“There was one of them,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly feeling⁠—tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!⁠—in the wrong coat-pocket, “the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather like. As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I looked in to ask you⁠—but I haven’t got it. No matter, any other time will do. Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this.”

“Who copied this, sir?” says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. “We gave this out, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to my book.”