coaxing a tone as he could assume,
"You know a person called Masham, do you?"

"Yaas; I knows 'im."

"What sort of person is he?"

"What sort? Why, he are a beauty, so I tell you!"

"Yes; but I mean, what sort of looking man? Is he tall or short? Has
he dark hair or light? Would you know him if you saw him?"

"Know him? Oh no--no fear--I know the beauty!"

"Well, what sort of looking man is he?" asked Mr Barnacle.

"He's a ugly bloke with a mug like yourn, and a 'orseshoe pin in 'is
weskit."

"Yes? And what colour is his hair?"

"Carrots!"

That was quite enough. This unromantic portrait corresponded
sufficiently nearly with the description already given.

"Now," said Mr Barnacle, "will you tell us when you last blacked his
boots?"

"A Toosdy."

"Do you remember whether he was alone?"

"Ain't you arstin' me questions, though!" exclaimed Billy. "Of course
he 'ad a bloke along of him, and, says he, `That there parson's son,'
says he, `is a cuttin' it fat?' says he. `He do owe me a fifteen pun,'
says 'e, `and ef 'e don't hand it over sharp,' says he, `I'll wake 'im
up!' And then--"

"Yes," said Mr Barnacle; "that's enough, my man, thank you."

When Billy had gone, Mr Merrett turned to me and said, "Go to your
work, Batchelor, and tell Doubleday to send Hawkesbury here."

I obeyed, feeling that, after all, as far as I was concerned, the storm
had blown over.

Doubleday went to Hawkesbury's glass box and opened the door. "You're
wanted, Hawkes-- Hullo!"

This exclamation was caused by the discovery that Hawkesbury was not
there!

"Where's Hawkesbury?" he inquired of the office generally.

"He's not come back," said Crow.

"When did he go out?"

"Why, the usual time, to be sure."

Doubleday gave a low whistle, and exclaimed, "Bolted!" And so it was.
That afternoon Hawkesbury did not appear again at Hawk Street, or the
next day, or the next week, or the next month. And when inquiry was
made at the rectory, all that could be ascertained was that he had left
home, and that not even his father knew where he had gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

WHICH PARTS ME FROM THE READER, BUT NOT FROM MY FRIEND SMITH.

And now, reader, my story is all but done. One short scene more, and
then my friend Smith and I must retire out of sight.

It was on a Christmas day, three years after the event last narrated,
that a little party assembled in a tiny house in Hackney to spend a very
quiet eveni