“Yet you have something of mine.”
“Pray what have I got which belongs to you?”
“You have a suit of my clothes.”
“The Lord forbid!” The words were out of my lips before I had meant them to come; but the idea of wearing anything which had ever belonged to him was not a pleasant one.
“Mr. Beckwith, I come to you as a friend. I know that some badly-behaved people of whom I know very little have not treated you well: it is because of them that you have what I come for: it is a suit of clothes belonging to a drosky driver in St. Petersburg.”
Then I began to understand. All sorts of imaginings came rushing into my head.
Apart from his actual appearance no wonder I disliked the look of him. He was
redolent of evil; he might have been Fagin the Jew.
“So you are one of that g**g of scoundrel
