"so much for the lascar manager. now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon neville st. clair. his name is hugh boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the city. he is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. some little distance down threadneedle street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. i have watched the fellow more than once before ever i thought of making his professional acquaintance, and i have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. his appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. a shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.