"And 'ow's the poor young gentleman, sir," she said, "after 'is day at the inkwich? I've been readin' about it in the papers, but wot I say is, if it wos the last word I spoke, it ain't no more like 'im than chalk is to cheese." "What is not like him?" inquired Dick. "''Is pictcher, sir, and yours, too, sir,' I ses to Mrs. Porter, the 'am and beef shop across the road, 'It's a shame,' I ses, 'that sech things is allowed. If a portrait it is, a portrait it ought to be. Actions 'ave been brought for less.' 'Wot you say, Mrs. Weevil, I say,' ses Mrs. Porter, 'but we're obliged to put up with it. Them newspaper men don't mind wot liberties they take.'" Dick listened with patience to this and to much more to the same effect, and then approached the object of his visit. "I've come to ask you," he said, "whether you recollect what occurred last Friday night week." "Ah," she said, abstractedly, running her eye along the hem of her apron, "there's them as 'as cause to remember; there's them as won't forget to their last hour." "Meaning?" he asked. "Mr. Abel Death, sir, and Mr. Samuel Boyd." "His last hour has gone by; he's past remembering." "A truer word you never spoke, sir, and it's wot we must all come to. But Mr. Abel Death ain't past remembering, and wot 'e's got on 'is conscience I shouldn't like to 'ave on mine." "That is one of the things that has yet to be settled," said Dick, ambiguously. "And settled I 'ope it will be, sir, and better sooner than later, for Mr. Reginald's sake. You see, sir, I speak of 'im as Mr. Reginald because that's the name he went by when he first come to me. 'A reference, is usual, sir,' I ses to 'im, 'if so be as you'll egscuse me for mentionin' of it.' 'Mrs. Weevil,' he ses, 'I can't give you a reference, but I can give you a month in advance.' Wot gentleman could say more? A month in advance 'e paid, from first to last, and never a word between us when I give 'im the book on Monday mornin'--puncchual, because 'e said 'e liked to be. When I 'eard 'e wos Mr. Samuel Boyd's son you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather. I ses to Mrs. Porter, while she wos spreadin' mustard on a sangwitch for a gent as eats six every afternoon of 'is life as the clock strikes three, 'Well,' I ses to 'er, 'of all the strange things!' 'That's _my_ opinion, Mrs. Weevil,' she ses." "Last Friday week," said Dick, taking up the threads of the subject. "I wish you to tell me at what hour of the night Mr. Reginald came home."