"And your's?" demanded Sir Christopher, making notes as he proceeded.
"Joshua Pedler, your worship."
"Where do you live?—and what are you?" were the next questions.
"Where we did live, your worship means," said Tim the Snammer; "but it doesn't much signify answering that query—since we don't live now where we used to do; and as for what we are, your worship can pretty well guess, now that we've confessed having murdered Sir Henry Courtenay—which was all through a mistake."
"A mistake!" repeated Sir Christopher.
"Yes, sir," continued the Snammer; "and I'll tell you all about it."
"Speak slow—very slow," said the knight; "because I shall commit to paper every word you utter, remember."
"Well, sir," resumed Timothy Splint; "it happened in this way. Me and my companion here, Joshua Pedler, took it into our heads to break into Torrens Cottage, for no good purpose, as you may suppose."
"To rob the house—eh?" said Sir Christopher.
"Just so, your worship. Well, we reached the Cottage between twelve and one o'clock at night—or nearer one, I should think—and looking through the chinks of the shutters, for there was a light in the parlour, we saw a pile of gold and a heap of notes on the table, and a gentleman asleep on the sofa."