I saw the whole plot now, and felt sure that that beautiful devil of a woman was at the bottom of it all. But was I to allow that miserable man—that well-meaning convict who had actually made an effort towards a life of honesty—to walk into the shambles? No doubt it would look like a feather in my cap to take him in the act and walk him off for his certain ten years’ penal; every one would think it neat and clever, and speak of the vigilance and sharpness of the police, &c., but there would still be a voice within me crying out against the whole as a crime—an offence against a law that never was written. After giving the matter some thought, I went out to the Grange to a gentleman with a big heart and unbounded faith in myself. “I want you to give me some money,” I said, as his hand grasped my own, “without asking any questions. It is to help a convict and ticket-of-leave man till he shall be able to help himself.” “All right, Mr M^cGovan; you shall have it,” was the frank response. “Just say how much it is to be.” I named the sum, and it was placed in my hands. Little more was said, and I left that wide-souled and big-hearted man to have a hunt for Bob Brettle. I expected to find him quite easily, but I did not; and what gave me more concern was to learn in the course of my search that Bob had broken out—that is, had been drinking hard, and was, when last seen, in a state of savage ferocity and excitement, which, I feared, would not help me greatly in my mission. Still it was no time to delay. I must see him then, or be forced to take him as a house-breaker a few hours later. I persevered till I found him in a public-house—savage and fierce as could be. He would scarcely answer me, and only consented to speak with me alone when I told him he _must_. “You’ve had a struggle lately, and I promised to prove that I had no interest in you remaining in the old line,” I quietly began. “I’ve brought you some money which a gentleman has given, on my assurance that it would not be thrown away, to help you till you get work.” “Take it back to him then—I don’t need it now,” he angrily returned. “I’ve got work, or at least expect to get it.” “Yes, I can guess what kind of work you mean,” I pointedly answered. “Do you know what your next sentence will be, Bob, if you’re taken at the old game?” “I’m not taken yet,” he confidently answered, with an oath and a thundering blow of his fist on the little table of the box in which we were secluded. “He’ll be a clever man that will take me; ay, and he’ll need to be a strong man too!” “Bob Brettle!” I cried, starting up and leaning across the table towards him, “you’re a fool!” “What!” and his big fist was clenched as if to let drive at my face. “A fool—a perfect baby—a blind idiot, who would walk into a trap chuckling all the while over his own cleverness and daring. Man alive! what is all your bravery or daring against the wiles of a wicked woman?”