Gatliffe was in a state of trepidation for some days. The false statement he had made to the police officers caused him the deepest anxiety. It was altogether so repugnant to his feelings to deviate from the truth that he felt humiliated at having been compelled, by the force of circumstances, to trump up so specious a tale to cover the flight of Peace. He accused himself of having aided and abetted a burglar in his lawless attempt at robbery. This was, however, viewing the matter in its worst light. If Gatliffe had erred it was from the best motive; it was to save one whom he had known for many years. He had not the faintest notion, when he connived at his escape, that he was dealing thus mercifully with a callous and hardened criminal. But Peace, it must be acknowledged, was a remarkable man in many ways, not the least of these being his wondrous power of imposing upon persons with whom he came in contact. It is at all times difficult to gauge accurately the character of culprits of this class. In a popular history of British criminals the biographer, introducing a certain infamous rascal, remarks very justly that as a rule the recorders of rogues and vagabonds endow them with qualities they did not possess, and credit them with exploits they never performed. Hence follows, in the opinion of this judicious commentator, “the difficulty of finding out and appreciating, as they merit, genuine anecdotes of these heroes.” Burglars suffer, like bards, from theft of their reputation, and the notorious shoplifter is as liable as the eminent statesman to be saddled with misdeeds he never committed and defrauded of distinction actually earned. The Newgate chronicle we have quoted tells us in a word how this comes to be. If any man makes himself distinguished by crime a hundred stories are set in circulation, putting down things to him which he knew nothing about. Peace is no exception to this rule. A leading London paper reported that he had paid a visit to Chislehurst as a private gentleman, who desired to build a habitation of a similar character――the real object of his visit, however, being to gain a knowledge of its interior for the purpose of carrying out a burglary on a large scale. There is not a shadow of truth in this report. Peace was never at Chislehurst; neither did he ever contemplate breaking into the place. It is a long time happily since this sort of scandal engaged the tongues and thoughts of the British public. The days are gone by for ever when each county in England had its outlaw, whose achievements filled the “lying trump of fame,” and agitated society with a pleasing fear unfelt among our modern sensations. When, however, at rare intervals, some superior villain appears above the lawless crowd, we find the old tendency to make the most or worst of him lingers not dead but sleeping. Our hero is an instance in point.