“That, it seems, sobered him down for a bit, and nobody heard any more of him till nine months later, when he walked into the Monico, where I was then working, and held out his hand to me as bold as brass.
“‘It’s all right,’ says he, ‘it’s the hand of an honest man.’
“‘It’s come into your possession very recently then,’ says I.
“He was dressed in a black frock-coat
and wore whiskers. If I hadn’t known him, I should have put him down for a parson out of work.
“He laughs. ‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ he says.
“‘Not here,’ I answers, ‘because I’m too busy; but if you like to meet me this evening, and you’re talking straight—’
“‘Straight as a bullet,’ says he. ‘Come and have a bit of dinner with me at the Craven; it’s quiet there, and we can talk. I’ve been looking for you for the last week.’
“Well, I met him; and he told me. It was the old story: a gal was at the bottom of it. He had broken into a small house at Hampstead. He was on the floor, packing up the silver, when the door opens, and he sees a gal standing there.