“Had he done anything very bad?” I asked.

“Not he, Mr. Dodsley!” cried the lady—­it was so she had conceived my name.  “He never did anythink to all really wrong in his poor life.  The ’ole affair was a disgrace.  It was all rank favouritising.”

“Mrs.  ’Iggs!  Mrs.  ’Iggs!” cried the butler warningly.

“Well, what do I care?” retorted the lady, shaking her ringlets.  “You know it was yourself, Mr.  ’Iggs, and so did every member of the staff.”

While I was getting these facts and opinions, I by no means neglected the child.  She was not attractive; but fortunately she had reached the corrupt age of seven, when half a crown appears about as large as a saucer and is fully as rare as the dodo.  For a shilling down, sixpence in her money-box, and an American gold dollar which I happened to find in my pocket, I bought the creature soul and body.  She declared her intention to accompany me to the ends of the earth; and had to be chidden by her sire for drawing comparisons between myself and her uncle William, highly damaging to the latter.

Dinner was scarce done, the cloth was not yet removed, when Miss Agnes must needs climb into my lap with her stamp album, a relic of the generosity of Uncle William.  There are few things I despise more than old stamps, unless perhaps it be crests; for cattle (from the Carthew Chillinghams down to the old gate-keeper’s milk-cow in the lane) contempt is far from being my first sentiment.  But it seemed I was doomed to pass that day in viewing curiosities, and smothering a yawn, I devoted myself once more to tread the well-known round.  I fancy Uncle William must have begun the collection himself and tired of it, for the book (to my surprise) was quite respectably filled.  There were the varying shades of the English penny, Russians with the coloured heart, old undecipherable Thurn-und-Taxis, obsolete triangular Cape of Good Hopes, Swan Rivers with the Swan, and Guianas with the sailing ship.  Upon all these I looked with the eyes of a fish and the spirit of a sheep; I think indeed I was at times asleep; and it was probably in one of these moments that I capsized the album, and there fell from the end of it, upon the floor, a considerable number of what I believe to be called “exchanges.”

Here, against all probability, my chance had come to me; for as I gallantly picked them up, I was struck with the disproportionate amount of five-sous French stamps.  Some one, I reasoned, must write very regularly from France to the neighbourhood of Stallbridge-le-Carthew.  Could it be Norris?  On one stamp I made out an initial C; upon a second I got as far as CH; beyond which point, the postmark used was in every instance undecipherable.  CH, when you consider that about a quarter of the towns in France begin with “chateau,” was an insufficient clue; and I promptly annexed the plainest of the collection in order to consult the post-office.

The wretched infant took me in the fact.  “Naughty man, to ’teal my ’tamp!” she cried; and when I would have brazened it off with a denial, recovered and displayed the stolen article.