"I've warned you once, but the next time I may tell. Be careful, and remember that Gray is the man who knows."
With this melodramatic exclamation, he turned and disappeared up a side alley with appropriate mystery.
Busby stood looking after him, quite at a loss to understand.
"The man who knows? What the dickens is he talking about?"
Being satisfied that Gray was either drunk or labouring under a delusion, he continued his walk towards Fleet Street.
Gray went home alone that evening, the wounds of the past weeks soothed by this new ointment of retaliation. At the tea-table sat his loving wife, charming as only a woman can be with news on the tip of her tongue.
"Hallo!" said Gray, who saw that something had happened. "You've had some money left you."
Mrs. Gray opened her mouth, perplexed.
"You've found a purse," said her husband, "with three pounds in it, a lock of hair, and some love-letters."
"Jim!"