Some ten years ago the arch-rascal among English thieves was living
quietly in a London suburb; he used to solace himself with high-class
music, and he was very fond of poetry. This dreadful creature was a
curious compound of wild beast and artist. During the day he went
about with an innocent air; and the very police who were destined to
take him and hang him learned to greet him cordially as he passed them
in his walks. They thought he was "a sort of high-class tradesman."
Now, when this cheery little man with the decent frock-coat and the
clean respectable air was sauntering on the margin of the breezy heath
or walking up by-streets with measured sobriety, he was really marking
down the places which he intended to plunder. Here his trained pony
should stand; here he would make his entrance; that bedroom door
should be fastened inside; this lock should be picked. The wild
predatory beast drove the police to despair, for it seemed as if no
human being could have performed the feats which came easy to the
robber. The hard earning of good men went to the rascal's store; the
cherished household gods, the valued keepsakes of innocent women were
transferred callously to the melting-pot.
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