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You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. Arrived at the extremity of the building, he found that it overlooked the flat-roof of a house which, as far as he could judge in the darkness, lay at a depth of about twenty feet below. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded.
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