"As the Clerkenwell magistrate said t'other day, the law's a great network, and spreads wide. You're new in the net o' the law, young fellow, and you can't get out. Just look here, we knows a deal in the law and police, and I can find out in two twos whether you are telling me the truth or doing the artful." "Please, sir--" "Hold your tongue, sir! You can make your defence when your time comes; and mind this, it's my dooty to tell you that what you says now may be used in evidence again you." Thus silenced, I stood gazing up in his big-whiskered face, that seemed to loom over me, in the gaslight, and wondered why there should be so much form and ceremony over taking my word. "Now look here," he said pulling out a notebook and pencil, like the auctioneer's, only smaller, and seeming as if he were going to take an inventory of my small person. "Now, look here," he repeated, moistening the point of his pencil, "you told Joe Smith you knowed me, and I never set eyes on you afore." "Please, sir," I said hastily, "I told him I know Mr Revitts, who's in the police." "Yes, and you said you had run away from Rowford and a Mr Blake-- Blake--What's his name?" "Blakeford, sir," I said despondently, for it seemed that this was not my Mr Revitts. "Blakeford. That's right; and he ill-used you?" "Yes, sir." "He's a little fair man, ain't he, with blue eyes?" And he rustled the leaves of his notebook as if about to take down my answer. "No, sir," I cried eagerly; "he's tall and dark, and has short hair, and very white teeth." "Ho! Tall, is he?" said the constable, making believe to write, and then holding out his pencil at me. "He's a nice, kind, amiable man, ain't he, as wouldn't say an unkind word to a dorg?" "Oh no, sir," I said, shuddering; "that's not my Mr Blakeford." "Ho! Now, then, once more. There's a servant lives there at that house, and her name's Jane--ain't it?" "No, sir, Mary." "And she's got red hair and freckles, and she--she's very little and--" "No, no," I cried excitedly, for after my heart had seemed to sink terribly low, it now leaped at his words. "That isn't Mary, and you are saying all this to try me, sir. You--you are Mr William Revitts, I know you are;" and I caught him eagerly by the arm. "Which I don't deny it, boy," he said, still looking at me suspiciously, and removing my hand. "Revitts is my name. P.C. Revitts, VV 240; and I ain't ashamed of it. But only to think of it. How did you know of me, though?" "I wrote Mary's letters for her, sir." "Whew! That's how it was she had so improved in her writing. And so you've been living in the same house along a her?" "Yes, sir," I said, "and she was so good and kind." "When she wasn't in a tantrum, eh?" "Yes, sir, when she wasn't in a--"