Shrig, the Bow Street officer.
"Mr. Werricker, sir," said he, touching his low-crowned, wide-brimmed
hat with a thick forefinger, "it ain't no manner o' use you a-ringin'
o' that theer bell, because there ain't nobody to answer same, your
young man Clegg 'aving took a little 'oliday, d'ye see, sir."
"A holiday, Mr. Shrig! Pray how do you know?"
"By obserwation, sir. I've a powerful gift that way, sir--from a
infant."
"This is very extraordinary behaviour in Clegg!"
"But then, sir, your young man is a rayther extraordinary young man.
'Owsoever he's gone, sir, and I appre'end as he ain't a-comin'
back--judgin' by vat 'e says in 'is letter."
"What letter?"
"The letter as 'e's left for you a-layin' on your desk this werry
minute along o' my stick as I 'appened to forget--but you'll be
vantin' to gain hadmittance, I expect, sir."
"I do."
"Vy then, 't is rayther fortunate as I did forget my stick or I
shouldn't ha' come back for it in time to be o' service to you, Mr.
Werricker. By your leave, sir." Saying which, Mr. Shrig took a small,
neat implement from one of his many capacious pockets, inserted it
into the keyhole, gave it a twist, and the door swung open.
"Ah--a skeleton key, Mr. Shrig?"
"That werry i-dentical, sir."
"Is this how you gained admittance to my chambers?"
"Ex-actly, sir."
"And, being there, read my private letters?"
"Only the vun, sir--dooty is dooty--only the vun.
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