"Has he a regular printing press ?" "It isn't a printing press exactly," replied Mrs.Hornby; "it is a small thing with a lot of round keys that you press down--Dickensblerfer, I think it is called--ridiculous name, isn't it?
Walter bought it from one of his literary friends about a week ago; but he is getting quite clever with it already, though he does make a few mistakes still, as you can see." She halted again, and began to search for the opening of a pocket which was hidden away in some occult recess of her clothing, all unconscious of the effect that her explanation had produced on me.

For, instantly, as she spoke, there flashed into my mind one of the points that Thorndyke had given me for the identification of the mysterious X.
"He has probably purchased, quite recently, a second-hand Blickensderfer, fitted with a literary typewheel." The coincidence was striking and even startling, though a moment's reflection convinced me that it was nothing more than a coincidence; for there must be hundreds of second-hand "Blicks" on the market, and, as to Walter Hornby, he certainly could have no quarrel with Thorndyke, but would rather be interested in his preservation on Reuben's account.
These thoughts passed through my mind so rapidly that by the time Mrs.
Hornby had run her pocket to earth I had quite recovered from the momentary shock.
"Ah! here it is," she exclaimed triumphantly, producing an obese Morocco purse.

"I put it in here for safety, knowing how liable one is to get one's pocket picked in these crowded London streets." She opened the bulky receptacle and drew it out after the manner of a concertina, exhibiting multitudinous partitions, all stuffed with pieces of paper, coils of tape and sewing silk, buttons, samples of dress materials and miscellaneous rubbish, mingled indiscriminately with gold, silver, and copper coins.
"Now just run your eye through that, Dr.Jervis," she said, handing me a folded paper, "and give me your advice on my answers." I opened the paper and read: "The Committee of the Society for the Protection of Paralysed Idiots, in submitting this--" "Oh! that isn't it; I have given you the wrong paper.

How silly of me! That is the appeal of--you remember, Juliet, dear, that troublesome person--I had, really, to be quite rude, you know, Dr.Jervis; I had to tell him that charity begins at home, although, thank Heaven! none of us are paralysed, but we must consider our own, mustn't we?
And then--" "Do you think this is the one, dear ?" interposed Juliet, in whose pale cheek the ghost of a dimple had appeared.

"It looks cleaner than most of the others." She selected a folded paper from the purse which Mrs.Hornby was holding with both hands extended to its utmost, as though she were about to produce a burst of music, and, opening it, glanced at its contents.
"Yes, this is your evidence," she said, and passed the paper to me.
I took the document from her hand and, in spite of the conclusion at which I had arrived, examined it with eager curiosity.