‘What am I to do!’ she cried. ‘They’ll burst the door in directly, and there’s a crowd half across the street.’ ‘Open!’ answered a smothered voice that she could hardly recognise. Mrs. Jarvis stepped to the door, and opened it. ‘Hoity-toity!’ she exclaimed, putting her arms akimbo; ‘what’s all this noise about? Are you the Taxes, or the Gas, or the Water?’ ‘All right, mum,’ said the detective, coming in and shutting the door after him; ‘you’re fly, I see. We want the man who’s here—an escaped convict. Here’s my authority to search the house.’ Mrs. Jarvis looked at the detective’s card, her buxom form effectually blocking up the staircase. ‘Conwick!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, lawks a mussy, man, whatever should we do with a conwick here?’ ‘I don’t want to do anything unpleasant, my good woman,’ answered the detective; ‘so perhaps you’ll stand aside and let me search the house.’ ‘Search away, and welcome!’ replied Mrs. Jarvis, moving aside; ‘and if you finds a conwick, let’s have a look at him. I never see one afore.’ The detective went up the stairs two at a time, and commenced to search. A policeman stood at the front door to see no one passed out. The detective was not very long before he found what he was in search of. He went straight to the top room, which he had ascertained was occupied by the convict’s wife. He entered cautiously, and looked about him. It was empty. But he was not content with a superficial glance. He peered into every corner, and then, stooping down, looked under the bed. ‘I guessed as much,’ he muttered. Then, drawing a revolver from his pocket, he exclaimed, in a loud voice: ‘Now, then, out you come, or I shall shoot.’ Slowly a man crept out, trembling and holding his face aside. He was wrapped in a long coat, buttoned to the chin. The detective, still holding the revolver in one hand, walked up to him and looked him full in the face. ‘George Heritage,’ he said, ‘I arrest you as an escaped convict.’ ‘I am not George Heritage,’ said the man in a low voice. ‘You’re not George Heritage, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll take you on spec. If you’re not the man, What did you hide under that bed for, and what are you doing in Mrs. Smith’s room, eh?’ ‘I don’t know,’ answered the man huskily. ‘Ah, but I do,’ exclaimed the detective, suddenly seizing the trembling wretch. ‘Come, let’s slip the bracelets on’ In the struggle, the long coat was torn aside. ‘Ah, you’re not the man, aren’t you? That’s good! I thought I should bowl you out.’ There could be no doubt that this was the right man. Underneath the long coat he wore the prison garb of the convict. He went quietly enough then. The police kept the door while he was put into a cab, and then they jumped in too, and off went the party to the police station. The scene in the little parlour was heartrending.