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Never in a debtors' prison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many
times? Two or three times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what
profession? Gentleman. Ever been kicked? Might have been. Frequently?
No. Ever kicked downstairs? Decidedly not; once received a kick on the
top of a staircase, and fell downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on
that occasion for cheating at dice? Something to that effect was said
by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was not
true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by cheating at
play? Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen do.
Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not
this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced
upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw
the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the lists?
No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No. Expect to get
anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government pay and
employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear no.
Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer
patriotism? None whatever.

The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith
and simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard
the Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had
engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow
as an act of charity--never thought of such a thing. He began to
have suspicions of the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon
afterwards. In arranging his clothes, while travelling, he had seen
similar lists to these in the prisoner's pockets, over and over again.
He had taken these lists from the drawer of the prisoner's desk.
He had not put them there first. He had seen the prisoner show these
identical lists to French gentlemen at Calais, and similar lists to
French gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne. He loved his country,
and couldn't bear it, and had given information. He had never been
suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot; he had been maligned respecting
a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated one. He had
known the last witness seven or eight years; that was merely a
coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious coincidence;
most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a curious
coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He was a
true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.

The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry.

"Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?"

"I am."

"On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and
Dover by the mail?"

"It did.

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