me; and had he not encountered
Mrs. Dyson, who knows but he might have practised his art in prosperous
obscurity until claimed by a coward's death? But a stormy love-passage
with Mrs. Dyson led to the unworthy killing of the woman's husband--a
crime unnecessary and in no sense consonant to the burglar's craft; and
Charles Peace was an outlaw, with a reward set upon his head.

And now came a period of true splendour. Like Fielding, like Cervantes,
like Sterne, Peace reserved his veritable masterpiece for the certainty
of middle-life. His last two years were nothing less than a march of
triumph. If you remember his constant danger, you will realise the
grandeur of the scheme. From the moment that Peace left Bannercross with
Dyson's blood upon his hands, he was a hunted man. His capture was worth
five hundred pounds; his features were familiar to a hundred hungry
detectives. Had he been less than a man of genius, he might have taken
an unavailing refuge in flight or concealment. But, content with no
safety unattended by affluence, he devised a surer plan: he became a
householder. Now, a semi-detached villa is an impregnable stronghold.
Respectability oozes from the dusky mortar of its bricks, and escapes in
clouds of smoke from its soot-grimed chimneys. No policeman ever detects
a desperate ruffian in a demure black-coated gentleman who day after day
turns an iron gate upon its rusty hinge. And thus, wrapt in a cloak
of suburban piety, Peace waged a pitiless and effective war upon his
neighbours.

He pillaged Blackheath, Greenwich, Peckham, and many another home of
honest worth, with a noiselessness and a precision that were the envy of
the whole family. The unknown and intrepid burglar was a terror to all
the clerkdom of the City, and though he was as secret and secluded as
Peace, the two heroes were never identified. At the time of his true
eminence he 'resided' in Evelina Road, Peckham, and none was more
sensible than he how well the address became his provincial refinement.
There he installed himself with his wife and Mrs. Thompson. His
drawing-room suite was the envy of the neighbourhood; his pony-trap
proclaimed him a man of substance; his gentle manners won the respect of
all Peckham. Hither he would invite his friends to such entertainments
as the suburb expected. His musical evenings were recorded in the local
paper, while on Sundays he chanted the songs of Zion with a zeal which
Clapham herself might envy.

Th