confessed
to it.

He, however, looking back on his own antecedents to determine from them
how straitlaced a morality conscience called for, decided, in view of
the possibility of a collision between his friend and this ex-convict,
that he would be quite justified in treating Aunt M'riar's feelings as
negligible, set against the risk incurred by deferring to them as his
friend had done. No doubt Mo's confidence had been reposed in him under
the seal of an honourable secrecy, but to honour it under the
circumstances seemed to him to be "cutting it rather fine." He resolved
to sacrifice his integrity on the altar of friendship, and sought out
Mr. Simeon Rowe, who will be remembered as the Thames Policeman who was
rowing stroke at Hammersmith that day when his chief, Ibbetson, lost his
life in the attempt to capture Daverill; and who had more recently been
identified by Mo as the son of an old friend. Jerry made a full
communication of the case as known to him; giving as his own motive for
doing so, the wish to shield Mo from the possible consequences of his
own rash over-confidence.

"I collect from what you tell me," said the Police-Inspector, "that my
men have been going on the wrong tack. That's about it, Mr. Alibone,
isn't it?"

"That's one way of putting it, Mr. Rowe. Anyhow, they were bound to be
let in. Why, who was to guess Aunt M'riar? _And_ the reason!"

"They'll have to look a little sharper, that's all." It suited the
Inspector to lay the blame of failure on his subordinates. This is a
prerogative of seniors in office. Successes are officially credited to
the foresight of headquarters--failures debited to the incompetence of
subordinates. Mr. Rowe's attitude was merely human. He expressed as much
acknowledgment of indebtedness to Mr. Jerry as was consistent with
official dignity, adding without emotion:--"I've been suspecting some
game of the kind." However, he unbent so far as to admit that this
culprit had given a sight of trouble; and, as Mr. Jerry was an old
acquaintance, resumed some incidents of the convict's career, not
without admiration. But it was admiration of a purely professional sort,
consistent with strong moral loathing of its object. "He's a born devil,
if ever there was one," said he. "I must say I like him. Why--look how
he slipped through their fingers at Clerkenwell! That was after we
caught him at Hammersmith. That was genius, sir, nothing short of
genius!"

"Dressed himself in his