There was far from being peace in the house of Wragg, for the place had gained a most unenviable notoriety. Wrong-doings were prevalent enough in Decadia, but they were ordinary wrong-doings, and those who were guilty of peculiar acts were, as a rule, patted on the back by the fraternity. In fact, if 'Arry Burge, or Tom Gagan, or Micky Green was taken for a burglary or robbery with violence, there would always be a large following of admiring companions to see the culprit off to the station, to be present at the hearing, and to give him a friendly cheer during his handcuffed walk to the black van. They had no very great objection to a murder, and more than once a good hundred of neighbours had waited all night outside Newgate to see Bob, or Ben, or Joe, die game at eight o'clock in the morning. But this mysterious disappearance work was something not to be tolerated. There was too much of the Burke and Hare, and body-snatching about it; and consequently the name of Wragg stank in the nostrils of the clean-handed dwellers in Decadia, and the house in Brownjohn Street enjoyed for the time being but little peace. D. Wragg could not show himself outside; and as for Canau, he had been mobbed twice, to return storming and angry, ready to threaten all sorts of vengeance upon his persecutors, foremost amongst whom was Mr John Screwby. This gentleman seemed to have devoted himself heart and soul to the task of keeping alive in the Decadian mind the fact that Lionel Redgrave had been seen to go into the Brownjohn Street house, and had not been seen to come out; though all this rested on Mr Screwby's assertion, since he brought no corroborative evidence to bear--only spoke of the matter right and left, even haranguing excited mobs, who would have needed but little leading to have made them wreck D. Wragg's dwelling, and administer lynch-law to its inhabitants. In fact, instead of the matter being a nine-days' wonder, and then passing off, interest in the mystery seemed to be ever on the increase; and a feeling of dread more than once seized all the members of the household lest some terrible evil should befall them. "I tell you what it is, young fellow," said P.C. Brace one evening to Mr John Screwby, whom he had warned to move on, just at a time when he was haranguing a pack of boys,--"I tell you what it is, young fellow; if you get opening your mouth so wide about all this here, people will begin to think as you know as much about it as any one else." Mr John Screwby's jaw fell, and he stood gazing speechlessly at the policeman, as that worthy wagged his head expressively, to indicate the words "Move on;" and then, without uttering another syllable, on he moved, rubbing his jaw with one hand, pulling his cap a little more over his ears, and in various ways acting as if not quite at peace within himself.