“The child was taken to the union, where it remained for some three or four years; then it was taken charge of by Mr. Searle, your wife’s brother. I believe he elected to be its natural protector, and placed it in charge of an old woman, whose name I do not at the present moment remember, but she was, so I have been told, a most worthy person, and did her duty, was mindful of her young charge. Any way the youngster thrived, and when old enough Mr. Searle apprenticed him to the late Mr. Jamblin, owner and occupier of Stoke Ferry Farm. The farmer had instructions to bring the lad up us an agriculturist. He obeyed the instructions given him by Mr. Searle. By injudicious punishments and injudicious pardons he taught this boy, whose father was dead, whose mother was a fugitive, and whose grandparents dared not acknowledge him, to be mischievous, discontented, and deceitful. Finally, he ran away from his foster father, and a reward was offered for his apprehension, but all efforts to regain this treasure proved ineffectual, and his relatives resigned themselves with Christian resignation to his loss.”
Mr. Kensett was perfectly bewildered. He stretched his hand out mechanically towards the bell.
Sutherland only smiled sardonically.
“On reaching London,” said he, “after leaving Stoke Ferry Farm, the boy sold birds’ nests in the street, till he was adopted by a fence or receiver of stolen goods, who instructed him in the way of cheating, in which he soon became a proficient. He then passed into the hands of one of the most notorious thieves in the metropolis.”
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed the magistrate, with a deep-drawn sigh. “Can this be possible?”
Sutherland took no notice of this last observation, but went on.
“In a twelvemonth,” he observed, “like Raphael and other great artists the boy had surpassed not only the expectations, but also the chefs d’œuvre of his master. At nineteen he became notorious—at twenty-one he became celebrated. Now he is a Claude Duval in politeness, a Lovelace in intrigue, a Richard Turpin on the highway, and will perhaps prove a Jack Sheppard among the prison locks.”
Mr. Kensett began to have a dim perception of the terrible secret in store for him.
“This man,” continued Sutherland, “this glorious hero to whom the London detectives, if they knew heathen mythology, would attribute the ring of Gyges, which rendered its possessor invisible, is myself, I, Alfred Purvis, alias Sutherland, alias Fortescue, who have the honour of standing before you now.”
There was a pause. The magistrate was deeply moved.