seemed ambitious to take a leading part in it. They preferred to be
in the audience.

"Yes," reflected The Oracle, "it's a curious case, and I dare say
some of them big doctors, like Morell Mackenzie, would be glad to give
a thousand or two to get holt on a case like this."

"Done," cried Mitchell, the goat of the shed. "I'll go halves!--or
stay, let's form a syndicate and work the Mystery."

Some of the rouseabouts laughed, but the joke fell as flat with Tom as
any other joke.

"The worst of it is," said the Mystery himself, in the whine that
was natural to him, and with a timid side look up at Tom--"the worst
of it is I might be a lord or duke, and don't know anything about it.
I might be a rich man, with a lot of houses and money. I might be a
lord."

The chaps guffawed.

"Wot'yer laughing at?" asked Mitchell. "I don't see anything
unreasonable about it; he might be a lord as far as looks go. I've
seen two."

"Yes," reflected Tom, ignoring Mitchell, "there's something in
that; but then again, you see, you might be Jack the Ripper. Better
let it slide, mate; let the dead past bury its dead. Start fresh with
a clean sheet."