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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