“There are thieves here! I have lost my snuff-box and my handkerchief!”
“Dear Mr. Highflyer!” said Julia, with a winning glance.
“Secure this fellow,” said the hateful scoundrel, for whose crimes I was penitently atoning, pointing to me. “He has a suspicious look. Bring him into the hall. Come, dearest Julia, I will attend you to the dressing-room, and will then return to examine this man.”
Instantly I was pounced upon by a police officer, assisted by a dozen servants, and in spite of my cries and protestations of innocence, was dragged into the hall. Mr. Highflyer was not long in making his appearance.
“Search him, officer,” said he, as he drew out his tooth-pick, and planted himself in a very Lara-like style, with his back to the banisters.
“You infernal, thieving, rope-cracking black-guard!” I roared, goaded to the very verge of insanity by these accumulated misadventures.
“Gag him,” said my tormentor. “Have you found any thing, officer?”
“All right, sir,” replied that functionary, “Is this here vipe yours?”
Shocking to relate, the missing articles were found upon me!
“That handkerchief is mine, as well as the snuff-box. I shall appear to prosecute. Off with him to Bow Street. A p-r-e-e-tt-y good-looking chap for a pickpocket,” continued he, as he turned his head with a supercilious smile, and examined me through his eye-glass. The smile gave way to a sneer of the most diabolical description as he ascended the staircase. I had never thought myself so confoundedly ugly as I did at that moment.