descend to propose an alliance? But I will not waste words upon you. Fellow! something hangs over your head-never mind what; I have heard of a place called a prison; I have heard of chains, and of Botany Bay. Young miss, I'll break that heart of yours if I cannot win it. Pleasant dreams to you both-good day."

Sanford jerked on his hat, knocking it over his brows, and, whistling an opera air, walked down the stairs.

CHAPTER II.

THE room over the archway of St. John's Gate was appropriated, not long since, to the weekly meetings of a club-a jovial set of men, who, either in mockery or from a real veneration of the past, called themselves the "Knights of Jerusalem." A member of this brotherhood was now seated alone in the time-honoured apartment, and which is still called the Grand Hall; he lolled in an old oaken chair, with his legs stretched under the table, and a pint of wine, the best the little tavern could supply, at his elbow. Long and industriously had he been smoking, but, perceiving the landlord near the door-way, he took the cigar from his mouth and called to him.

"Well, Mr. Sanford, and what may you want?" asked the landlord, who, we may here observe, was not the publican now occupying the little hostelry.

"You're a good fellow, Bumpus; I'm your friend, and I grieve for your loss."

"Eh, sir? What loss?"

Why, the plate to be sure, about which you raised such a hue and cry last week."

The landlord's face lengthened, and his eyes opened to their full width. "Oh! yes, them spoons and the silver mug; I valued them as much as if they were gold; for the mug, they say, belonged to one of the old knights of St. John, who was killed in the Holy Land, or some such place; but the thief aint found yet I'm sorry to tell you."

Sanford winked knowingly. "You are a good fellow, I say. Now suppose I could put you on the right scent?"

What! what!" cried the landlord, his little round eyes sparkling, and his very foretop seeming to bristle up more stiffly through his mind's eagerness; "dear Mr. Sanford, I'll be eternally obliged."

The young rake drank another glass of wine, and took another whiff at his cigar, and then addressed the excited listener.

"Far be it from me to accuse any one of dishonesty without good cause, much less the seemingly quiet and upright; and then, poor man! he may be in great distress. Hunger may have driven him to the act; we must have pity on the unfortunate."

'Pity! no I won't; I'll transport the man, whatever he be, who stole my mug and spoons."

"Well, perhaps a thief had better be out of this country than in it. A thief's a mean character, Mr. Bumpus."

Very; I'll hug a drunkard or a rake to my bosom; but a thief—I spurns him, abhors him from my soul; but who, Mr. Sanford, stole my mug and spoons?"

"I do not know-I only suspect; however, I should be a false friend

if I did not tell you on whom my suspicions fall. For months past, I've marked a rather shabbily-dressed old gentleman lurking about the gate, looking here and there, watching and peeping into corners."

"I've seen him too-gaping on the old walls and turrets, a-wanting to climb up my stairs, and poking into my club-room over the arch; and then he never drinks anything; all this looks rather suspicious, I must

confess."

"You know who he is, I suppose."

"Oh! yes; old Mr. Osborne, the antiquary, as they call him, up in the square; but then he bears a most excellent character."

"Ah! poverty, friend Bumpus, sadly tempts and tries a man; but you can afford to lose your plate, while he-poor fellow, poor fellow!-We won't say anything more about it."

"I afford? no I can't though. Say nothing more about it? yes, but I will. If he's the thief, I tell you I'll transport him.”

"Bumpus, if you are determined to follow up this matter, and I put you in the right way to recover your property, promise me one thing-do not mention my name, for I will not be mixed up with the affair. I hate bearing witness at police-courts and Old-Bailey trials.”

"I'll attend to your wishes, Mr. Sanford, depend upon it."

"Come nearer, then, and you shall know the little circumstances that induce me to believe Mr. Osborne the purloiner of your plate."

The landlord drew close to Sanford, and holding his hand to his ear, his mouth wide open with eagerness, listened to the other's whispered words. Whatever story Sanford's ingenuity concocted, the publican seemed convinced of Osborne's guilt, and, rising from the table, exclaimed, breathlessly,

"Hadn't I, think you, better apply for a search-warrant at once, and go to the house with a constable ?"

"Poor Osborne, I pity him, but he has brought it on himself, and duty forbids us, Mr. Bumpus, to be too merciful to rogues. By all means get a search-warrant; you may or you may not discover the property on his premises.'

"Ah!" cried the publican, leaving the room, "if I find old Osborne to be the villain, I'll transport him; ay, and his pretty daughter too, for that matter;" and the little man shot off to the magistrate's, while Sanford, settling himself again at the table, smiled pleasantly, and quietly finished his pint of wine.

