Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a

taciturn and iron-bound visage. “So you put him in his coffin?”

“I did.”

“Who took him out of it?”

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered. “What do you

mean?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, “that he warn’t never in it. No!

Not he! I’ll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”

The spy looked around at the two gentlemen; they both looked

in unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.

“I tell you,” said Jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and

earth in that there coffin. Don’t go and tell me that you buried Cly.

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It was a take-in. Me and two more knows it.”

“How do you know it?”

“What’s that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, “it’s you I

have got an old grudge agin, is it, with your shameful impositions

upon tradesmen! I’d catch hold of your throat and choke you for

half a guinea.”

Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in

amazement at this turn of the business, here requested Mr.

Cruncher to moderate and explain himself.

“At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time

is ill-conwenient for explainin’. What I stand to, is that he knows

well wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say

he was, in so much as a word of one syllable, and I’ll either catch