"Why, the very next day an old hag of an Italian woman--one of them fortune-telling swines with a cage of birds on a stand--came and set up just by the main doorway. I soon sent her packing, but, bless you! she was back again in ten minutes, birds and all. I sent her off again--I kept on sending her off, and she kept on coming back, until I was reg'lar wore to a thread."
"You seem to have picked up a bit since then," remarked the inspector with a grin and a glance at the sufferer's very pronounced bow-window.
"Perhaps I have," the custodian replied haughtily. "Well, the next day there was a ice-cream man--a reg'lar waster, _he_ was. Stuck outside as if he was froze to the pavement. Kept giving the errand-boys tasters, and when I tried to move him on, he told me not to obstruct his business. Business, indeed! Well, there them boys stuck, one after the other, wiping their tongues round the bottoms of them glasses, until I was fit to bust with aggravation. And _he_ kept me going all day.
"Then, the day after that there was a barrel-organ, with a mangy-looking monkey on it. He was the worst of all. Profane, too, _he_ was. Kept mixing up sacred tunes and comic songs: 'Rock of Ages,' 'Bill Bailey,' 'Cujus Animal,' and 'Over the Garden Wall.' And when I tried to move him on, that little blighter of a monkey made a run at my leg; and then the man grinned and started playing, 'Wait till the Clouds roll by.' I tell you, it was fair sickening."
He wiped his brow at the recollection, and the inspector smiled appreciatively.
"And that was the last of them?" said the latter; and as the porter nodded sulkily, he asked: "Should you recognize the note that the Italian gave you?"
"I should," answered the porter with frosty dignity.
The inspector bustled out of the room, and returned a minute later with a letter-case in his hand.
"This was in his breast-pocket," said he, laying the bulging case on the table, and drawing up a chair. "Now, here are three letters tied together. Ah! this will be the one." He untied the tape, and held out a dirty envelope addressed in a sprawling, illiterate hand to "Mr. Hartridge, Esq." "Is that the note the Italian gave you?"
The porter examined it critically. "Yes," said he; "that is the one."