The other sighed.
"Perhaps you're right," he said. "Lean well back, please.... That's
better."
The consummate impudence of the rogue intensified the atmosphere of
unreality, which was most distracting. Doggedly my bewildered brain was
labouring in the midst of a litter of fiction, which had suddenly
changed into truth. The impossible had come to pass. The cracksman of
the novel had come to life, and I was reluctantly witnessing, in
comparative comfort and at my own expense, an actual exhibition of
felony enriched with all the spices which the cupboard of Sensation
contains.
The monstrous audacity of the proceedings, and the business-like way in
which they were conducted, were almost stupefying.
Most of the silver in the house, including a number of pieces, our
possession of which I had completely forgotten, seemed to have been
collected and laid in rough order upon rugs, which had been piled one
upon the other to deaden noise. One man was taking it up, piece by
piece, scrutinizing it with an eye-glass such as watchmakers use, and
dictating descriptions and particulars to a second, who was seated at
the broad writing-table, entering the details, in triplicate, in a large
order-book. By his side a third manipulated a pair of scales, weighing
each piece with the greatest care and reporting the result to the
second, who added the weight to the description.
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