he himself perched at an adjacent desk and prepared to listen.
"All to ourselves here," he observed, with emphasized re-assurance. "And beyond me, nothing'll go! So—what's it about?"
"This Handel Street affair!" replied the youth, promptly. "Seen all about it in the papers, you understand. Inquest, and all that. And Mr. Thomas Wraypoole's evidence. That's what I've come about—his evidence. And—him!"
"Yes?" responded Wedgwood, encouragingly. "What about his evidence and him?"
"My name's Stainsby," replied the visitor. "George. I'm apprenticed to Mr. Thomas Wraypoole. Oil and colour business, you know—Wandsworth Road."
"Oh!" exclaimed Wedgwood, waking up to the knowledge that here was something of a distinctly promising nature. "To be sure! Apprentice to him, eh? Ah!—then you'll know him pretty well?"
"Sh'd think I did!" agreed the apprentice. "Been with him five years—two to go, yet. Which, of course, is why I don't want anything to get out. Wouldn't do for him to know I'd been to you. Still—there's such a thing as justice, ain't there?"
