"What was it?" I asked, willing to reserve the account of my interview with Madge till later.
"The most remarkable thing, for me to witness on this particular morning," he replied; and told me the story as we rattled through Temple Bar and Fleet Street, on our way to the bridge and the Surrey side. "After I left you, I don't know what it was that kept me from coming through St. Martin's Lane to the Strand, and made me continue East instead. But something did; and finally I turned to come through Bow Street. When I was nearly in front of the magistrate's house, a post-chaise stopped before it, and a fellow got out whom I took to be a Bow Street runner. Several people ran up to see if he had a prisoner in the chaise, and so the footway was blocked; and I stopped to look on for a moment with the rest. A man called out to the constable, 'What you got, Bill?' The constable, who had turned around and reached into the chaise, stopped to look at the speaker, and said, 'Nobody much—only the Soho Square assault and robbery—I ran him down at Plymouth, waiting for a vessel—he had a mind to travel for his health.' The constable grinned, and the other man said, 'Sure that's a hanging business, and no mistake!'"
"And so it is," said I, interrupting Philip. "I read of the affair at the time. A fellow named Howard knocked down his landlady, robbed her money-box, and got away before she came to."
"Yes," Phil went on, "I remembered it, too. And I waited for a glimpse of the robber's face. He stepped out, and the constable, with a comrade from inside the chaise, led him to where they hold prisoners for examination. He was all mud-stained, dishevelled, and frowsy: for two seconds, though he didn't notice me, I had a good view of him. And who do you think this Howard really was?"
"Bless me, how should I know? My acquaintance among the criminal classes isn't what it might be."
"'Twas Ned Faringfield!" said Philip. "I should have known him anywhere—heavens, how little a man's looks change, through all vicissitudes!"
"Well, upon my soul!" I exclaimed, in a chill. "Who'd have thought it? Yet hanging is what we always predicted for him, in jest. That it should come so soon—for they'll make short work of that case, 'tis certain."
"Yes, I fear they'll not lose much time over it, at the Old Bailey. We may expect to read his name among the Newgate hangings in a month or two. Poor devil!—I'll send him some money through my lawyer, and have Nobbs see that he gets decent counsel. Money will enable him to live his last weeks at Newgate in comfort, at least; though 'tis beyond counsel to save his neck. His people must never know. Nor Fanny."
"Unless he gives his real name at the trial, or in his 'last dying speech and confession.'"
"Why, even then it may not come to their ears. Best bring Fanny and your mother soon to France. Madge will never tell, if she learns; I'll warrant her for that. To think of it!—the dear old house in Queen Street, and the boys and girls we used to play with—Tom's fate—and now Ned's—Fanny in England—and Madge—! Was ever such diversity of destinies in so small a family?"