In 1842, our office was inundated with complaints of house enterings by false keys. There had been no fewer than sixteen in six weeks, and not a trace could be discovered.
“Why, M‘Levy,” said the Lieutenant one day to me, “we will lose caste. Aberdeen will mock us, and Berwick hold up the finger at us. What’s to be done?”
“There’s a difficulty,” replied I. “In the first place, I am satisfied there is only one thief; in the second place, there is only one place of deposit; in the third place, I am only one man; and, in the fourth place, I am not an angel. Yet, notwithstanding, I have a hope.”
“What is it founded on?”
“This little bit of swatch,” replied I, shewing him a paring of print not larger than two crown pieces.
“Why do you place faith in a rag like that?”
“I got it,” replied I, “from Mrs ——, the proprietor of a house in Richmond Street, the last one operated on, and Mrs Thick, the broker in the Cowgate, thinks she will be able to match it.”
“That promises something.”
“I think I have the sex too,” said I, with an intention to be jocular.