“And so it is,” said I, interrupting Philip.  “I read of the affair at the time.  A fellow named Howard knocked down his landlady, robbed her money-box, and got away before she came to.”

“Yes,” Phil went on, “I remembered it, too.  And I waited for a glimpse of the robber’s face.  He stepped out, and the constable, with a comrade from inside the chaise, led him to where they hold prisoners for examination.  He was all mud-stained, dishevelled, and frowsy:  for two seconds, though he didn’t notice me, I had a good view of him.  And who do you think this Howard really was?”

“Bless me, how should I know?  My acquaintance among the criminal classes isn’t what it might be.”

“’Twas Ned Faringfield!” said Philip.  “I should have known him anywhere—­heavens, how little a man’s looks change, through all vicissitudes!”

“Well, upon my soul!” I exclaimed, in a chill.  “Who’d have thought it?  Yet hanging is what we always predicted for him, in jest.  That it should come so soon—­for they’ll make short work of that case, ’tis certain.”

“Yes, I fear they’ll not lose much time over it, at the Old Bailey.  We may expect to read his name among the Newgate hangings in a month or two.  Poor devil!—­I’ll send him some money through my lawyer, and have Nobbs see that he gets decent counsel.  Money will enable him to live his last weeks at Newgate in comfort, at least; though ’tis beyond counsel to save his neck.  His people must never know.  Nor Fanny.”

“Unless he gives his real name at the trial, or in his ’last dying speech and confession.’”

“Why, even then it may not come to their ears.  Best bring Fanny and your mother soon to France.  Madge will never tell, if she learns; I’ll warrant her for that.  To think of it!—­the dear old house in Queen Street, and the boys and girls we used to play with—­Tom’s fate—­and now Ned’s—­Fanny in England—­and Madge—!  Was ever such diversity of destinies in so small a family?”

He fell into his thoughts:  of what strange parts we play in the world, how different from those anybody would predict for us in our childhood—­how different, from those we then predict for ourselves.  And so we were borne across the Thames, looking back to get our last view of St. Paul’s dome for some time to come; through Southwark, and finally into the country.  The postilions kept the horses at a good gait Southward.  We did not urge them to this, for indeed we saw but little necessity for great haste, as there was likely to be some time ere Falconer’s death became known to the authorities, and some time longer ere it was traced to us.  But as Mr. Idsleigh, before getting out of the way himself, might take means to lay written information against us, which would serve at least to put the minions of the law on the right track, and as we might be subjected to some delay at Hastings, we saw no reason to repress the postilions’ zeal, either.

In our second stage we were not favoured with so energetic conductors, and in our third we had unfit horses.  So we had occasion to be glad of our excellent start.  Thus, between good horses and bad, live postilions and lethargic, smooth roads and rough, we fared on the whole rather well than ill, and felt but the smallest apprehension of being caught.  To speak metaphorically, the coast of France was already in our sight.