erself that Mr Brooke was such a big
strong man--almost a match, she thought, for Mace!

"I thought you said the gen'leman was in the parlour, Mrs Brute?" said
Mace inquiringly.

"So 'e--_was_," answered the perplexed lady, looking round the room;
"didn't I 'ear 'im a-shakin' 'ands wi' you, an' a-shoutin' for 'am?"

"Well, Mrs Brute, I dun know what you 'eard; all I know is that I've
not seed 'im yet."

"'E must be in the bedroom," said Mrs Butt, with a dazed look.

"No 'e ain't there," returned the prize-fighter; "I've bin all over it--
looked under the bed, into the cupboard, through the key'ole;--p'r'aps,"
he added, turning quickly, "'e may be up the chimbly!"

The expression on poor Mrs Butt's face now alarmed Charlie, who
instantly doffed his billycock and resumed his natural voice and manner.

"Forgive me, Mrs Butt, if I have been somewhat reckless," he said, "in
testing my disguise on you. I really had no intention till a few
minutes ago of playing such a practical--"

"Well, well, Mr Brooke," broke in the amazed yet amiable creature at
this point, "I do assure you as I'd never 'ave know'd you from the worst
character in W'itechapel. I wouldn't have trusted you--not with a
sixpence. You was born to be a play-actor, sir! I declare that Jem
Mace have given me a turn that--But why disguise yourself in this way,
Mr Brooke?"

"Because I am going to haunt the low lodging-houses, Mrs Butt and I
could not well do that, you know, in the character of a gentleman; and
as you have taken it so amiably I'm glad I tried my hand here first, for
it will make me feel much more at ease."

"And well it may, sir. I only 'ope it won't get you into trouble, for
if the p'leece go lookin' for a burglar, or murderer, or desprit
ruffian, where you 'appen to be, they're sure to run you in. The only
think I would point out, sir, if I may be so free, is that your 'ands
an' face is too clean."

"That is easily remedied," said Charlie, with a laugh, as he stooped and
rubbed his hands among the ashes; then, taking a piece of cinder, he
made sundry marks on his countenance therewith, which, when judiciously
touched in with a little water and some ashes, converted our hero into
as thorough a scoundrel as ever walked the streets of London at
unseasonable hours of night.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

FAILURE AND A NEW SCENT.

Although our hero's plan of search may seem to some rather Quixotic,
there was nothing further from his t