“I think I’ll go and lend a hand in putting the harness on the horse,” said Jacob, who did not want to communicate any of his tidings to the excited bystanders. He had reason for his hurry, for at that moment the cart containing Her Majesty’s mail rattled up the street. Two minutes afterwards Jacob himself was driving as fast as he could in the same direction. He soon overtook the mail cart, nodded to the driver, whom he happened to know slightly, and promising his own driver five shillings if he got to Pitstow ten minutes before the mail, settled down comfortably to consider the present position of affairs. Pitstow was quite five miles away, and part of the road was very lonely. When Jacob got to the lonely part, the mail-cart was so far behind that it was not even visible. Short’s driver was smoking a cigar supplied to him by that worthy, and happy in his own reflections, was looking the other way. With a hasty movement, Short now took the letter which he had abstracted from the mail-bag out of his pocket. It was addressed in an upright and somewhat cramped hand. “The sort of hand that ain’t natural to the writer,” muttered Short, a gratified smile spreading over his countenance. “I’ve seen Mr. Rowton’s own hand scores of times—big and flowing and easy, with a sort of dash about it; now, this is as stiff and crabbed as if the writer had got the rheumatics very bad. Let me see, to whom is it addressed? “‘George Morton, Esq., ⸺, Redcliffe Square, London S.W.’ Well, there’s certainly nothing remarkable in the address. George Morton—the name is respectable, the locality good.” Jacob held the letter close to his eyes; once again he perused the upright, stiff hand with minute and careful attention. He presently took a pocket-book out of his breast pocket and carefully compared the handwriting on the envelope of the purloined letter with some handwriting which he had in his pocket-book. “Done, by Jove! Caught at last!” he muttered. He slipped the pocket-book into its place, put the letter once again into his breast pocket, and began to talk in a cheerful and lively manner to the man who was driving him. The subject of the burglary was, of course, the only one of the least interest at the present moment. “It’s the queerest thing going,” said Jacob Short’s driver; “why, that’s the third big robbery that’s taken place in the last month or six weeks—and the police ain’t nabbed one of the fellows yet. I can’t understand it, can you, guv’nor?” “Oh, the burglars will be nabbed all in good time,” said Jacob; “I should not be a bit surprised if this robbery at the Heights last night did not do for them. Then there’s the child, you know.” “What child?” asked the man. “Why, that game little chap, Master Murray Cameron, he was kidnapped, too, last night, as well as the plate and jewels.” The driver, a stolid-looking fellow, dropped his mouth wide open on hearing this startling intelligence.