III.
A PACK OF CARDS
PART I.
"YOU see these? They belong to Francis Farmer; Colonel Farmer he called himself; the Colonel he was known as among his pals. Did you ever hear of him?"
I could not say that I ever had.
"He was a card himself, the Colonel was. An American. He had had something to do with the army, once upon a time, I fancy; but he had had more to do with the police. He was one of the greatest swindlers of modern times—an artist the Colonel was."
"And these are some of the implements of his profession?"
I was paying a visit to the Rogues' Museum at Scotland Yard, that queer establishment in which they preserve mementoes of criminals who, at various periods, have, in some way or other, had dealings with the police. The constable who was acting as my cicerone was holding in his hand a pack of cards. I took them into mine. They were a pack of what are commonly called "squeezers." They
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