"Father," said Catherine, speaking through the window to Osborne, on the balcony, "here is Mr. Bumpus, of the Jerusalem Tavern, who wants to see you, and another person with him."

The "other person" was an officer in plain clothes. Osborne, casting one more glance at his beloved gateway, crept into the room. He inclined his head to his visitors, and asked them what their business might be. "I hope all's right," said Mr. Bumpus, rather confused, and stammer"but you see I've lost my silver mug and spoons."

ing;

66

I am sorry for it," observed Mr. Osborne.

"you

"No doubt of it," remarked the officer in plain clothes; “

kind of

people are always sorry when the thing is done; but come, Mr. Bumpus, we had better at once proceed to business, for I've no time to lose." Mr. Osborne stared, and looked from one to the other.

"We're just going to search your rooms for the stolen property," said the publican; "we've got a warrant."

"You cannot be in earnest, gentlemen," exclaimed Mr. Osborne, whose honest heart would not permit him to believe that any one really suspected him of theft. 66 My love," he added, turning to his daughter, who had become pale as death, "do not be alarmed; there is certainly a mistake, gentlemen; you are looking, probably, for some other person. My name is Osborne."

"Of course it is-all right," said the officer in plain clothes.

"Now, look you, Mr. Osborne," urged Bumpus, "don't deny it; give up the property at once, and say you were tempted to take it through want; 'twill be better for you, and lessen your punishment, perhaps."

"Infamous!" exclaimed the old man, growing excited; but he instantly checked his passion, and supported Catherine to a chair. Meantime the officer, more prompt in action than profuse in words, commenced a search, the publican at his elbow, peering with his round glittering eyes into every corner, and into every drawer that the constable in succession opened.

"Ah! I fear we shan't find them after all," said Bumpus, dejectedly; no one knows how I value my mug and spoons. You see, though the pawnbrokers hereabout might not purchase stolen goods, the Jews would melt them down fast enough."

"Mr. Bumpus," said the officer, "you must not talk in this way; we don't do business so. Mr. Osborne, I'll trouble you for the key of that cupboard, and of them chests, for I suppose you wouldn't like for me to break them open."

Osborne, smiling contemptuously, passed his bunch of keys to the constable, and when the last chest was opened, so eager was the little publican to look within that he nearly lost his balance; nothing, however, was found, and Mr. Bumpus began to lament in sorrowful accents the unsuccessfulness of their search.

66

Stop," said the officer, with his cold imperturbable face; " not done yet. Where do you keep your coals, Mr. Osborne?"

we have Bumpus wondered what coals could have to do with his silver mug and spoons.

"Ah! behind the door," continued the constable. "Well, I'll just trouble you for that shovel, and we'll turn them over; I have found strange things sometimes in coals."

"I suppose," observed Mr. Bumpus, standing by, and watching every shovelful removed with intense eagerness, "I suppose, then, coals is a favourite place with thieves for hiding stolen goods."

"Rather," said the officer, dryly.

"When will this farce be over?" exclaimed Mr. Osborne, impatiently walking forward. "Little did I expect in my old years to be thus cruelly insulted."

"We shall see directly if you are insulted or not," said the constable. "Now, then, what's here?" he added, turning up several articles which glistened like silver.

Bumpus snatched at them, and, holding them in the light, at once exclaimed, "They are mine!-mine! my lost mug and spoons! Oh! the cunning, miserable villain! I'll transport him! They are mine!-mine!" Mr. Osborne, in evident consternation, expressed his surprise, and

pro

tested his innocence; he knew nothing of the silver articles, and said he was the victim of some cruel and diabolical conspiracy. Long accustomed to hear such expressions from the guilty, the constable made no observation, but merely showing the old man his staff of office, and touching him on the shoulder, said,

"You are my prisoner."

"Father, what does all this mean?" cried Catherine, rushing forward and clinging to his arm.

"They are going to take me to prison, my child."

"To prison?" shrieked the girl.

"I am guilty of theft-I am a common, paltry purloiner of plate from a tavern. Oh, Heaven! that I should have lived to behold this day!" "Come," said the constable, "you will go quietly with us; you won't want the handcuffs, I dare say; you'll just be locked up to-night, and be examined before the magistrate to-morrow. Now, Mr. Bumpus, we had better be going."

"My child, support yourself," said Osborne; "no, no, we shall not be separated long; they will do no injury to me, and all will yet be well." Catherine sank fainting into a chair, and Mr. Osborne, calling an elderly person from below who at times assisted them in their household concerns, committed her to the woman's care. He kissed the pale cheek of his daughter, and then, without uttering another word, accompanied the constable to the station-house.

CHAPTER III.

THERE were the usual attendants at the police-court-those officially connected with the place, the friends of prisoners, or the complainants and witnesses against them, and a large number of idlers; the last are men who, having nothing better to do, are the victims of a restless curiosity, and the seekers of morbid excitement; indeed, the lovers of this policecourt excitement comprehend, in our metropolis, people of very opposite dispositions and callings in life, from the dog-fancier and swell-mob man to the graver-looking concoctor of penny tales of horror, and from the composer of elegiac stanzas on the last murdered man to the sentimentalist, weeping over the failings and iniquities of his fellow-creatures, though lending no assistance in reclaiming them.

Some petty night-charges having been disposed of, the prisoner Osborne was placed at the bar. And there stood the poor antiquary, the worshipper of the past, with his grey head bare, struggling to master his emotions, yet acutely feeling the disgrace of his situation-he whose soul was all honour, whose heart was all benevolence, stared on and pointed at as a common felon, his very admiration of the fine relic of St. John's Gate to be turned as evidence against him, and his honest poverty to be considered as instrumental in urging him to purloin the property of others. Oh, it was a miracle he could remain there without launching his curses against his secret and cruel enemy! it was a miracle that his old heart did not burst!

Catherine was leaning outside of the rail, intently looking at her father, and she seemed to behold no one in the court but him. Her late pretty, playful, lively features were white and haggard, and her eyes were swollen with recent weeping; yet she was comparatively calm now, being fully persuaded that her father's innocence would appear.

The publican's head-waiter stood forth as a witness against the accused, deposing that, on the night before the robbery, he and his master saw the prisoner lurking about St. John's Gate. He swore that Mr. Osborne had entered the house, and had leave to mount the stairs, for the purpose, it would seem, of examining a portion of the old wall. The valuable mug and spoons, usually kept in the club-room, were found wanting on the following morning. The constable, exhibiting the plate, proved how, after a long search, he had found the said articles on the premises of the prisoner, and which articles three persons then and there swore belonged to Mr. Bumpus, landlord of the Old Jerusalem Tavern.

"Hem-ha!" said the magistrate, shaking his head, and looking more than usually grave; "have you anything to say for yourself, prisoner?" What could Osborne say, but confess, indeed, that the plate was found in his rooms, yet at the same time urge his innocence of the theft? He spoke of an enemy, who, actuated by revenge, might have placed the silver articles there, with a view of bringing him into trouble; and he called God to witness that he was an honest man, and hoped that the magistrate, viewing him as the victim of a conspiracy, would free him from his present ignominious position, and set him at liberty. But magistrates must not be influenced by simple statements, unsupported by facts; and, being well accustomed to the specious falsehoods and divers shifts of prisoners, not often do they permit the earnest appeals or even the tears of the accused to affect their hearts. His worship, after a little consideration, spoke as follows:

"Prisoner, from your respectable situation in life, and from the good character which you appear previously to have borne, I am truly sorry to see you at that bar; but I must perform my duty, painful though it may be. Your vague allusions to secret enemies and conspiracies, and your asseverations of innocence, of course, I cannot attend to; prisoners too often invent stories like these. I think the case sufficiently clear to authorise my sending it for decision to a higher tribunal. It is, therefore, my duty to commit you for trial."

The officers were removing Mr. Osborne from the bar, in order to make room for other prisoners whose cases were to come on, when piercing shrieks rang through the court. Alas! such sounds were too common there to excite much attention or any surprise. The editors of the "Penny Tales of Horror" only slightly turned their heads towards Catherine, and some of the more unfeeling idlers smiled, as if the melancholy spectacle of a weeping child and her wretched father formed a little of that excitement which they craved, and for which they systematically haunted these places. The scene which followed has over and over again been witnessed in connexion with our metropolitan police-courts-the agony of relations or children clinging to the accused; the officers interfering, and forcibly separating those who would not be torn apart; the prison-van conveying the culprit to the gloomy walls of Newgate or Horsemonger-lane Gaol, where he is to pass long, long miserable hours of expectation before the trial comes on which is to decide his destiny.

Mr. Osborne was confined in a room with several other prisoners, but the poor antiquary held no communication with any around him; his spirit seemed crushed by the enormity of the misfortune which had fallen upon him, and except when he was permitted to see his daughter "at the grate," his hours passed in quiet melancholy that approached