ing a Miss Nuitford's "portfolios piled up and filled with letters of Lamb, Southey," &c. These, it may be suspected, have not been used. There are some scraps, and odds and ends of thoughts and speculations-which he called “ table-talk”—which found

their way to the Athenæum shortly after his death. They are headed, dismally and oddly," By the late Elia." Like everything of his, they have a character. To the same journal he contributed the year of his death some criticisms on the modern English painters and their want of imagination, leading off with the wild gigrotesque of "M."--Martinand his tribe of "Belshazzar's Feasts” and "Last Judgments."

CHARTIER reached London at about ten o'clock. The quarter to which he was bound was beginning to awake. Its foreign inhabitants, men of late hours and dissipated habits, for the most part were enjoying themselves in their own peculiar fashion. The discharged valet made his way towards a café restaurant of gorgeous shabbiness, niched in a dirty court. Its entrance was narrow; behind a counter on the right stood a middleaged Frenchwoman, whom her compatriots considered “magnifique" as to her personal appearance, and who was very busy with those horrible liquids which the French palate finds delectable. This entrance or anteroom was full of smokers and absinthe drinkers, male and female, from the inner apartment came noxious culinary fumes. The mixture of the two atmospheres would have seemed intolerable to ordinary men, but was evidently rather pleasant than other wise to the frequenters of the café, Chartier gave the lady behind the counter an inquiring look, and received an affirmative nod, whereupon, asing rapidly through the dining.

room, he opened a door which led to a private room beyond. Here he at once became aware of the object of his search a strong heavily-built Frenchman, with a round head and thick neck like a bull's, and huge sinewy hands. Though named Achile, he was more like one's idea of Ajax. He was playing dominoes with that intense interest which the game in question always excites among Frenchmen of his class; and was easily victimizing his opponent, a cunning looking little Englishman commonly known-on the lucus a non lucendo principle -as Soft Charley. This personage united the two professions of tailor and thief.

Achille Tessier growled recognition of his friend, and they began to con verse volubly in their own language, an art of low Parisian life, entirely unintelligible to ordinary listeners Chartier eagerly urged on his com rade the enterprise which had suggested itself to his mind when he heard Hugh Mauleverer's order to the carrier. He knew that one of the two plate chests was comparatively light, and he dreamt of ming

ling revenge with profit, if in any way it could be abstracted from Wickens's waggon. But how to do this? Neither of the two Frenchmen could think of a method; so they called the tailor into council.

Can it be done?" said he, "why, of course it can. Get a light spring cart; stop at some public they'll have to pass; then ask them in to drink, and the thing's done. Oh, it's easy enough."

"But the plate goes up to morrow," said Chartier. "There's no time to get a cart and make the arrangements."

"What muffs you Frenchmen are!" was the little tailor's inward reflection; but he did not utter it aloud, having much respect for Tessier's enormous fist. "Leave it to me," he said. "We must go down to Riverdale tonight, that's all. I've a pal there that will help us. There's a train in about half an hour. Who's got any money?"

"I have plenty, plenty," said the discharged valet, eagerly. "Let us start at once."

"Just one go of gin, and I'm your man," said the tailor. "None of your absinthe, thank you; it don't agree with an honest English stomach.'

If Soft Charley's stomach was honest, it was the only part of him that deserved the epithet. He and his two friends were soon safely ensconced in a second class carriage for Riverdale. On the platform they were observed by a gentlemanly lounger, who was breaking the rules of the company by smoking a capital cigar; and who, though he seemed to look at nobody, saw everything and everybody, and could have given a very fair account of all the passengers by that train. For a great railway director, or bank manager, or something of the sort had suddenly disappeared, taking a few thousands -fifty or so-for his travelling expenses; and Somerton, the detective, was watching the trains on that line, in the hope of arresting the defaulter's flight. I am sorry to say he failed; and the brilliant financier has been living with superb recklessness in cities where extradition is unknown. His generosity to the poor is a proverb; and he most liberally sent a ten-pound note to a widow lady, who

VOL. LXV.-NO..CCCLXXXVI.

lost some thousands by the failure of the company which he managed.

