the voice were then seen by John Rokesmith to belong to Mr. Inspector, once meditatively active in this chronicle.
“I take the liberty,” said Mr. Inspector, in a businesslike manner, “to bring myself to the recollection of Mr. Julius Handford, who gave me his name and address down at our place a considerable time ago. Would the lady object to my lighting the pair of candles on the chimneypiece, to throw a further light upon the subject? No? Thank you, ma’am. Now, we look cheerful.”
Mr. Inspector, in a dark-blue buttoned-up frock coat and pantaloons, presented a serviceable, half-pay, Royal Arms kind of appearance, as he applied his pocket handkerchief to his nose and bowed to the lady.
“You favoured me, Mr. Handford,” said Mr. Inspector, “by writing down your name and address, and I produce the piece of paper on which you wrote it. Comparing the same with the writing on the flyleaf of this book on the table—and a sweet pretty volume it is—I find the writing of the entry, ‘ Mrs. John Rokesmith. From her husband on her birthday’—and very gratifying to the feelings such memorials are—to correspond exactly. Can I have a word with you?”