betrayed by its own perfection, and he who refused to
soil the carpet could not but be recognised by his skill.

And Langdon W. Moore was forced to pay another and a more grievous
penalty for his renown. As the fame of his prowess spread abroad, he
fell a prey to the greed of detectives. Do what he would, he could never
rid himself of the attentions of the police. Henceforth it was almost
impossible for him to work in safety, and whatever booty he obtained
he must needs share with his unwelcome companions. He was like a fly
condemned to spend his life in the irk-some society of the spider. When
he had not much to give, his poverty was rewarded by years in prison;
and then, as he says himself, he "was welcomed back into the old
criminal life by crooked police officials." These officials had no
desire to help him. "I was not asked by them"--again it is Moore who
speaks--"if I was in want of anything, but was told that if I wanted to
make some money they could put me on to a good bank job where I
could make a million." And, if we may believe the historians, Moore's
experience is not singular. The truth is, the thief-taker still
flourishes in America. Jonathan Wild, his occupation gone in England,
has crossed the ocean, and plies his trade with greater skill and
treachery than ever. He thinks it better to live on the criminal than to
catch him. And thus he becomes a terror not to the evildoer but to the
law-abiding citizen. It is his business to encourage crime, not to
stamp it out. If there were no thieves, where would the stool-pigeon and
detective find their profits? "W'y," said a pickpocket {*} in New York,
"them coppers up there in the Tenderloin couldn't have any diamond rings
if we didn't help to pay for 'em. No, they couldn't. They'd sit down in
the street and actually cry--an' they're big men some of 'em--if we
guns was run off the earth." In other words, the lesson of the American
Underworld is that the policeman may be a far greater danger to the
community than the criminal. Jonathan Wild will always do more harm than
Jack Sheppard. The skill and daring of the cracksman makes him a marked
man. But _quis custodes custodiet?_

* See 'The World of Graft,' by J. Flint (1901), p. 154.

EPILOGUE.

A traveller visiting a strange land takes for granted the simpler
virtues. He notes with gratitude and without surprise the generous
practice of hospitality. He recognises that the husbandman, patiently
toilin