The butcher and Pocock were discussing their supper, and Markham was just thinking of accosting the latter, when the door was suddenly opened with great violence, and two persons muffled up in pea-coats, carrying enormous sticks, and smoking cigars, precipitated themselves into the parlour of the _Dark House_. "D--n me, what a lark!" ejaculated one, flinging himself upon a seat, and laughing heartily: "but we're quite safe in here. I know this place; and the policeman lost sight of us, before we reached the door." "Upon my honour, I cannot say that I admire frolics of this kind," observed the other; "it is really ridiculous to break lamps up at this end of the town. But, my God! what a neighbourhood you have brought me into! I couldn't have suspected that there was such a district in London." "I told you that you would do good if you would come with me to my father," said the first speaker. "The old boy was quite delighted at the idea of a baronet condescending to sup with him; and you saw how he shelled out the blunt to me when he had imbibed his third glass of the punch." The latter portion of this conversation was uttered in whispers, and the two gentlemen again laughed heartily--doubtless because they had succeeded in the business which had that evening brought them to the eastern regions of London. In the midst of that second burst of hilarity, Mr. Pocock rose from his seat and advanced slowly towards the two new-comers. "Well, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "this is an honour which you do us poor folks in Spitalfields. Come--you needn't stare so confounded hard at me. How are you, Chichester? Been to see the old gentleman at the sign of the Lombardy Arms--three balls, eh? Two chances to one that the things put up the spout will never come down again, eh?" The butcher burst out into a roar of laughter, which was echoed by several other inmates of the room. "Who the devil are you?" demanded Chichester, recovering his presence of mind sooner than the baronet; for both were astounded at this unexpected and very embarrassing encounter. "Upon my honour, the man must be mistaken," murmured Sir Rupert Harborough. "So far from being mistaken," cried Pocock, "you were the very fellows I was talking about just now. Gentlemen," he added, turning towards the people seated at the various tables, "these are the two swells that led me into the scrape I told you about just now. And now they pretend not to know me!" "What does the fellow mean?" said Chichester, in an impudent tone: "do you know, Harborough?" "'Pon my honour, not I!" "Then I will tell you who I am," ejaculated the engraver. "I am the man who forged the plates from which the bank-notes were struck, that got poor Richard Markham condemned to two years' imprisonment in the Compter; and you know as well as possible that _he_ suffered for _our_ crime." Chichester and the baronet were stupefied by this sudden and unexpected exposure.