A century ago was the hanging century; and a great fraud was committed towards its close on the East India Company. The leading witness—the only witness who could prove the guilt of the accused—was accustomed to visit a house in the neighbourhood of the Bank, to be dressed and powdered, according to the fashion of the day. Shortly before the trial came on, a note was placed in his hands, informing him that the attorney for the prosecution was desirous of seeing him, at a certain hour, at his private residence, in or near Portland Place. At the time appointed, the witness proceeded to the house; the door was opened, and the footman, without asking his name, ushered the visitor into a large room, where, discussing some wine upon the table, sat a group of gentlemen, in earnest conversation. “There is a mistake,” exclaimed the new-comer, thinking he had been shown into the wrong room. “No mistake, Sir,” interrupted one, in a determined tone, while the remainder sat quietly, but sternly, by. Unable to comprehend the scene, and, in some alarm, the visitor prepared to leave the room. “There is no mistake,” repeated the same person, unostentatiously stepping before the door. “I am,” he continued, “brother to that gentleman who is to be tried for forgery, and against whom you are the chief witness. Without your evidence he cannot be convicted; the honor of a noble house is at stake; and your first attempt to escape will lead to a violent death. There is nothing to fear, if you remain quiet; but all whom you see are sworn to detain you until the trial be over, or,” he added, after a pause, “to slay you.” The witness was a sensible man; he saw the determined looks of those around, and thought it best quietly to acquiesce. In the mean time great surprise was excited in the city. That the missing man had been inveigled away was universally believed; and every endeavour was made to track him. Whether the calmness with which he bore his confinement deceived his jailers is not known; but it is certain that he effected his escape from the house, although not so securely but that his captors were after him before he could get out of sight. A mob collected; his pursuers declared he was an insane nobleman, and that they were his keepers. The mob shouted with delight at the idea of a mad lord; and the unfortunate man was on the point of being again confined, when a chariot drove up. The inmate, a lady, desired the coachman to stop, and listened to the counter statements of the pursued and his pursuers. Remembering the current story of a missing witness, she opened the carriage, he sprung in, the door was closed, and the lady, to whom he told his story, ordered her coachman to drive with all speed to the Old Bailey. It was the last day; the case, which had been postponed, was being tried; and the missing witness was just in time to place the rope around the neck of the unhappy forger.