his own bragging showed a fine sense of the marketable.
"What's the man's name? Where can he be found?" said Mr Hawley.
"As to where he is to be found, I left him to it at the Saracen's Head; but his name is Raffles."
"Raffles!" exclaimed Mr Hopkins. "I furnished his funeral yesterday. He was buried at Lowick. Mr Bulstrode followed him. A very decent funeral."
There was a strong sensation among the listeners. Mr Bambridge gave an ejaculation in which "brimstone" was the mildest word, and Mr Hawley, knitting his brows and bending his head forward, exclaimed, "What?—where did the man die?"
"At Stone Court," said the draper. "The housekeeper said he was a relation of the master's. He came there ill on Friday."
"Why, it was on Wednesday I took a glass with him," interposed Bambridge.
"Did any doctor attend him?" said Mr Hawley
"Yes. Mr Lydgate. Mr Bulstrode sat up with him one night. He died the third morning."
"Go on, Bambridge," said Mr Hawley, in-
