"It's a gang of rogues, thieves, and vagabonds," went on Mr. Snow. "The police have never been able to lay hands on the head of the gang, or break it up. This gang goes about committing burglaries, and stealing things, and picking pockets. They must have a kind of academy like Fagin's," mused Jerry, "and they know one another by a black patch worn over the left eye."
"Just like the man I saw?"
"Yes. I thought of that when I heard the story," said Jerry, "and the detective thought the same. He is going to hunt out this gang and learn the whereabouts of their headquarters. And, Beatrice"--he moved forward to place a cautious hand on her arm--"it struck me--I don't know if it struck the detective, but it struck me, that Alpenny, who was a precious scoundrel--I beg your pardon----"
"Go on," she said impatiently. "I know he was my stepfather, but I always thought him a wicked man myself."
"I believe he was a fence," said Jerry solemnly.
"What is that?"
"The chap who disposes of stolen goods. Yes; I really believe that was why Alpenny lived in the country. The Black Patch Gang brought their stolen goods down here, and he got rid of them in some way. I expect the police will come down and make a thorough search throughout The Camp. There may be all manner of secret hiding-places."
"But, Jerry," protested Beatrice, who was very pale, as various thoughts rushed through her mind, "I never saw any London thieves in The Camp, or, indeed, any one disreputable."
"Did you ever see any client?" asked Jerry impressively.
"No. Mr. Alpenny kept his business very quiet."