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"Let us be reasonable," said the spy, "and let us be fair. To

show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption

yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial,

which I happened to have carried in my pocket-book," with a

hurried hand he produced and opened it, "ever since. There it is.

Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your hand; it's no

forgery."

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate,

and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not

have been more violently on end, if it had been that moment

dressed by the Cow with the crumpled horn in the house that Jack

built.

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched

him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.

"That there Roger Cly, master," said Mr. Cruncher, with a

taciturn and iron-bound visage. "So you put him in his coffin?"

"I did."

"Who took him out of it?"

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, "What do you

mean?"