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"Yes,--well?"

"Beverley!" repeated Mr Shrig

"Yes"

"But your name's--Barty!"

"True, but in London I'"

"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--dangoff

the fur cap, he dashed it to the ground, stooped, picked it up, and

crammed it back upon his head,--all in a , "matter, sir? Veil, vot vith your qviet,

innocent looks and vays, and vot vith'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

wicti in a quiet corner of Fleet

Market, Mr Shrig dived into his breast and fetched up his little