"Must be devilish unpleasant!" said Anthony.
"'Tis a nat'ral gift wi' me, sir. Lord love ye, gen'elmen, I can p'int you out a murderer afore the fact's committed—I've got the names o' four on 'em—no, five—wrote down in my little reader, five werry promisin' coves as is doo for the deed at any moment; I'm a vaitin' for 'em to bring it off, sirs. Lord, I'm a vatchin' over 'em like a feyther an' mother rolled into vun, an' v'en they do commit the deed, I shall appre'end 'em red-'anded an' up they'll go."
"Your methods are highly original, Mr. Shrig," said I, "but do they always work correctly?"
"Ever an' always, sir—barrin' accidents. O' course, there's many a promisin' murderer died afore 'e could do the deed, death 'as no more respect for vould-be murderers than for their wictims. But whenever I sees a cove or covess with the true murderer's face, down goes that cove or covess' name in my little reader, an' I vatches an' vaits for 'em to bring it off, werry patient."
"Have you written down the name of Haredale in your little book?" I enquired.
"Haredale, Mr. Werricker, sir? V'y no, I ain't. V'y should I, sir? Vot ha' you to tell me about any party, name o' Haredale?"
"Only that you will find such a name on the piece of paper you are after."
Mr. Shrig's roving eye fixed me for a moment.
"Haredale?" he muttered, shaking his head, "Haredale?"
At this juncture, with a soft knock on the door, Clegg presented himself, bearing the following letter from my uncle.