By the same embankment he might, if he chose,
convey the trophies of the night's work; and what mattered it if the
windows rattled to the passing train?
At least a cloud of suspicion was dispelled. Here he lived for two
years, with naught to disturb his tranquillity save Mrs. Thompson's
taste for drink. The hours of darkness were spent in laborious activity,
the open day brought its own distractions. There was always Bow Street
wherein to loaf, and the study of the criminal law lost none of its
excitement from the reward offered outside for the bald-headed fanatic
who sat placidly within. And the love of music was Peace's constant
solace. Whatever treasures he might discard in a hurried flight, he
never left a fiddle behind, and so vast became his pilfered collection
that he had to borrow an empty room in a friend's house for its better
disposal.
Moreover, he had a fervent pride in his craft; and you might deduce from
his performance the whole theory and practice of burglary. He worked
ever without accomplices. He knew neither the professional thief nor his
lingo; and no association with gaol-birds involved him in the risk of
treachery and betrayal. His single colleague was a friendly fence, and
not even at the gallows' foot would he surrender the fence's name. His
master quality was a constructive imagination. Accident never marred his
design. He would visit the house of his breaking until he understood
its ground-plan, and was familiar with its inhabitants.
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