CHAPTER LIII.
THE MURDER OF THE USURER.
“Come in! Come in! More expense. More losses. As if an honest man, who only does what he can with his own, could not come to the court with a hope of meeting with a civil reception, unless he were decked out like a buffoon. Come in. Well, who are you?”
“Augustus Snipes, sir, at your service. Brought home the clothes, sir. The full dress suit you were so good as to order to be ready to-day, sir.”
“Oh, you are a tailor?”
“Oh, dear no, sir. We are not tailors now a days. We are artists.”
“Curse you, whatever you are. I don’t care. Some artist I’m afraid has done me out of £8000. Oh, dear. Put down the things. What do they come to?”
“Eighteen pounds ten shillings and threepence, sir.”
John Mundell gave a deep groan, and the tailor brushed past To
