It was a strangely quaint and ungrammatical letter this, penned by Thomas Dibble. It set forth, in big straggling letters, that the writer was the proprietor of an exhibition of considerable fame in the provinces; that he was anxious to add thereto additional attractions, and make it a permanent thing for the winter at the important city of Severntown, where it had recently attained to a pitch of great celebrity. The writer required a loan of one hundred pounds for six months, re-payable by instalments, and he was prepared to give his bond for the amount, together with security upon his properties. “Indeed,” said Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs, who was just preparing to remove his quarters from the street off the Strand. “Indeed! Thomas Dibble, by all that is wonderful! I never forget handwriting, and I shall never forget Master Dibble’s above everybody else’s. Surely he has not turned showman? No; he is the exhibitor’s fag, his man-of-all-work, and he has written this letter from dictation. I will reply by-and-by. Meanwhile, I must see what there is to be made out of this with Mrs. Dibble. I fancy the old girl would give something to know where her faithless Tommy is.” Thus soliloquised Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs, whilst he packed up sundry letters and papers, and prepared to change his residence. Some of his correspondents were beginning to be tiresome; they had commenced to require explanations of the continued delay; and the women who had written to the Coffee House in the City, were appealing in heart-breaking terms for the promised materials, or the return of their money. “It is getting hot,” the ex-swell went on. “I can’t stand these pathetic epistles; they hurt my feelings. Poor creatures! They would surely be satisfied if they knew that they were contributing to maintain the faded splendours--ah! of a buck out of luck. That’s rhyme--’gad, bless my soul! who would have thought that I should burst out into rhyme? I am very sorry, ladies, that I cannot afford to forward the materials in question, nor the trifling sums which you have--haw--entrusted to my care. And, _messieurs, les pauvres gentilhommes_, and you, ye wretched traders, who get into debt beyond your means of payment, I will make further inquiries into your cases. Meanwhile I am much obliged to you for the fees which you have forwarded so promptly.” The next day a detective officer inquired at No. 3, Great Charlton Street, Strand, for James Marfleeting, Esq.; but that gentleman had left the house without giving the landlady warning, or paying for the last week’s rent. Shortly afterwards, in the garb of a “Mossoo” of the Leech cut, and with a heavy black moustache, Mr. Gibbs called at Mrs. Dibble’s. He found that lady in a very melancholy state of mind, and considerably thinner than when we last saw her. With a strong French accent he asked Mrs. Dibble if her husband had run away, and if his name was Thomas.