But if this heavy bird of prey was doomed to escape, the detective did not fail to mark down the covey just on the wing; and, when the train was off, he telegraphed to the chief constable at Riverdale that an Englishman and two Frenchmen, two of the party well-known thieves, were in the last carriage but one. Now Riverdale is very proud of its chief constable, and with reason. He was a Cambridge man-third wrangler of his year. He went to the bar, but got no briefs. His father lost largely by railway speculation; so the young man went to Australia to try his fortune. He was moderately successful; but when, after a few years, he returned to his native country, he found that there was no ordinary profession or occupation open to him. Too old to take any course common to men of his position, he was too energetic to be idle; and when his father's old friend and solicitor, Parker, suggested his becoming a candidate for the post of chief constable, the idea delighted him. And he did the duty admirably. Australian adventure superadded to Cambridge analysis made him a capital chief of police. And, Riverdale being a thieves' metropolis, he had ample opportunities for showing his skill. He never missed the slightest: so, when Mr. Somerton's telegram reached him, Mr. Severne gave immediate orders for the surveillance of the three travellers.

But he was baffled this time. Soft Charley was quite as quick-sighted as Somerton, and had recognised the detective instantly, and wondered "who he was after." As the time passed on, however, the strong tobacco which he smoked from a short clay pipe, 'caused him to become reflective; and it suddenly flashed upon him that Somerton would be very likely to telegraph. The train stopped at few places; but one of these was Linthwaite, about five miles from Riverdale. Here the tickets were collected, and here Charley promptly decided that they would leave the train. Behold the three rascals, therefore, at about sunrise on a frosty November morning, deposited at the little roadside station of Linthwaite.

10

"Now," said the little tailor, who had become the acknowledged leader in the enterprise, you know the Black Dog public, Chartiers, between this and Mauleverer: you and the little 'un go on there and get some breakfast. It's on the London road, and the waggon's sure to pass there. I'd go into Riverdale and see my pal.' Meanwhile the train was in Riverdale, and no thieves! The intelligent officer who had been directed to wait for it, soon ascertained from the guard that the birds had flown at Linthwaite, and made his report to the chief constable accordingly. Of course Mr. Severne saw clearly that the evasion of the men at that point was an unfavourable argument as to their intentions; but what could be done! His restless mind would not permit him to accept defeat. He got a cup of coffee, ordered his horse, and rode towards Linthwaite. Half amile from Riverdale he met a man whose appearance marked him for a thief to the chief constable's keen eye. But Soft Charley knew Severne better than Severne knew him, and daringly accosted him with

"Beg pardon, your honour, but how far is it to Riverdale ("

Some men might have been thrown off their guard by this question, not so Severne. He flattered himself that he knew a thief thoroughly, could identify one by merely looking at his back, so he said

"You came from London by the mail train with a ticket for Riverdale. Why did you get out at Linthwaite f

"Wasn't very well, your honour," said the tailor; hoped to get a drop of brandy somewhere."

“And what have you done with your companions, the Frenchmen l'

"Never saw any Frenchman, your hon ur: came down all by myself to try to get work here times are terrible hard in Lonson. I'm a tailor by trade, and should be very glad if your honour could give ne a little job."

"Call at my house at cleven o'dak," said severe, giving him .s address.

Both parties to this done were rather pudied; but the talor mest. Te dit opstille, as her de towar Is Lun'uwaite, perplexed himself With Vaill spectations as to what

had become of the two Frenchmen. The tailor was thinking how be should get his work done in Riverdale, so as to leave the town before eleven: he by no means relished the idea of another interview with Mr. Severne. Severne himself rode on to Linthwaite, but could hear nothing of the two Frenchmen, whose movements had not been noticed in the early morning. So he returned to the town, and had hardly reached his head quarters when Soft Charley leit Riverdale in a light spring-cart, drawn by a fast-trotting black pony. The pony's master was driving a notability of Riverdale, keeper of a little puolic-house in one of the numerous alleys leading to the rope walk; a prize fighter, a cricketer, an angler, a betting man, bearing the name of Jonathan Burton. As birds of a feather flock together, we may assume that he was a thief.

It was late in the afternoon when Wickens's waggon reached Mauleverer. The burly carrier was there himself, resolved to see the chets safely started, and some miles on their way. Two men were with him, and Hugh Mauleverer had ordered two of his own people to go also, One of these was a groom, the other an under keeper tough fellows both. The plate secmed safe enough.

