“Yes, but tell me exactly all he did.”

“‘Misther Hollams, sor?’ sez I.  ‘Who are ye?’ sez he.  ‘Mick Leamy, sor,’ sez I, ‘from Misther W. wid the sparks.’  ‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘thin come in.’  I wint in.  ‘They’re in here, are they?’ sez he, takin’ the bag.  ’They are, sor,’ sez I, ‘an’ Misther W. sez I’m to have me reg’lars.’  ‘You shall,’ sez he.  ‘What shall we say, now—­afinnip?’ ‘Fwhat’s that, sor?’ sez I.  ‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘I s’pose ye’re a new hand; five quid—­ondershtand that?’”

“Begob, I did ondershtand it, an’ moighty plazed I was to have come to a place where they pay five-pun’ notes for carryin’ bags.  So whin he asked me was I new to London an’ shud I kape in the same line av business, I towld him I shud for certin, or any thin’ else payin’ like it.  ‘Right,’ sez he; ‘let me know whin ye’ve got any thin’—­ye’ll find me all right.’  An’ he winked frindly.  ‘Faith, that I know I shall, sor,’ sez I, wid the money safe in me pockut; an’ I winked him back, conjanial.  ’I’ve a smart family about me,’ sez he, ‘an’ I treat ’em all fair an’ liberal.’  An’, saints, I thought it likely his family ‘ud have all they wanted, seein’ he was so free-handed wid a stranger.  Thin he asked me where I was a livin’ in London, and, when I towld him nowhere, he towld me av a room in Musson Street, here by Drury Lane, that was to let, in a house his fam’ly knew very well, an’ I wint straight there an’ tuk ut, an’ there I do be stayin’ still, sor.”

I hadn’t understood at first why Hewitt took so much interest in the Irishman’s narrative, but the latter part of it opened my eyes a little.  It seemed likely that Leamy had, in his innocence, been made a conveyer of stolen property.  I knew enough of thieves’ slang to know that “sparks” meant diamonds or other jewels; that “regulars” was the term used for a payment made to a brother thief who gave assistance in some small way, such as carrying the booty; and that the “family” was the time-honored expression for a gang of thieves.

“This was all on Wednesday, I understand,” said Hewitt.  “Now tell me what happened on Thursday—­the poisoning, or drugging, you know?”

“Well, sor, I was walking out, an’ toward the evenin’ I lost mesilf.  Up comes a man, seemin’ly a sthranger, and shmacks me on the showldher.  ’Why, Mick!’ sez he; ‘it’s Mick Leamy, I du b’lieve!’

“‘I am that,’ sez I, ‘but you I do not know.’

“‘Not know me?’ sez he.  ‘Why, I wint to school wid ye.’  An’ wid that he hauls me off to a bar, blarneyin’ and minowdherin’, an’ orders dhrinks.

“Can ye rache me a poipe-loight?’ sez he, an’ I turned to get ut, but, lookin’ back suddent, there was that onblushin’ thief av the warl’ tippin’ a paperful of phowder stuff into me glass.”

“What did you do?” Hewitt asked.

“I knocked the dhirty face av him, sor, an’ can ye blame me?  A mane scutt, thryin’ for to poison a well-manin’ sthranger.  I knocked the face av him, an’ got away home.”