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    “The matter of the two Smeeton miscreants… went off duly?”
    A curious way to ask if being suspended by a rope around the neck had had its usual effect, Morton thought.
    “It went off…” he answered bleakly.
    “There was some difficulty?” asked Sir Nathaniel, in response to Morton's unspoken reservation.
    “The condemned man made certain accusations from the scaffold.”
    George Vaughan released a snort of contemptuous laughter, but Morton noticed that Jimmy Presley only looked rather pale.
    “It is hardly the first time,” remarked the Chief Magistrate.
    “He named the officers of police involved in his capture,” went on Henry Morton. “He accused us of profiting from his death and his wife's, of bringing them about, even, for our own gain. He cursed us and claimed that his wife was innocent—”
    “Innocent!” scoffed George Vaughan.
    “The populace seems to be predisposed to listening to such cant,” Sir Nathaniel said. “But we have our duties to attend to.”
    Morton joined in the little chorus of agreement. But then, as they all began to rise and reach for their hats, he said: “I should say, Sir Nathaniel, the hostility toward us is strong this time. Decent and respectable common-folkare angry, and this makes the rabble bold. I caution you, Mr. Vaughan, Mr. Presley: We should be on our guard.”
    George Vaughan shook his head. “You be on your guard, Mr. Morton, if you think you have reason,” he said. “I have none.”

Chapter 5
    J immy Presley came up beside Morton as he stood at the little writing-stand in the Public Office antechamber, drafting his note to Lord Arthur Darley.
    “So,” the younger man said with an effort at carelessness, “Mr. Vaughan tells me that every fumbler who meets the hangman claims his innocence and blames us.”
    “Well, Jimmy, that's not precisely true,” responded Henry Morton sympathetically, setting down his quill and reaching for the blotter. Presley stared in a distracted way out the latticed window onto Bow Street.
    “They're always innocent when they're in the dock at the Old Bailey, of course. But by the time they come out the debtors' door, it's often a different matter. I've only heard of accusations like Smeeton's once or twice before.”
    “But now the people believe they really were. Innocent.”
    The great roar of disapproval and anger came back into Morton's ears, the heated words flung out, the redfaces of the men surging against the barricade below the scaffold. He looked thoughtfully at his young colleague for a moment, and then went back to his writing.
    “Ah, well, Jimmy,” he remarked evenly. “Maybe George Vaughan's right. A man's not for this calling if he gives a fig what ‘the rabble’ believe.”
    But the young man looked distinctly unhappy anyway, so Morton went on.
    “You and Vaughan had the Smeetons dead cold to rights. They were seen on the premises the day before the robbery, looking it over. They turned up at the place right on time in the middle of the night, jemmy and skeleton keys to hand, and they used them. As neat and tight a case as you'll get in a year.”
    “Then why didn't the people see that… that there was nothing else to be done?” Presley couldn't quite name the thing he had so recently had a part in bringing to pass.
    “The people, as you style them, really aren't very fond of us, Jimmy, let's be plain about that. They don't like the police system, and they especially don't like the Bow Street Runners.” Morton smiled a little. “They'd rather live in a green and pleasant England where the constables are all unpaid, and where stout yeomen seize upon malefactors and are only incidentally rewarded for their efforts. Unexpectedly, as it were, and all the while blushing and pulling their forelock and saying they'd have done it anyway, m'lord, reward or no. I can't really blame them. I'd like to live in an England like that, too. Better still, why not an England where there are no thieves