“Do you mean West London?”
“I mean America,” said Julius, “where most of the desperadoes come from. And go to,” he added, with a recollection of certain past defaulters, whose disappearance had been hampering to him as a bailiff of the court.
She listened attentively while Mr. Superbus described the misdoings of the impersonator.
“There’s nothing this fellow can’t do, miss,” said Superbus impressively. “He can make himself fat, he can make himself thin; he can impersonate a tall man or a short man, an old man or a young man. By all accounts he was an actor onthealls.”
“Onthealls?” She wrinkled her brow, thinking for the moment that Mr. Superbus had dug up one of those natty colloquialisms that enlivened the Senate in those days when Cicero could always be depended upon to pass a few bright, snappy remarks about the Tribune Clodius.
“An actor onthealls,” repeated Mr. Superbus, astounded that he was unintelligible.
“Oh, I see!” a great light dawning upon her mind. “On the halls? You mean the vaudeville stage?”
“So they say,” said Mr. Superbus. “Anyway, he’s been too clever for the regular police. It’s now up to them who have made a study of crime, so to speak, to bring him to justice.”
He looked cautiously round the apartment and lowered his voice.
“By all accounts, Mr. Selsbury’s the next.”