dirty people. But far away the
ugliest and dirtiest blackguard I ever saw in my life was Mr. Alfred
Davager. He had greasy white hair and a mottled face. He was low in the
forehead, fat in the stomach, hoarse in the voice, and weak in the legs.
Both his eyes were bloodshot, and one was fixed in his head. He smelled
of spirits, and carried a toothpick in his mouth. "How are you? I've
just done dinner," says he; and he lights a cigar, sits down with his
legs crossed, and winks at me.

I tried at first to take the measure of him in a wheedling, confidential
way; but it was no good. I asked him, in a facetious, smiling manner,
how he had got hold of the letter. He only told me in answer that he had
been in the confidential employment of the writer of it, and that he had
always been famous since infancy for a sharp eye to his own interests.
I paid him some compliments; but he was not to be flattered. I tried to
make him lose his temper; but he kept it in spite of me. It ended in his
driving me to my last resource--I made an attempt to frighten him.

"Before we say a word about the money," I began, "let me put a case,
Mr. Davager. The pull you have on Mr. Francis Gatliffe is, that you can
hinder his marriage on Wednesday. Now, suppose I have got a magistrate's
warrant to apprehend you in my pocket? Suppose I have a constable to
execute it in the next room? Suppose I bring you up to-morrow--the day
before the marriage--charge you only generally with an attempt to extort
money, and apply for a day's remand to complete the case? Suppose, as a
suspicious stranger, you can't get bail in this town? Suppose--"

"Stop a bit," says Mr. Davager. "Suppose I should not be the greenest
fool that ever stood in shoes? Suppose I should not carry the letter
about me? Suppose I should have given a certain envelope to a certain
friend of mine in a certain place in this town? Suppose the letter
should be inside that envelope, directed to old Gatliffe, side by side
with a copy of the letter directed to the editor of the local paper?
Suppose my friend should be instructed to open the envelope, and take
the letters to their right address, if I don't appear to claim them
from him this evening? In short, my dear sir, suppose you were born
yesterday, and suppose I wasn't?" says Mr. Davager, and winks at me
again.

He didn't take me by surprise, for I never expected that he had the
letter about him. I made a pretense of being very much taken aback,