It is just when the ladies are retiring that Mortimer receives a note from the butler.

“This really arrives in an extraordinarily opportune manner,” says Mortimer, after reading the paper presented to him.  “This is the conclusion of the story of the identical man.  Man’s drowned!”

The dinner being over, Mortimer Lightwood and his friend Eugene Wrayburn interviewed the boy who had brought the note, and then set out in a cab to the riverside quarter of Wapping.

The cab dismissed, a little winding through some muddy alleys brings then to the bright lamp of a police-station, where they find the night-inspector.  He takes a bull’s-eye, and Mortimer and Eugene follow him to a cool grot at the end of the yard.  They quickly come out again.

“No clue, gentlemen,” says the inspector, “as to how the body came into river.  Very often no clue.  Steward of ship, in which gentleman came home passenger, had been round to view, and could swear to identity.  Likewise could swear to clothes.  Inquest to-morrow, and no doubt open verdict.”

A stranger who had entered the station with Lightwood and Wrayburn attracts Mr. Inspector’s attention.

“Turned you faint, sir?  You expected to identify?”

“It’s a horrible sight,” says the stranger.  “No, I can’t identify.”

“You missed a friend, you know; or you missed a foe, or you wouldn’t have come here, you know.  Well, then, ain’t it reasonable to ask, who was it?” Thus Mr. Inspector.  “At least, you won’t object to write down your name and address?”

The stranger took the pen and wrote down, “Mr. Julius Handford,
Exchequer Coffee House, Palace Yard, Westminster.”

At the coroner’s inquest next day, Mr. Mortimer Lightwood watched the proceedings on behalf of the representatives of the deceased; and Mr. Julius Handford having given his right address, had no summons to appear.

Upon the evidence before them, the jury found that Mr. John Harmon had come by his death under suspicious circumstances, though by whose act there was no evidence to show.  Within eight-and-forty hours a reward of one hundred pounds was proclaimed by the Home Office, and for a time public interest in the Harmon Murder, as it came to be called, ran high.

II.—­The Golden Dustman

Mr. Boffin, a broad, round-shouldered, one-sided old fellow in mourning, dressed in a pea overcoat, and wearing thick leather gaiters, and gloves like a hedger’s, came ambling towards the street corner where Silas Wegg sat at his stall.  A few small lots of fruits and sweets, and a choice collection of halfpenny ballads, comprised Mr. Wegg’s stock, and assuredly it was the hardest little stall of all the sterile little stalls in London.

“Morning, morning!” said the old fellow.

“Good-morning to you, sir!” said Mr. Wegg.

The old fellow paused, and then startled Mr. Wegg with the question, “How did you get your wooden leg?”