Somebody must have given him secret information. These thoughts passed rapidly through the brain of our hero. “This place is becoming too hot for me,” murmured Peace, while working in his shop in the back yard. “Some enemy is at work, and to remain here much longer would simply be an act of madness. No, I must away, and that, too, as speedily as possible, but I will not let any one know my intentions――no, not even Bessie. That Bristow is a dangerous fellow――when the drink is in him he cares not what he says.” Peace had concealed in his rooms a number of valuable articles which were the proceeds of his burglaries. He did not care about running any risk by disposing of the same in Bradford; neither did he feel disposed to leave anything behind when he quitted the town. He therefore packed them as closely as possible in a hair trunk which he had procured for the purpose. All this was done as quickly and secretly as possible while Bessie Dalton was away at the mill where she worked. When she came home in the evening she found Peace busily occupied in the shop with his picture frames. He appeared to be as cheerful as usual, but he was maturing his plan of operations. On the following morning he paid the landlord his rent, together with the amount due for the week’s notice, alleging that he had just received a telegram announcing the fact that his mother was in London dangerously ill, and that he was therefore compelled to hasten to her bedside without further delay. The landlord did not for a moment doubt the truth of this statement. Peace put his traps in a fly he had hired, and was driven to the station. He took the first train to London, arriving in the metropolis in the early part of the afternoon. A four-wheeled cab conveyed him to Whitechapel. In that classic locality dwelt a Jew with whom Peace was well acquainted. He had on more than one occasion disposed of his ill-gotten wares to the Israelite in question. The Jew was called “cunning Isaac” by the professional gentlemen who had dealings with him. Peace was driven to a coffee-shop, near to the Jew’s residence. Here he engaged a bed, his trunks were safely deposited in the back room; he had some coffee in the public room, and in the dusk of the evening he proceeded to the Jew’s house, carrying with him, in a large bag, the greater portion of the property he had brought with him. “Ah, Mishter Peace, your servant. I’m happy and proud to see you. Vat can I do for you? Have you anything in my vay? Bishness is bad――wery bad it ish. Nothing stirring but stagnation, as our friend O’Callaghan used to say.” “You just stop your clatter, Isaac, and don’t call me by my name in a public shop. What I have to say to you must be said in your own private room.” “Chertainly, my tear friend, chertainly! This way if you please.”