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“Prudhom, my boy,” whispered the magistrate to his guest, with a most unjudicial nudge, to emphasise his remarks, “they’re old ones. Was ever such luck! Knowing ones, too, I guess: they’ll try to trick us with their gammon, you see. He! he! Now, constable, what have you got here?”

For the first time the elderly couple lifted their heads and looked towards the Bench. As they did so they uttered an incoherent ejaculation, and attempted to spring forward. But the active and intelligent servants of the law checked them by a vigorous grip of their arms, and crying “Silence!” in their most majestic and menacing tones, reduced them at last to order.

“See that?” whispered the professor to the doctor; “most characteristic. Simulation is of the very essence of their race. Oh, this is beautiful! Did you catch what they said just then? It was an expression in the Maeso-Shemitic dialect, still to be found in the south of Spain and on the old Moorish coast of Africa. I know it well. Well, constable?”

“If you please, your honour, I was passing near the school about half- past five this afternoon along with my brother officer when I observe the defendants crawling along beside the wall. I keeps my eye on them, and observe them going in the direction of Deadman’s Lane. I follows unobserved, and observes them crawl behind a hedge. I waits to observe what follows, and presently I observe a young gentleman walking down the lane. As I expects, the male defendant comes out and offers to tell him his fortune, and I observes the young gentleman give the parties money. I waits till he leaves, and then with my brother officer we arrest the parties. That’s all, your worship. Stand still, you wagabone you; do you hear?”

This last observation was addressed, not to his worship, but to the female prisoner, who once more made an effort to step forward and speak. The grip of the constable kept her where she was, but, heedless of this threatening gesture, she cried out, in a shrill, trembling voice–

“Please, sir–please, doctor, we’re two of your boys.”

The doctor, who had been intently looking out for the curved nostril alluded to by his host, started as if he had been shot.

“Eh, what?” he gasped; “what was that I heard?”

“Why,” said the professor, in ecstasy, “it’s just as I told you. Dissimulation is second nature to the tribe. No he is too big for them. The old lady says she and the other rogue are your children. Doctor, there’s a notion for you!–an old bachelor like you, too! He! he!”

“We are indeed!” cried the old man, echoing the shrill tones of his helpmeet. “I’m Morgan, Dr Prudhom, and he’s Dell. Indeed, we’re speaking the truth. We only did it–“

“There, you see,” once more observed the delighted professor; “it’s the very thing I knew would happen. They know you are a schoolmaster, and they want you to believe– Oh, this is really most interesting.”

The doctor seemed to find it interesting. He changed colour several times, and looked hard at the two reprobates before him. But their weather-and-dust-beaten countenances conveyed no information to his mind. Their voices certainly did startle him with something like a familiar sound; but might not this be part of the deep dissimulation dwelt upon with so much emphasis by his learned friend?

“I wouldn’t have missed this for twenty pounds,” said the magistrate, beaming on his guest; “my theories are confirmed to the letter.”

“We only did it for a lark, sir, and we’re awfully sorry,” cried the old man. “We really are, aren’t we, Dell?”

“Yes, sir,” cried the old lady; “please let us off this time.”

“Upon my word,” said the doctor, getting up and advancing towards the prisoners. “I don’t know–“