world to be too knowing, so though I own I felt a bit curious at
times, I never put myself out o' the way to find out what the little
game was. One day, I was driving tap to my usual place of dropping
him--for by this time we had got into the way of going a regular
beat every morning--when I saw a policeman waiting, with a perky
sort of look about him, as if he had some job on hand. When the
cab stopped out jumped the little man with his bag right into the
arms of the 'bobby.'

"'I arrest you, John Malone,' says the policeman.

"'On what charge?' he answers as cool as a turnip.

"'On the charge of forging Bank of England notes,' says the 'bobby'.

"'Oh, then the game is up!' he cries, and with that he pulls off his
spectacles, and his wig and whiskers, and there he was, as smart a
young fellow as you'd wish to see.

"'Good-bye, cabby,' he cried, as they led him off, and that was the
last I saw of him, marching along between two of them, and another
behind with the bag."

"And why did he take a cab?" I asked, much interested.

"Well, you see, he had all his plant for making the notes in that
bag. If he were to lock himself up in his lodging several hours a
day it would soon set people wondering, to say nothing of the chance
of eyes at the window or key-hole. Again, you see, if he took a
house all on his own hook, without servant nor anyone, it would look