Tom prided himself, above all things, on being “up to trap,” as he expressed it. He thought his own cunning more than a match for all the difficulties of his situation and the vengeance of the law. He was considered “a knowing hand” amongst his disreputable associates, and had the character of a man who was safe to keep his own neck out of the noose, whatever became of his comrades’. But, though a bold schemer, he was a very coward in action, and his nerves were now so shattered by hard drinking that he was almost afraid of his own shadow. A bad conscience is always the worst of company, but to a man not naturally brave it is a continual bugbear--a fiend that dogs his victim, sleeping or waking--sits with him at his meals, pledges him in his cups, and grins at him on his pillow. Tom possessed this familiar to perfection. Like all “suspected persons,” he conceived his movements to be of more importance in the eyes of Justice than they really were; and although the “hocussing” and robbery of Hairblower richly deserved condign punishment, he was suffering from causeless alarm when he informed his wife that he was “wanted” on that score. The truth is, the police were on a wrong scent. The landlord either could not, or would not, give them any actual information as to his guests; he “remembered the circumstance of the gentleman being taken ill--did not know the parties with whom he was drinking--thought they were friends of the gentleman--the parties paid for their liquor, and went away, leaving the other party asleep--it was no business of his--had never been in trouble before, he could swear--commiserated the party who had got drunk, and gave him half-a-crown out of sheer humanity--had known what it was to want half-a-crown himself, and to get drunk too--was doing an honest business now, and thought publicans could not be too particular.” So the blue-coated myrmidons of Scotland Yard got but little information from Boniface; and for once were completely at fault, more especially as Hairblower, _more suorum_, did not know the number of the note he had lost--could swear it was for five pounds, but was not quite clear as to its being Bank of England. Under these circumstances, Tom, had he only known it, might have walked abroad in the light of day, and put in immediate practice any schemes he had on hand. Instead of this he chose to lie in hiding, and only emerged in the evening, to take his indispensable stimulants at one or other of the low haunts which he frequented. Men cannot live without society; the most depraved must have friends, or such as they deem friends, on whom to repose their trust; and Tom Blacke, in an unguarded moment of gin and confidence, let out the whole story of the will (though he was cunning enough to omit the forgery) and boasted what an engine he could make of it to extort money from Miss Blanche’s guardian, and how he was certain of getting _at least_ a hundred