“This appears to be creditable to the two Unions in question.  But, unfortunately, long experience proves that these small rewards never lead to any discovery.  They fail so invariably, that the Unions do not risk a shilling by proffering them.  In dramatic entertainments the tragedy is followed by a farce:  and so it is with these sanguinary crimes in Hillsborough; they are always followed by a repudiation, and offers of a trumpery reward quite disproportionate to the offense, and the only result of the farce is to divert attention from the true line of inquiry as to who enacted the tragedy.  The mind craves novelty, and perhaps these delegates will indulge that desire by informing us for once, what was the personal and Corsican feud which led—­as they would have us believe—­to this outrage; and will, at the same time, explain to us why these outrages with gunpowder have never, either in this or in any preceding case, attacked any but non-union men.”

When Henry had read thus far, the writer of the leader entered the room with Mr. Bayne.

A gentleman not above the middle height, but with a remarkable chest, both broad and deep; yet he was not unwieldy, like Dr. Amboyne, but clean-built, and symmetrical.  An agreeable face, with one remarkable feature, a mouth full of iron resolution, and a slight humorous dimple at the corners.

He shook hands with Henry, and said, “I wish to ask you a question or two, in the way of business:  but first let me express my sympathy, as a man, and my detestation of the ruffians that have so nearly victimized you.”

This was very hearty, and Henry thanked him with some emotion.  “But, sir,” said he, “if I am to reply to your questions, you must promise me you will never publish my name.”

“It is on account of his mother,” whispered Bayne.

“Yes, sir.  It was her misfortune to lose my father by a violent death, and of course you may imagine—­”

“Say no more,” said Mr. Holdfast:  “your name shall not appear.  And—­let me see—­does your mother know you work here?”

“Yes, she does.”

“Then we had better keep Cheetham’s name out as well.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you.  Now I’ll answer any questions you like.”

“Well, then, I hear this outrage was preceded by several letters.  Could I see them?”

“Certainly.  I carry mine always in my pocket, for fear my poor mother should see them:  and, Mr. Bayne, you have got Cheetham’s.”

In another minute the whole correspondence was on the table, and Mr. Holdfast laid it out in order, like a map, and went through it, taking notes.  “What a comedy,” said he.  “All but the denouement.  Now, Mr. Bayne, can any other manufacturers show me a correspondence of this kind?”

“Is there one that can’t?  There isn’t a power-wheel, or a water-wheel, within eight miles of Hillsborough, that can’t show you just such a correspondence as this; and rattening, or worse, at the tail of it.”