Nothing daunted, however, by his dangerous adventure, he walked gaily along till he reached one of the main streets of the town. Here he was met by the two policemen who had made such a vain endeavour to capture him. One of the constables flashed his bull’s-eye full in the face of the burglar, who bore his scrutiny with the utmost complacence. “You’ll know me again the next time we meet!” said Peace, with cool assurance. “May be I shall,” returned the constable. “Where are you coming from, and whither are you going?” “That’s my business; but, if you want to know, I’ll tell you. I’m going to my own home, and I’ve been on a visit to a sick friend. You may as well know all. My name’s Charles Peace; I’m a carver and gilder――and a musician to boot. Anything else you want to know?” “Have you seen any one pass as you came along?” “Well, no one in particular. Oh, yes!――there was a dark-looking man――a mulatto, he appeared to be, with one arm; he was running at the top of his speed.” “Which way did he go?” asked the policeman, eagerly. “He ran down that street――the second turning to the left.” “How long since?” “Not a minute ago.” The two constables made off in the direction pointed out by Peace. “Good!” ejaculated the latter, with a grin. “I hope you will find the gentleman!” He walked on at a more rapid pace, and did not pause until he had reached his own habitation. He let himself in as usual with his latch-key, and crept softly upstairs. For the next few days he worked industriously at his business, and behaved in a proper and discreet manner. One or two of his friends, or rather patrons, paid him a visit, and gave him fresh commissions, and he deemed it advisable to keep as quiet as possible till the excitement consequent upon the attempt at burglary had somewhat subsided. Like other affairs of a similar nature it was but a nine days’ wonder; the general impression being that it was the work of some tramp, who was in all probability a stranger in the town. Anyway, the aforesaid tramp was never discovered. John Bristow, the man who occupied the parlours in the house where Peace lodged, had been for some days “on the drink.” His poor wife, during this period, had had a sad time of it. Her husband neglected his work, drank to excess, and conducted himself in a manner which was almost intolerable. Bessie Dalton strove in vain to pacify the brute, who came home in a furious state. It would indeed be a terrible picture of man’s brutality, and woman’s forbearance, were we to record all that passed in the drunkard’s miserable home. One night Peace was aroused by piercing screams, which proceeded from Bristow’s room. “For mercy’s sake, Charlie,” said Bessie Dalton, “go down to that wretch; there’ll be murder done. I’m sure there will if they go on like this.” “It’s a thankless task to interfere between man and wife,” answered Peace. “Best let them settle their own disputes.”