was such a under-current of his father. It'll make him the glory of his profession. Soft-heartedness has been the ruin of many a detective as has had the brains to work out a deep-laid game, but not the heart to carry it through."
Chapter III.
The Cherokees mark their Man.
Her Majesty's Theatre is peculiarly brilliant this evening. Diamonds and beauty, in tier above tier, look out from the amber-curtained boxes. The stalls are full, and the pit is crammed. In fop's alley there is scarcely standing room; indeed, one gentleman remarks to another, that if Pandemonium is equally hot and crowded, he will turn Methodist parson in his old age, and give his mind to drinking at tea-meetings.
The gentleman who makes this remark is neither more nor less than a distinguished member of the "Cheerfuls," the domino-player alluded to some chapters back.
He is standing talking to Richard; and to see him now, with an opera-glass in his hand, his hair worn in a manner conforming with the usages of society, and only in a modified degree suggesting that celebrated hero of the Newgate calendar and modern romance, Mr. John Sheppard, a dress-coat, patent leather boots, and the regulation white waistcoat, you would think he had never been tipsy or riotous in his life.
This gentleman is Mr. Percy Cordonner. All the Cherokees are more or less literary, and all the Cherokees have, more or less, admission to every place of entertainment, from Her Majesty's Theatre to the meetings of the members of the "P.R." But what brings Richard to the Opera to-night? and who is that not very musical-looking little gentleman at his elbow?
"Will they all be here?" asked Dick of Mr. Cordonner.
"Every one of them; unless Splitters is unable to tear himself away from his nightly feast of blood and blue fire at the Vic. His piece has been performed fourteen times, and it's my belief he's been at every representation; and that he tears his hair when the actors leave out the gems of the dialogue and drop their h's. They do drop their h's over the water," he continues, lapsing into a reverie; "when our compositors are short of type, they go over and sweep them up."
"You're sure they'll be here, then, Percy?"
"Every one of them, I tell you. I'm whipper-in. They're to meet at the oyster shop in the Haymarket; you know the place, where there's a pretty girl and fresh Colchesters, don't
