like pressure, such as would not brush the down off a butterfly's wing, but an honest hearty grasp, that comes straight from the heart.
"And now for Mr. Peters's story," said Gus, "while I brew a jugful of whisky-punch."
"You can follow his hands, Gus?" asks Richard.
"Every twist and turn of them. He and I had many a confab about you, old fellow, before we went out fishing," said Gus, looking up from the pleasing occupation of peeling a lemon.
"Now for it, then," said Richard; and Mr. Peters accordingly began.
Perhaps, considering his retiring from the Slopperton police force a great event, not to say a crisis, in his life, Mr. Peters had celebrated it by another event; and, taking the tide of his affairs at the flood, had availed himself of the water to wash his hands with. At any rate, the digital alphabet was a great deal cleaner than when, eight years ago, he spelt out the two words, "Not guilty," in the railway carriage.
There was something very strange to a looker-on in the little party, Gus, Richard, and Bell, all with earnest eyes fixed on the active fingers of the detective—the silence only broken by some exclamation at intervals from one of the three.
"When first I see this young gent," say the fingers, as Mr. Peters designates Richard with a jerk of his elbow, "I was a-standin' on the other side of the way, a-waitin' till my superior, Jinks, as was as much up to his business as a kitting,"—(Mr. Peters has rather what we may call a fancy style of orthography, and takes the final g off some words to clap it on to others, as his taste dictates)—"a-waitin,' I say, till Jinks should want my assistance. Well, gents all—beggin' the lady's parding, as sits up so manly, with none of yer faintin' nor 'steriky games, as I a'most forgot she was a lady—no sooner did I clap eyes upon Mr. Marwood here, a-smokin' his pipe, in Jinks's face, and a-answerin' him sharp, and a-behavin' what you may call altogether cocky, than I says to myself, 'They've got the wrong un.' My fust words and my last about this 'ere gent, was, 'They've got the wrong un.'"
Mr. Peters looked round at the attentive party with a glance of triumph, rubbed his hands by way of a full-stop, and went on with his manual recital.
"For why?" said the fingers, interrogatively, "for why did I think as this 'ere gent was no good for this 'ere murder; for why did I think them chaps at Slopperton had got on the wrong scent? Because he was cheeky? Lor' bless your precious eyes, miss" (by way of gallantry he addresses himself here to Isabel), "not a bit of it! When a cove goes and cuts another cove's
