"Yes,--well?"
"Beverley!" repeated Mr. Shrig.
"Yes."
"But your name's--Barty!"
"True, but in London I'm known as Beverley, Mr. Shrig."
"Not--not--the Beverley? Not the bang up Corinthian? Not the
Beverley as is to ride in the steeplechase?"
"Yes," said Barnabas, "the very same,--why?"
"Now--dang me for a ass!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, and, snatching off
the fur cap, he dashed it to the ground, stooped, picked it up, and
crammed it back upon his head,--all in a moment.
"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. If you are still set
on trying for him, and I know how determined you are where your honor,
or Cleone's, is concerned, the country is the place for it, and I
will go with you, though I am convinced he is no fighter, and will
refuse to meet you, on one pretext or another. However, you may as
well bring your pistols,--mine are at the gun-smith's.--Yours always, WILFRED CHICHESTER "So you see, sir," sighed Mr. Shrig, as he put away the little book,
"my case is spiled,--can't come off,--mustn't come off! For if young
B. is Number Vun, the murderer, and C. is Number Two, the accessory
afore the fact, v'y then Number Three, the unfort'nate wictim is--you,
sir,--you! And you--" said Mr. Shrig, sighing deeper than ever,
"you 'appen to be my pal!"