The tall, spare man was cleanly shaved, he wore a very white collar, his
expression combined benignity with a certain ascetic calm. He carried two
or three books in his left hand, pressed against his heart with a sort of
caress, an affection very common with gentlemen of the cloth, for
Nicholas Crips had a keen eye for character, and his various
impersonations were fairly true to type, and of no mean dramatic quality.

Nickie the Kid knocked gently at an office door, a peremptory voice
called "Come in," and he opened the door very softly, entered, closed the
door very gently behind him, placed his crippled belltopper (rim
uppermost) on the small counter that walled visitors off from the severe
gentleman dictating to a blonde typewriter and said, with clerical
unction.

"Good-day sir. Good-day my dear young lady."

"D-afternoon!" replied the severe gentleman severely.

"Sir. I am here on a mission of charity, if you don't mind. I am the Rev
Andrew Rowbottom. I am collecting subscriptions for the widow and family
of the late William John Elphinston, a worthy member of my congregation,
and a most estimable bricklayers labourer, killed, as you may remember,
in the execution of his duty on the 14th September last."

"Bless my soil, I can't be bothered with these matters in business
hours," said the gentleman, and is severity was something terrible, but
it did not appal the Rev. Andrew Rowbottom.

"I have here a subscription list," continued the intruder suavely. "You