"It's very useful to me," said the stranger, "at least, it used to be, when I was a warder at Portland—you remember me, I dare say: my name is Pratt. I was assistant-warder in your time. God-forsaken hole, Portland, and mighty glad I was when they used to send me up to town on reckernizing duty. Holloway was the house of detention then, you remember; that was before they moved to Brixton."
Pratt paused in his reminiscences, and Pembury, pale and gasping with astonishment, pulled himself together.
"I think," said he, "you must be mistaking me for someone else."
"I don't," replied Pratt. "You're Francis Dobbs, that's who you are. Slipped away from Portland one evening about twelve years ago. Clothes washed up on the Bill next day. No trace of fugitive. As neat a mizzle as ever I heard of. But there are a couple of photographs and a set of fingerprints at the Habitual Criminals Register. P'r'aps you'd like to come and see 'em?"
"Why should I go to the Habitual Criminals Register?" Pembury demanded faintly.
"Ah! Exactly. Why should you? When you are a man of means, and a little judiciously invested capital would render it unnecessary?"
Pembury looked out of the window, and for a
