“Aye, but master, your danger was not over then for missus and I had made it up that she was to pin your arms—and she could a done it easy—while I was to smash your head with the ‘darbies.’ We should then a took a key, got off the bracelets, and heaved you out of a winder, afore you could come to yourself. That pistol fairly put us out, for it cowed missus, and she isn’t easily cowed, I tell ye.”
“But the pistol was not loaded,” said I—“nothing but a cap and an empty barrel.”
“All the same, master, I’m main glad we failed. Now I’ve thought it over, I know I could not have escaped. It was known I left in your charge, and that missus joined us. When your body was found, we’d a been spotted at once, and most likely both on us would a swung for it. I’m main glad, I tell you, that you got out o’ the mess, and I don’t bear you no ill-will for having done your dooty as a man and a hofficer.”
Never before, to my knowledge, had I been in such deadly peril, and truly thankful did I inwardly feel for the providential escape I learned I had just made. I was glad to hand my murderous-minded charge over to the care of the officers of the “Defence;” and I am thankful to add that I never heard more of him, or wished to do so.
Among the many persons who had been present at the examination of Charles Peace was an old acquaintance—Shearman, the American detective, of loquacious and anecdotal proclivities. After the prisoner’s committal he adjourned to an adjoining house where good entertainment was provided for man and beast. In the company of the English detectives engaged in the case, police-sergeants, and inspectors, Mr. Shearman was quite at home. A long, rambling discussion took place, the leading subject being the merits, or rather demerits, of our hero. Incidents in detective life became the order of the day, and, as far as this was concerned, Mr. Shearman, as usual, “went ahead.” He told a capital story, which, as this is the last time we shall have to take notice of him, we give in his own words:—
TRACKING A FUGITIVE OVER THE OCEAN.
I am not Pollaky or Paddington Green, neither am I Inspector Webb, nor Detective Bull of the City force, said Mr. Shearman. My status in society is that of a banker’s clerk. I hold an appointment in a Midland Counties firm, which I entered upon five-and-twenty years ago.
I had reached what is termed the “ripe middle age,” when some months since the even current of my life was interrupted by the following event:—
The establishment with which I have been so long associated is well known, and has gained a reputation by the quiet, respectable character of its business transactions.
It does not indulge in speculative ventures, and hence has escaped many of the misfortunes and missed no little of the agitation which some banking firms have had to encounter.