The Amateur Gentleman

"Yes,--well?"

"Beverley!" repeated Mr. Shrig.

"Yes."

"But your name's--Barty!"

"True, but in London I'm known as Beverley, Mr. Shrig."

"Not--not--the Beverley? Not the bang up Corinthian? Not the

Beverley as is to ride in the steeplechase?"

"Yes," said Barnabas, "the very same,--why?"

"Now--dang me for a ass!" exclaimed Mr. Shrig, and, snatching off

the fur cap, he dashed it to the ground, stooped, picked it up, and

crammed it back upon his head,--all in a moment.

"Why--what's the matter?"

"Matter!" said Mr. Shrig, "matter, sir? Veil, vot vith your qviet,

innocent looks and vays, and vot vith me a-adding two and two

together and werry carefully making 'em--three, my case is

spiled--won't come off,--can't come off,--mustn't come off!"

"What in the world do you mean?"

"Mean, sir? I mean as, if Number Vun is the murderer, and Number Two

is the accessory afore the fact,--then Number Three--the unfort'nate

wictim is--vait a bit!" Here, pausing in a quiet corner of Fleet

Market, Mr. Shrig dived into his breast and fetched up his little

book. "Sir," said he, turning over its pages with a questing finger,

"v'en I borreyed that theer letter out o' young B.'s pocket, I made

so free as to take a copy of it into my little reader,--'ere it is,

--jest take a peep at it."

Then, looking where he pointed, Barnabas read these words, very

neatly set down: MY DEAR BARRYMAINE,--I rather suspect Beverley will not ride in the

race on the Fifteenth. Just now he is at Hawkhurst visiting Cleone!

He is with--your sister! If you are still in the same mind about a

certain project, no place were better suited. If you are still set

on trying for him, and I know how determined you are where your honor,

or Cleone's, is concerned, the country is the place for it, and I

will go with you, though I am convinced he is no fighter, and will

refuse to meet you, on one pretext or another. However, you may as

well bring your pistols,--mine are at the gun-smith's.--Yours always, WILFRED CHICHESTER "So you see, sir," sighed Mr. Shrig, as he put away the little book,

"my case is spiled,--can't come off,--mustn't come off! For if young

B. is Number Vun, the murderer, and C. is Number Two, the accessory

afore the fact, v'y then Number Three, the unfort'nate wictim is--you,

sir,--you! And you--" said Mr. Shrig, sighing deeper than ever,

"you 'appen to be my pal!"