“Did you ever hear his name?”
“Oh, yes—Mr Harvey.”
“And theirs?”
“Miss Matilda Jerome and Miss Elizabeth Jackson.”
“Is he English too?” inquired I.
“Yes, of the highest tone, but very condescending. He asks Mrs Richardson how she does, and she says, ‘Quite well, I thank you, sir;’ but this doesn’t prevent her, you know, from sometimes trying a chink—the key-hole is an impossibility.”
“And what has she seen?”
“Not much yet. The little is strange. The great Mr Harvey, the moment he gets in, takes off his fine suit and his rings, and puts on a fustian jacket and breeches. They work at something requiring a great deal of the fire, and then we hear birrs, and clanks, and whizzes—what you might expect where some small machinery is in gear.”
“Producing, perhaps,” said I, “something like that?” shewing him a half-crown piece.
“Our very suspicion,” replied he, as he took the piece into his hand, and seemed to wonder at the “turn out” of his little room. “But where got you it?”