dead several years. I attended him in his last illness. He was

buried in London, at the church of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields.

His unpopularity with the blackguard multitude at the moment

prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his

coffin.”

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most

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remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he

discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and

stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher’s head.

“Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair. To

show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded

assumption yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of Cly’s

burial, which I happen to have carried in my pocket-book,” with a

hurried hand he produced and opened it, “ever since. There it is.

Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your hand; it’s no

forgery.”

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate,

and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not

have been more violently on end, if it had been that moment

dressed by the Cow with the crumpled horn in the house that Jack

built.

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched

him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.

“That there Roger