look of
unwonted earnestness on his face. "You must know, Phil, that a long
while ago--just about the time of the burglary at Miss Stivergill's
cottage--I made the amazin' discovery that little Tottie Bones is
Mariar--alias Merry,--the little baby-cousin I was nuss to in the
country long ago, whom I've often spoke to you about, and from whom I
was torn when she had reached the tender age of two or thereby. It
follows, of course, that Tottie's father--old Bones--is my uncle,
_alias_ Blackadder, _alias_ the Brute, of whom I have also made mention,
and who, it seems, came to London to try his fortune in knavery after
havin' failed in the country. I saw him once, I believe, at old Blurt's
bird-shop, but did not recognise 'im at the time, owin' to his hat bein'
pulled well over his eyes, though I rather think he must have recognised
me. The second time I saw him was when Tottie came to me for help and
set me on his tracks, when he was goin' to commit the burglary on
Rosebud Cottage. I've told you all about that, but did not tell you
that the burglar was Tottie's father, as Tottie had made me promise not
to mention it to any one. I knew the rascal at once on seeing him in
the railway carriage, and could hardly help explodin' in his face at the
fun of the affair. Of course he didn't know me on account of my bein'
as black in the face as the King of Dahomey.--Well," continued Pax,
warming with his subject, "it also follows, as a matter of course, that
Mrs Bones is my blessed old aunt Georgie--now changed into Molly, on
account, no doubt, of the Brute's desire to avoid the attentions of the
police. Now, as I've a great regard for aunt Georgie, and have lost a
good deal of my hatred of the Brute, and find myself fonder than ever of
Tottie--I beg her pardon, of Merry--I've been rather intimate--indeed, I
may say, pretty thick--with the Boneses ever since; and as I am no
longer a burden to the Brute--can even help 'im a little--he don't
abominate me as much as he used to. They're wery poor--awful poor--are
the Boneses. The Brute still keeps up a fiction of a market-garden and
a dairy--the latter bein' supplied by a cow and a pump--but it don't
pay, and the business in the city, whatever it may be, seems equally
unprofitable, for their town house is not a desirable residence."

"This is all very interesting and strange, Pax, but what has it to do
with George Aspel?" asked Phil. "You know I'm very anxious about him,
and ha