"Veil, sir," said Mr. Shrig, puffing hard at his pipe, "from all accounts I should reckon as it 'ad. By Goles! but ve vas jest talking about you, sir, the werry i-dentical moment as you knocked at the door. I vas jest running over my little reader and telling the Corp the v'y and the v'erefore as you couldn't ha' done the deed."
"What deed?"
"V'y—the deed. The deed as all London is a-talking of,—the murder o' Jasper Gaunt, the money-lender."
"Ah!" said Barnabas thoughtfully. "And so you are quite sure that
I—didn't murder Jasper Gaunt, are you. Mr. Shrig?"
"Quite—oh, Lord love you, yes!"
"And why?"
"Because," said Mr. Shrig with his guileless smile, and puffing out a cloud of smoke and watching it vanish ceilingwards, "because I 'appen to know 'oo did."
"Oh!" said Barnabas more thoughtfully than ever. "And who do you think it is?"
"Vell, sir," answered Mr. Shrig ponderously, "from conclusions as I've drawed I don't feel at liberty to name no names nor yet cast no insinivations, but—v'en the other traps (sich werry smart coves too!) 'ave been and gone an' arrested all the innercent parties in London, v'y then I shall put my castor on my napper, and take my tickler in my fib and go and lay my 'ooks on the guilty party."
"And when will that be?"