Bill Rawton did contrive to “dodge” the detectives—that is sufficient for our purpose. By the merest accident in the world he happened to meet with Peace in the neighbourhood of Whitechapel.
A mutual recognition took place, and an interchange of expressions of friendship, for Peace liked the gipsy in consequence of his always acting fair and square to him. Indeed, it must be conceded to that worthy that he had done a number of acts of disinterested kindness for our hero, and as we have before said, with all Bill Rawton’s faults, selfishness was not one of them.
Peace invited him to his house in the Evelina-road, which Bill accepted. They very soon became as good pals as ever, but our hero, albeit he gave his friend an account of his adventures since they had last parted, did not make any allusion to the Banner-cross murder. This was a subject upon which he was remarkably reticent. Soon after this Rawton received the letter from Mrs. Bourne, which Cooney had undertaken to deliver. He then asked our hero if he had any objection to receive any communication for him which a friend of his might at some time or another entrust to his care.
Peace at once expressed his willingness to do so, but told Bill that he was no longer Charles Peace, but Mr. Thompson, and that on no account whatever was the name of Peace to be mentioned to a living soul. He had sufficient confidence in the gipsy to trust him with his secret thus far, and his confidence was not misplaced.
The gipsy was, as heretofore, true to the core.
One afternoon, when he did not know very well what to be up to, as he termed it, he determined upon calling again in the Evelina-road, not that he had the most remote idea any communication from Mrs. Bourne had been left for him in charge of our hero. Upon Bill’s arriving at Peace’s house he heard a violent altercation in the front parlour; this was succeeded by a scream from a woman. Bill entered, and beheld his friend Peace in the passage giving some straightforward blows to a female, whom he afterwards took by the shoulders and thrust into an adjacent apartment, closing the door and locking her in without further ceremony.
Rawton made no observation, but concluded naturally enough that it was a domestic squabble, the cause of which he was unable to fathom.
“Oh! it’s you Bill, eh!” cried Peace, catching sight of his friend. “Come in, old boy.”
Peace went into the front parlour, from whence a moment or so before he had emerged in such a towering passion.
“What’s the row, guv’nor,” said Bill.