While one is actually inside the Black Museum one cannot be amused at anything, but by the time we have turned into the Strand the impression of the dreary reliquary of crime has so far passed away that one can smile at the story told of the impudent simplicity of this poor clever thief.
“When he was discharged from prison,” said the curator of the Black Museum, as he restored the delicate dangling little bit of villainy to its place, “the man came here and asked us to let him have it back.”
* * * * *
In a few days Peace returned to his lodgings. He was informed by the gipsy that all was going on well. No stranger had been to Leather-lane to inquire for the industrious and exemplary frame-maker.
“And so, old man, you needn’t bother yourself any more,” cried the gipsy.
“There will be no more stir in the matter. But you’ve done me a good turn, Bill, and I shan’t forget it. How are you getting on?”
“How? Much the same as usual—anyhow. But I’m not driven so much in a corner as I have been once or twice in my life. I do a little with horses, and have got a swell as’ll fork out a couple of quid or so when I’m regularly hard up. He’s a rum sort though. I can’t quite reckon him up; he’s so ’nation sly and mysterious. He it was who set me to work to prig the jewels at the ‘Carved Lion.’ My eye, wasn’t he riled when he heard of the end o’ that night’s business; and it was all through you, you beggar,” cried the gipsy, with a laugh. “But Lord love ye, I don’t think any the worse on ye for it—not a morsel.”
“Oh!” murmured Peace; “he set you to work to get the jewels, did he?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder what that was for.”