was damaged
materially so far as wearing apparel went, I delicately intimated, by
the indifferent quality of his eggs. That you cannot get reliable eggs
for twenty-eight a shilling in the winter season, in Bermondsey, is a
miserable fact, and discreditable to the reputation of French poultry.

I had never been in such a mess in my life, but I was in a greater mess
the next day. It's a long story, that of the examination at the police
station, and I will spare the reader the harassing details. Mr. Youson,
in his confusion, made a very rambling statement of how he came into
possession of the clock, prejudiced the Inspector against him, and got
himself locked up, and I was told to call the next day at the Police
Court in Blackman Street and explain matters, and bring my witnesses. I
did so, and brought a neighbour or two who had seen the clock upon my
mantelpiece at Streatham, and I clinched the argument with Mrs. Kibbey,
who shed copious tears during the evidence, till the magistrate asked
her sharply what she was snivelling at, when she fainted dead away under
the reproof, and had to be carried from the witness-box into the fresh
air to recover.

[Illustration: "MRS. KIBBEY SHED COPIOUS TEARS."]

It was a clear case, however, against Mr. Youson, everybody considered,
and he was remanded for a week, without bail, whilst enquiries as to
his antecedents were to be vigorously made. There was a very grave
suspicion, the Inspector whispered confidentially into my ear, along
with some strong puffs of gin and peppermint which impregnated his
breathing apparatus dreadfully, that Youson was one of a desperate gang
of Lambeth burglars, for whom the police had been searching for some
time.

There was a woman's scream in court when Youson was remanded, and the
magistrate, who was certainly in a bad temper that morning, said that he
would commit anybody for contempt who made such a noise as that again,
and then the next case was called, and I was outside in Blackman Street,
Borough.

I had, with some difficulty and a little pleasure, lodged the hysterical
Mrs. Kibbey in a Streatham omnibus, and was making my way thoughtfully
down King Street to my Bermondsey premises, when someone touched me on
the arm. I looked round, and was considerably surprised to find a pale,
grave young woman of some thirty years of age, poorly but neatly clad,
keeping step with me on the narrow pavement.

"I beg pardon, sir, but you are Mr. Kippen, I t