Corny was pleased with the explanation, for the weight of the bundle did not suggest china or crystal to him, and in taking and adjusting it to his ropes, he had heard not a single clink or rattle from within. He went his way with the load, while his employer reascended the stair and was gone. Corny was not a robust man by any means, so it was past ten o’clock before he reached his destination. Then he found that there had been some mistake in the address, for he could not find any one who expected such a consignment, or answered to the name he sought. After trailing about for half an hour, Corny was reluctantly compelled to turn southward once more, with the intention of returning the load to its owner. But there a fresh difficulty awaited him. He found the stair easily, but in the whole land could discover no one answering to the name given him by his employer. Corny got a good deal of abuse, indeed, for rousing some of the tenants out of bed, and as he was now thoroughly knocked up with his weary trailing, he resolved to let the matter rest till morning, and turned his face homeward. Now, at that moment, by a curious train of circumstances, I was sitting in Corny’s house patiently waiting for him. That very afternoon I had been passing down one of the closes, when my eye caught a bright-coloured and new shoulder shawl decorating a woman moving in the same direction. “Hullo, Bess,” I said, stopping short, “let me have a look at your shawl.” She stopped with wonderful willingness, saying— “Ah, you think it’s one of the lot taken from that shawl shop on the Bridge, but you’re wrong. I bought it this morning in another place, and there’s the receipt,” and she produced one of those little flimsies which drapers give with their goods, showing that three shillings had been paid for the shawl that very day. “Would you like to know who did that job?” she added with suspicious loquacity. “Yes—had you a hand in it?” I was only chaffing her. I never expected to get a single grain of truth out of her, for she was bad to the very heart’s core. “Me! No; but I heard about it, that’s all.” “You’re an awful liar, Bess; but go on,” I calmly answered. “Well, I believe an old porter called Corny Stephens had the big hand in it,” she boldly continued. “I don’t believe it,” was my answer. “Well, please yourself; I only heard it; but if you went to his house late to-night you might find something, that’s all,” and away she went, singing unmusically.