"The speret of that wery same young feller as you and I threw down the trap at the old house in Chick Lane four year and some months ago!" "Mightn't it have been a mistake, Dick?" demanded Bill. "Why, of course it was," exclaimed the woman. "No, it warn't," said Dick very seriously. "I never tell a lie to a pal,[29] Bill--and that you knows well enough. I seed that young man as plain as I can now see you, Bill--as plain as I see you, Polly Bolter. I thought I should have dropped: I fell right against a post in the footpath; but I took another good long look. There he was--the same face--the same hair--the same dress--everything the same! I couldn't be mistaken: I'd swear to it." "And would you tell this story to the parish-prig,[30] if so be as you was going to Tuck-up Fair[31] to-morrow morning?" demanded Bill. "I would, by G--d!" cried Dick solemnly, striking his hand upon the table at the same time. There was a long pause. Even the woman, who was perhaps more hardened in vice and more inaccessible to anything in the shape of sentiment than her male companions, seemed impressed by the positive manner in which the man told his story. "Well--come, this won't do!" ejaculated Dick, after the lapse of some minutes. "Ghost or no ghost, we can't afford to be honest." "No--we must be up to someot," returned Bill; "if we went and offered ourselves to the parish prig he wouldn't take us as his clerk and sexton; so if he won't give us a lift, who the devil will? But, about that Markham's place?" "The old fellow died a few months ago, I heard," said Dick; "the eldest son run away; and that brought about the father's death. As for the young 'un, he was grabbed this arternoon for smashing queer screens.[32]" "The devil he was! Well, there ain't no good to be done in that quarter, then? Do you know any other spekilation?" "Tom the Cracksman and me was going to do a pannie in a neat little crib up by Clapton, that time when he blowed his hand nearly off, larking with his ben-culls.[33] I don't see why it shouldn't be done now. Tom told me about it. A young swell, fond of horses and dogs--lives exceeding quiet--never no company scarcely--but plenty of tin." "Servants?" said Bill, interrogatively. "One man--an old groom; and two women--three in all," replied Dick. "That'll do," observed the woman, approvingly. "Must we speak to the Cracksman first?" demanded Bill. "Yes--fair play's a jewel. I don't believe the Resurrection Man would ever have chirped[34] if he had been treated properly. But if this thing is to be done, let it be done to-morrow night; and now let us go to the boozing-ken and speak to the Cracksman." "I'm your man," said Bill; and the two thieves left the room together. At the top of Union Court is Bleeding Hart Yard, leading to Kirby Street, at right angles to which is a narrow alley terminating on Great Saffron Hill. This was the road the burglars took.