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myself not yet "done time." At his side was an individual who, as he was attired in the ordinary costume of every-day life, was, apparently, a civilian. When he had come close enough to make quite sure that our attire was represented by a minus quantity, he addressed us:—

"Who are you; and what are you walking about like that for?"

"Stand, or we fire!"

We told him who we were. We also told him why we were walking about like that. We explained, with a certain dignity, that we had encountered the gentleman he was in search of, and that he had relieved us of what we would charitably hope he had supposed to be our superfluities.

That officer's surprise, for some occult reason, appeared to increase rather than to diminish.

"You don't mean to say that you two men allowed a little man like that to strip you both stark-naked?"

Little man! I don't know what he called a little man. I pointed out to him, with sarcastic and even cutting emphasis, that a man seven foot six could be only called "little" in a land of giants.

"Seven foot six! Why, he scarcely tops five foot."

Scarcely topped five foot! Then that was the most liberal five foot I ever yet encountered. I said so.

The individual who was attired in civilian costume interposed:—

"If the man these gentlemen are speaking of was unusually tall, it is possible that it was Mr. Mogford, and if so—"

He got no further; because just then there came sauntering out from among the gorse and the heather "Jim Slim, the Camden Town murderer." His appearance created a sensation. His costume, in particular, seemed to occasion almost as much surprise as ours had done. He carried under each arm a bundle of clothing. Ted Lane and I recognised those bundles without a moment's hesitation. The fellow had been wise enough not to attempt to clothe himself with our belongings. With an air of the most perfect tranquillity he approached the group of warders. Then he stretched out his arm, letting Ted's garments tumble to the ground, and he shook the civilian by the hand.

"How do, Pierce?" he observed. "I'm Jim Slim, the Camden Town murderer."

He said he was—but he wasn't. There have been moments since then when I have almost wished he had been.

The man was a lunatic—in a legal, not merely in a colloquial sense. His name was Mogford. He was residing, for the benefit of his health, in a cottage, somewhere—I cannot say exactly where; I never knew, but somewhere upon Dartmoor. The individual in civilian clothes, Mr. Pierce, was his keeper. Mr. Mogford had risen at a very early hour that morning and, unknown to his keeper, gone out upon the moor. He