"Wattle you 'ave, Willum?" "Make it porter," says Willum, in a voice of extreme melancholy. "Wattle you 'ave, Mr. Johnson?" says Mr. Jeremy, addressing the host, a reel-faced worthy of simple ways, who seemed pleased with himself and all the world. "Make it porter, Mr. Jeremy, as you're so haffable," says he; "and what might be your own?" "If you 'ave any of that there sloe-gin, mine's sloe-gin," says Mr. Jeremy. These preliminaries being arranged to the satisfaction of all concerned, and the host having retired to fetch the refreshment, Mr. Jeremy remarked to his companion with a wonderful air of reflection: "Honest, unassooming feller." "Very," says the other, more gloomily than ever. Mr. Jeremy then observed us for the first time. We returned his gaze with one of the most simple unconcern. "Nice day," says he. "Very," says I heartily. Here the host returned with the refreshment, and having pledged each other, they drank solemnly and copiously. "Well, Mr. Jeremy," says the host, "what are you after this time? It's a murder, I know, for you to be taking it on. You never do nothing under a murder, you don't, as I've heard you say." "You don't mean to say as you 'aven't 'eard?" says Mr. Jeremy. "The whole case was printed in this morning's _Gazette_. It's no small thing, this isn't, I can tell you. The quality's in it, to start with." "Ha!" says the landlord, with breathless interest. "Is it a hanging matter?" "Of course," says Mr. Jeremy. "And a hearl, and a thorough bad lot too. A thorough wicked feller with a record as black as your hat. I always say when one of that sort goes wrong he's much worse than ord'nary." "If it's you that says it, Mr. Jeremy, there can be no manner of doubt about it," says the landlord. He appeared to hang on every word that the man from Bow Street uttered. That worthy gentleman who was by no means unaware of the impression he created, was at pains in a dozen little ways to heighten it. Now and then he would halt in a mysterious manner, wink and nod, and then continue in a truly oracular way. It was plain that he felt himself to be a man of a great reputation, and it would certainly be no fault of his if he failed to sustain it. Nor was he content to work on the mind of the landlord, but continually looked across at us to see what effect he was having on our susceptibilities. Observing this, I began at once to betray an interest in all he thought fit to say and do; an interest more exaggerated than the landlord's even, and certainly less sincere. "Are you the great Mr. John Jeremy from Bow Street, sir?" says I at the first opportunity. I asked it in a voice of as much timidity as I could summon, as one astonished at his boldness. Instead of replying, the gentleman from Bow Street closed his eyes in exquisite self-satisfaction, threw his head back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest.