Lord, I'm a vatchin' over 'em like a
feyther an' mother rolled into vun, an' v'en they do commit the deed,
I shall appre'end 'em red-'anded an' up they'll go."
"Your methods are highly original, Mr. Shrig," said I, "but do they
always work correctly?"
"Ever an' always, sir--barrin' accidents. O' course, there's many a
promisin' murderer died afore 'e could do the deed, death 'as no more
respect for vould-be murderers than for their wictims. But whenever I
sees a cove or covess with the true murderer's face, down goes that
cove or covess' name in my little reader, an' I vatches an' vaits for
'em to bring it off, werry patient."
"Have you written down the name of Haredale in your little book?" I
enquired.
"Haredale, Mr. Werricker, sir? V'y no, I ain't. V'y should I, sir? Vot
ha' you to tell me about any party, name o' Haredale?"
"Only that you will find such a name on the piece of paper you are
after."
Mr. Shrig's roving eye fixed me for a moment.
"Haredale?" he muttered, shaking his head, "Haredale?"
At this juncture, with a soft knock on the door, Clegg presented
himself, bearing the following letter from my uncle.
MY DEAR PEREGRINE:
I am grateful for your forethought, but you may suffer the man to
visit me, for the law is the law--besides, the man Shrig is an old
acquaintance. Moreover I have learned all I desired from the scrap of
paper and it is therefore entirely at Mr. Shrig's service.
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