The Black Dog inn is at the corner, where the road from Mauleverer meets the high road from Riverdale to London. A pleasant blaze came from its red latticed bar as the waggon reached the turn. At the door stood Louis Chartier, lazily smoking a cigar. Of course he ree guised his old fellow servants, and asked them to come in and drink.

"All right," said Wickens, who was riding a cob; "you go in and have a glass to warm you I'll wait outside. I never drink, you know.'

Here was a slight complication. Chartier could not urge him to come in without exciting suspicion. Eut Soft Charley was equal to the occasion. He and Burton and Tessier were conera din the sh dow thrown by the stables; when Chartier and the other men were gone in, he wis pered to the Frenchman

"Pull that stout fellow off L horse. Catch him by the threat that he mayn't squicah.”

It was done in an instant. At the same moment Chartier, who had slipped away from his guests in order to see what was going on, came to the assistance of the other two, and they lifted the smaller chest from the waggon into the springcart. Meanwhile Tessier, an adept in such matters, had gagged Wickens with a piece of rope, shut him into the stable, and taken away the key, which happened to be in the door. The four men inside were too busy with their beer to notice any slight noise. In a few minutes, however, Chartier's absence was observed, and one of them said

"Hollo! where's the Frenchman ?"

"Out talking to master, I dare say," was the reply; and they went on with their beer.

Half-an-hour might have passed when a horseman rode rapidly up to the doorway of the Black Dog, It was Hugh Mauleverer. He had been dining with Lord Riverdale, and intended to sleep at the Court; but somehow or other a vague fancy had stolen into his brain, connecting, in an inexplicable way, the platechests he had sent to London with the sinister look he had noticed on Chartier's countenance. He laughed at the idea as intensely absurd, and tried indeed to persuade himself that he had some other reason for leaving the pleasant company of Lady Vivian and her father, and riding a good many miles on a cold, cheerless November night. As he neared the town, he noticed a waggon standing at the door of the Black Dog; so, pulling up sharp, he shouted to the landlord. His well-known voice brought everybody to the door.

"Well," he said, recognising the men from Mauleverer, "this is careless work. Where's Mr. Wickens?" "He's here, sir, with Louis," said the groom.

But neither Wickens nor Chartier was to be found, and an inspection of the waggon showed that the smaller chest was gone. The cob was there; but nobody thought of looking for the unlucky carrier in the stable, where he was locked. When Hugh heard from the landlord that there had been a spring-cart at the house, he at once saw how the robbery had been committed, though he

was completely puzzled by Wickens's disappearance.

Hugh had ridden from Riverdale Court without a groom. He ordered the man who had come with the waggon to mount Wickens's cob, and follow him. Then he pushed his black hunter, Thunderbolt, into a gallop, taking the road towards London.

Meanwhile, the thieves were not perfectly satisfied with their position. Four men and a plate-chest are rather a pull on the energies of a pony. They scarcely thought any single man would start in pursuit; but somebody would mount Wickens's coband give information to the county police. The little tailor's scheme was to get into a quiet by-way, break open the chest, divide among themselves the more portable articles, burying the rest, and then separate. Burton knew well that if he did not get back to Riverdale in a few hours, the keen-sighted chief constable would suspect him. So they drove on as fast as possible to where a network of lanes was connected with the highroad, intending to seek safety in the labyrinth.

The night was dark. The little pony held on gallantly. But Thunderbolt's mighty stride was rapidly bringing Hugh Mauleverer towards them, the groom on Wickens's cob being nearly half-a-mile behind. Hugh Mauleverer had a revolver in his pocket, and with that and his heavy hunting whip he had not much fear as to the result of the encounter. When he caught a glimpse of the cart in the darkness he rapidly resolved how to act. He pulled Thunderbolt into a trot, rode forward till he found himself abreast of the thieves, and then fired at the pony's head. The poor little animal fell dead at once, and the four men were thrown into the road. "Confound it," thought Hugh, "I'd rather have shot one of those scoundrels than the pony.' Pulling up Thunderbolt right in front of them, he said, in a loud voice

"You can run away or not as you like. I know some of you, at any rate. There are five more barrels ready for you, if you mean fighting."

But they meant nothing of the sort. Soft Charley, who being a light weight, fell soft, had already stolen away. Burton saw that his chance of escape was lost, as his pony and cart