gether doubtless of some value to their employers. They are not of the old race of clerks, who worked very hard, and took snuff, and wore dress-coats, and passed the greater part of their lives on the tops of very high stools. They are born probably of the modern system of commerce—shifting responsibility—public companies,—limited liability, &c. I don't desire to be caustic in reference to these compatriots of mine. As Folly occasionally flies my way, I may try to have a flick at her with a light whip, without strong feeling or a very muscular arm. I disclaim the task of those determined satirists who are ever going out with pickled rods, and like the old woman in the shoe story, whipping all their subjects soundly and sending them to bed. Still I desiderate improvement in the taste, and amelioration in the morale, of the small swell. Perhaps, too, he does go a little too often half-price to the pit of the T. R., Long Acre.
Two demi-semi swells discuss the merits of Mademoiselle Boisfleury.
"Hullo, Charley—seen the new woman at Long Acre?"
"Rather. I should think so. Saw her the first night."
"Good?"
"Well, she ain't bad."
"Pretty?"
"Yes, she's Pretty; but she ain't young." (This, I find, is a very ordinary observation to make in reference to women. It's very easy, and it looks like information. A man has often got a reputation for knowingness by no more difficult means. Disparagement indeed, as a rule, is not difficult. Of course the person disparaging mounts at once to a platform very superior to that enjoyed by the person disparaged. What could Charley know about the age of Mademoiselle Boisfleury? He sat at the back of the pit, without an opera glass; and the Long Acre pit is not a small one, as everybody knows.)
"The bally good? What does she do?"
"Stunning. Swings in the air, with the electric light on her. Screaming effect."
"What is an Aërolite? Sort of thunderbolt, ain't it?"
"Something of that sort, I believe."
"It's worth going to see, then?"
"Oh certainly. She's an out and out dancer—comes right away down from the back of the stage to the footlights on the points of her toes—first-rate."
"Good scenery by Blister?"
"Tol-lol. Part of what they had in the pantomime last year—only one new scene."
"Come and have some beer," &c., &c. (Demi-semi swells enter public house.)
The town was certainly well billed. In all directions the eye met placards setting forth in colossal capitals (scarlet on a saffron ground,) the talent of Mademoiselle Stephanie Boisfleury.
A well-dressed man, wearing gold spectacles, was reading one of these bills very attentively. He did not perceive that he had thus become in his turn an object of attention. A stout man, buttoned up to the throat in a long brown overcoat, was watching the reader smilingly.
"Hullo, Mossoo," cried the stout man at last.
The reader started back, looking round him eagerly. The reader was Monsieur Chose.
"Thinking of going to the play?" the stout man continued. "Why, who'd have thought of seeing you here, Mossoo—"
"Hush, don't mention names, my friend, it is better not. Ah! cher Inspector, it is long since we have met."
"I was with you in the case of that banker, you know. He came over here to take ship from Liverpool."
"Yes, I remember! What a fool he was. But the criminal is always fool—is he not, cher Inspector? He goes on rob, rob, for years and years, and yet never arranges a plan for his safety and escape. How that is imprudent! How different we should manage! Yes, I remember. We caught the little runaway banker, thanks to you. It was well done. I did not know this country1 so well then as now I know it. We were! much obliged to you."
The Inspector, as Monsieur Chose called him, was a very broad-shouldered, good-tempered looking Englishman, with bright hazel eyes and a very massive jaw. He was dose shaven, with the exception of a little triangular tuft of hair, red-brown in hue, left standing on the summit of either cheek probably as a sort of sample of the whiskers he was capable of producing, if they were required of him; just as a tailor shows a scrap of cloth, a specimen of the much larger piece he can exhibit when called upon. He had a hearty, pleasant manner with him, and a fragrance as of a combination of beer and snuff hung about him.
"Here on business?" asked the Inspector, in an off-hand way.
"No, not precisely," replied Monsieur Chose. "I may say that I came on a little private matter; but as I am here, I keep my eye on one or two people, just to amuse myself. You have many of our suspects here, I notice."
The Inspector glanced for a moment curiously at his companion, as though he did not deem the remark wholly satisfactory. Then, after filling his blunt nose with as much snuff as it could possibly contain, even with the most adroit packing, he remarked:
"If I can help you in any way, I shall be very happy, I'm sure."
"Mon ami, you are most kind; I thank you."
And Monsieur Chose removed his hat and bowed with singular grace and fervour to the Inspector, but did not seem disposed to be any further communicative.
"I've been down at Liverpool," said the Inspector, perhaps by way of setting an example of confidence, " busy with a very nice little matter. But we can't make much of it at present. You see the conduct of the thing rests with a board of directors, and when that's the case, there's sure to be a mess. They can never make up their minds what they'll do: whether they'll hush it up or expose it all, and take the chance of being damaged by it. Of course they lose all the best time. Then they go in suddenly, and when it's almost too late. They'll make an example, they declare; they'll pay anything rather than the cove should escape justice—offer-