bargain? If so, thy fist, Henry! If not, go
thy ways, and say—say truly—that thou hast
heard the last accents from the lip of Lob."

Henry knew well enough that, spite of the
affected bombast, the robber was in earnest.
The fist was given.

"Imprimis (that is, Henry, in the first place),
a pass for Bob Caunter. Let him be with me
this evening," resumed the prisoner.

"Why, you know it's impossible, my lord,"
cried Armour, really surprised. "He's wanted
over, and over, and over again, is Bob."

"Let the want stand 'over.' I want him, and
must have him. Get the pass."

"Supposing I did, he wouldn't come," replied
the officer, reluctantly.

"Try him," said Lord Lob.

And the interview concluded.

The prisoner was right. Sir James Polhill, on
learning the substance of this conversation (bar
that portion relating to finance), readily
conceded the pass. Mr. Caunter, communicated
with through a friendly channel, was speedily
unearthed, disguised, and admitted within those
walls it had been the business of his life (after
crime) to avoid. It was curious to see this
miscreant, "clothed on" with his one virtue, fidelity,
entering the tomb-like prison with the step of
a prince, and standing before his doomed captain
without a shade of emotion, save that which
had its source in the latter's "misfortune."

The conversation, conducted in the thieves'
tongue, was brief and pithy, and may be concisely
rendered somewhat as follows:

"Blubbering, old boy?" said my lord.

"(Do a variety of things to) my eyes if I
know what's come to 'em!" replied Mr. Caunter,
affecting a delicate surprise. "But this ain't a
good thing to see."

"My love to the lads. Bid them take warning.
Cut the road. It's low and bad. I always said
so, and what on earth prompted me to that high
toby touch, last night, top me if I can say! I
could almost feel a hand on my prad's bridle,
dragging him on. No matter. Jilling George
of Liverpool."

"What of he?"

"Wanted."