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 "This is serious," said the gentleman. "I suppose you'd know the—the 'jugs' if you saw them again?"

"Anywhere," said Oswald, with the confidential rashness of one who does not know what he is talking about.

Mr. Longchamps opened the door of a little room leading out of the one we were in, and beckoned us to follow. We found ourselves amid shelves and shelves of pottery of all sorts; and two whole shelves—small ones—were filled with the sort of jug we wanted.

"Well," said the President, with a veiled, menacing sort of smile, like a wicked cardinal, "which is it?"

Oswald said, "I don't know."

Alice said, "I should know if I had it in my hand."

The President patiently took the jugs down one after another, and Alice tried to look inside them. And one after another she shook her head and gave them back.

At last she said, "You didn't wash them?"

Mr. Longchamps shuddered and said "No."

"Then," said Alice, "there is something written with lead-pencil inside both the jugs. I wish I hadn't. I would rather you didn't read it. I didn't know it would be a nice old gentleman like you would find it. I thought it would be the younger gentleman with the thin legs and the narrow smile."

"Mr. Turnbull." The President seemed to