"How did he first come by that idea, though? That's the question," Mr. Guppy suggests with one eye shut, after a little forensic meditation. "He may have found papers in something he bought, where papers were not supposed to be, and may have got it into his shrewd head from the manner and place of their concealment that they are worth something."
"Or he may have been taken in, in some pretended bargain. Or he may have been muddled altogether by long staring at whatever he HAS got, and by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor's Court and hearing of documents for ever," returns Mr. Weevle.
Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, nodding his head and balancing all these possibilities in his mind, continues thoughtfully to tap it, and clasp it, and measure it with his hand, until he hastily draws his hand away.
"What, in the devil's name," he says, "is this! Look at my fingers!"
A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, which is offensive to the touch and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant, sickening oil with some natural repulsion in it that makes them both shudder.

"How did he first come by that idea, though?" Mr. Guppy meditates. "He may have found papers hidden in something he bought, and may have got it into his shrewd head that they are worth something."
"Or he may have been taken in. Or he may have been muddled by drink, and by hanging about the Lord Chancellor's Court and hearing of documents for ever," returns Mr. Weevle.
Mr. Guppy sitting on the window-sill, taps it thoughtfully, until he hastily draws his hand away.
"What in the devil's name is this! Look at my fingers!"
A thick, yellow liquor defiles them, offensive to the touch and sight and more offensive to the smell. A stagnant, sickening oil that makes them both shudder.
