"Why--what's the matter?"
"Matter!" said Mr. Shrig, "matter, sir? Veil, vot vith your qviet,
innocent looks and vays, and vot vith me a-adding two and two
together and werry carefully making 'em--three, my case is
spiled--won't come off,--can't come off,--mustn't come off!"
"What in the world do you mean?"
"Mean, sir? I mean as, if Number Vun is the murderer, and Number Two
is the accessory afore the fact,--then Number Three--the unfort'nate
wictim is--vait a bit!" Here, pausing in a quiet corner of Fleet
Market, Mr. Shrig dived into his breast and fetched up his little
book. "Sir," said he, turning over its pages with a questing finger,
"v'en I borreyed that theer letter out o' young B.'s pocket, I made
so free as to take a copy of it into my little reader,--'ere it is,
--jest take a peep at it."
Then, looking where he pointed, Barnabas read these words, very
neatly set down:
MY DEAR BARRYMAINE,--I rather suspect Beverley will not ride in the
race on the Fifteenth. Just now he is at Hawkhurst visiting Cleone!
He is with--your sister! If you are still in the same mind about a
certain project, no place were better suited.
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