“Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. "Now, Sir, I'll trouble you for your coat. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. Mr. “I hope you have not come for that.
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