The butcher burst out into a roar of laughter, which was echoed by several other inmates of the room.
"Who the devil are you?" demanded Chichester, recovering his presence of mind sooner than the baronet; for both were astounded at this unexpected and very embarrassing encounter.
"Upon my honour, the man must be mistaken," murmured Sir Rupert Harborough.
"So far from being mistaken," cried Pocock, "you were the very fellows I was talking about just now. Gentlemen," he added, turning towards the people seated at the various tables, "these are the two swells that led me into the scrape I told you about just now. And now they pretend not to know me!"
"What does the fellow mean?" said Chichester, in an impudent tone: "do you know, Harborough?"
"'Pon my honour, not I!"
"Then I will tell you who I am," ejaculated the engraver. "I am the man who forged the plates from which the bank-notes were struck, that got poor Richard Markham condemned to two years' imprisonment in the Compter; and you know as well as possible that he suffered for our crime."
Chichester and the baronet were stupefied by this sudden and unexpected exposure.
They knew not what to say or do; and their countenances betrayed their guilt.
"Yes, gentlemen," resumed Pocock, growing excited, "these are the men whom some extraordinary chance—some providential or devilish design—has brought here this evening to confirm all I have told you."