“No, no, Maister M^cGovan; I was just walking this way ony way, and thought I wad get rid o’ my auld pipe.” “More like, it was a gold albert,” I sharply said, getting out the handcuffs. “If I had only guessed what you were after I might have been nearer, and prevented the extravagance. You’re unlike every one else in the world, throwing away good gold while others are breaking their hearts to get it. Come, now, try your hand in these; and then I’ll have to see if the burn will give up your offering.” He was utterly and abjectly silenced, and accepted the bracelets without demur, which led me to believe that my surmise was a hit. The tailor’s gold albert, supposing Burge’s story to be true, was all that remained unaccounted for, and its possession now was frightfully dangerous. What more natural, then, that Chisholm should take alarm at my visit, and hasten to dispose of it in the most effectual manner within his reach? If he had put it through the melting pot, and I had arrived only in time to see the shapeless nugget tossed out of the crucible, he could not have given me a greater pang; but of course I did not tell him that. I expected never to see it again, and I was right, for the chain has never been seen or heard of since. My thoughts on the way to the Office were not pleasant; afterthoughts with an “if” are always tormenting; and mine was “If I had only seized him before he reached the drain, and had him searched.” Then he was so secretive and cunning that I had no hope whatever of him committing himself to a confession. In this I made the error of supposing him entirely guilty. I forgot the case of “Cosky” and “The Crab Apple,” who were only too glad to save their necks at the expense of their liberty. Chisholm, though cunning as a fox, was a terrible coward, and as we neared the Office he tremblingly said— “Will I be long, think ye, o’ getting oot again?” I stared at him in surprise, and then, with some impatience, said— “About three weeks after the trial probably.” “What? how? will three weeks be the sentence?” he stammered in confusion. “No; but that is the interval generally allowed between sentence and hanging.” “Good God, man! They canna hang me!” he exclaimed, nearly dropping on the street with terror. “Wait. If I get that chain out of the drain it will hang you as sure as fate,” I grimly replied. I was rather pleased at being able to say it, for I was snappish and out of temper. “But I never killed the tailor; never saw the man,” he exclaimed, evidently fearfully in earnest. “I’ve nothing to do with that; it all depends on what the jury think,” I shortly answered, and then we got to the Office, and he made a rambling statement about being taken up innocently, and was then locked up.