that had to do with it. Never in a debtor’s prison?Come, once

again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three times. Not five

or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been

kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked

downstairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of the

staircase and fell downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that

occasion for cheating at dice? Something to that effect was said by

the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was not true.

Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by cheating at play?

Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever

borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not

this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced

upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw

the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the

lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.

Expect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular

government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to

do anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over and again. No motives

but motives of sheer patriotism? None whatever.

The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the

case at a great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in

good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the

prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow,

and the prisoner had engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner

to take the handy fellow as an act of charitynever thought of

such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to

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keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes,

while travelling, he had seen similar lists in the prisoner’s pockets,

over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of

the prisoner’s desk. He had not put them there first. He had seen

the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen at

Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and

Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn’t bear it, and had

given information. He had never been suspected of stealing a

silver teapot; he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but

it turned out to be only a plated one. He had known the last

witness seven or eight years; that was merely a coincidence. He

didn’t call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences

were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true

patriotism was his only motive too. He was a true Briton, and

hoped there were many like him.

The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called

Mr. Jarvis Lorry.

“Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson’s Bank?

“I am.”

“On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven

hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel

between London and Dover by the mail?”

“It did.”