He did this to lull suspicion—that is, if any was likely to be attached to him. While occupied in fishing with what to all appearance was a party of his own particular friends, he felt he was perfectly safe.
The police went far and near in search of the burglars; they made desperate efforts to trace the stolen goods. They arrested an unfortunate tramp who was seen lurking about the neighbourhood on the preceding day. There was, however, not a tittle of evidence against the poor tramp, whom the magistrate at once discharged.
It was of no use people saying that they had arrested the wrong man—they shook their heads and looked mysterious.
As he had been arrested they clung to the opinion that he had a hand in the robbery.
The poor wretch wanted the common necessaries of life, and was of course perfectly innocent of the charge made against him; but he was a tramp, and that was enough for the police, and they assumed, as illogically as they usually do, that he knew something about it.
This was all they could do in the matter, and so after a hubbub and outcry for a week or so, the matter was given up as hopeless.
Peace took back his boat, settled with the proprietor, and made the best of his way to Sheffield.
His wife at this time presented him with a daughter.
Meanwhile Bandy-legged Bill arrived safely in London with the booty obtained at the mill.
He waited on Laura Stanbridge, and gave her a note from Peace.