"'THERE Y'ARE!' HE EXCLAIMED, POUNCING ON A BRIGHT HALF-CROWN."
"What's your name?" asked the night-inspector, as he took the charge.
Pringle hesitated. He realised that appearances were hopelessly against him. Attired as he was, to give his real name and address would only serve to increase suspicion, while a domiciliary visit to Furnival's Inn on the part of the police was to be avoided at all costs; the fiction of his literary agency, as spurious as the coins which had landed him in his present plight, would be the very least discovery to reward them.
"Now, then, what is it?" demanded the inspector impatiently.
"Augustus Stammers," Pringle blurted, on the spur of the moment.
"Ah! I thought you were a stammerer," was the facetious remark of the publican.
The inspector frowned his disapproval.
"Address?" he queried. Pringle again hesitated. "No fixed?" the inspector suggested.
"No fixed," agreed Pringle; and having replied to subsequent inquiries that his age was forty and his occupation a carpenter, he was ordered to turn out his pockets. Obediently he emptied his belongings on the desk, and as his money was displayed the landlord uttered a triumphant shout.
"There y'are!" he exclaimed, pouncing on a bright half-crown. "That makes three of 'em!"
This incriminatory evidence, together with a knife, being appropriated, Pringle was led away down some steps, through a courtyard, and then into a long whitewashed passage flanked by doors on either side. Pushing one open, "In you go," said his conductor;
