for that's where the shoe pinches, a pressman!"
"Ah!" I exclaimed, seeing light at last. "I see! You want to make what they call a story of it?"
"What else?" he answered, with a knowing wink. "What d'ye suppose I'm here for? I don't believe Mr. Parslewe—I've heard of him, many a time—stole that blessed box—not I! But there's romance, and mystery, and what not about the whole thing, and I want to work it up and make a live column, or a couple of 'em, out of it, and so I came to the fountainhead, and Mr. Parslewe's away, worse luck. Now, can you tell me anything?"
We got rid of Mr. Weech by promising him faithfully that on Mr. Parslewe's return we would tell him all that had transpired, and would entreat him to favour our visitor with his exclusive confidence, and after another whisky-and-soda, during his consumption of which he told us confidentially that he meant to Ride High, he went away, leaving us more mystified than ever.
And we were still more mystified when, during the course of that afternoon, a tele-
