carriage, bidding the servant to wait, and walk into the town, directing their steps towards Evans, tailor. Evans, tailor, coatless, as is his wont, and with his thumbs stuck in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, is standing at his door, and greets Mr. Carruthers with as much bow as is possible to his stout figure. Could they speak to him for a moment? by all manner of means; will Mr. Carruthers walk into the back shop? where Miss Evans, a buxom girl with many shaking curls, is discovered working a pair of Berlin-wool slippers, at a glance too small for her father, and is put to flight with much blushing and giggling. The two gentlemen seat themselves in the old-fashioned black-horsehair chairs, and Mr. Evans, a little excited, stands by them with his thumbs in his arm-holes, and flaps his hands occasionally, as though they were fins. "This gentleman, Mr. Evans," says Mr. Carruthers, giving this happy specimen of his acumen and discretion in a loud and pompous tone--"has come from Lord Wolstenholme, the Secretary of State for the Home Department." Mr. Evans gives a fin-flap, indicative of profound respect. "He has been sent here to--" "Will you permit me in the very mildest manner to interrupt you, my dear sir?" says Mr. Dalrymple, in dulcet accents. "You put the matter admirably from the magisterial point of view--but perhaps if I were just to-- You have no objection? Thank you! You've lived a long time in Amherst, Mr. Evans?" "I've been a master tailor here, sir, forty-three years last Michaelmas." "Forty-three years! Long time, indeed! And you're the tailor of the neighbourhood, eh?" "Well, sir, I think I may say we make for all the gentry round--Mr. Carruthers of Poynings, sir, and Sir Thomas Boldero, and--" "Of course--of course! You've a gold-printed label, I think, which you generally sew on to all goods made by you?" "We have, sir--that same. With my name upon it." "With your name upon it. Just so! Now, I suppose that label is never sewed on to anything which has not been either made or sold by you?" "Which has not been made, sir! We don't sell anything except our own make--Evans of Amherst don't." "Exactly; and very proper too." To Mr. Carruthers: "Settles one point, my dear sir--must have been made here! Now, Mr. Evans, you make all sorts of coats, of course, blue Witney overcoats among the number?" Mr. Evans, after a hesitating fin-flap, says: "A blue Witney overcoat, sir, is an article seldom if ever called for in these parts. I shouldn't say we'd made one within the last two years--leastways, more than one." "But you think you did make one?" "There were one, sir, made to order from a party that was staying at the Lion." "Staying at the Lion? The inn, of course, where I slept last night. How long ago was that?" "That were two years ago, sir." "That won't do!" cries Mr. Dalrymple, in disappointed tone. "Two years ago that it were made and that the party was at the Lion. The coat was sold less than three months ago."