The first object that met my eyes in that Temple Garden
was the being whom I loved so fondly leaning upon the arm of a man in a
military undress--leaning, did I say, upon his arm? she was almost upon
his breast, and he was actually supporting her with one of his arms
round her waist." "Well?" "What, sir! Is that all you can say to it? Would you say 'Well?' if you
saw the only creature you ever loved in such a situation, sir? Well,
indeed!" "My dear friend, do not get excited, now." "Oh, sir, it would excite a stick or a stone." "Excuse me, then, for having said 'Well,' and go on with your story. What did she say to excuse herself to you?" "'Tis well, sir--of course, I cannot expect others to feel as I do upon
such an occasion. I did not speak to her, sir. The sight of such perfidy
was enough for me. From that moment she fell from the height I had
raised her to in my imagination, and nothing she could say, and nothing
I could say, would raise her up again." "And you, then, only walked away?" "That is all. With such a pang at my heart at the moment as I wonder did
not kill me, I walked away, and left her to her own conclusions." "Then--then, my young friend, you did the very reverse of what I should
have done, for you should have gone up to her, and politely taken leave
of her, so as to let her know at all events that you were aware of her
perfidy. I should not have been content to let her have the satisfaction
of thinking I was at the bottom of the sea while she was enjoying a
flirtation with her officer; but, of course, different people take
different courses upon emergencies. There is one thing, however, that I
wonder you did not inquire about." "What was that?" "Your String of Pearls. How could you tell but that your friend had got
to London, and had actually given her the Pearls with your message
appended to them? I really am surprised that you did not step forward
and say, 'Oblige me, miss, with my pearls, if you no longer favour me
with your affections!'" "No, no. To tell the truth, I was too heart-broken at the time to care
about anything in all the world; I had lost her who was to me the
greatest jewel it had ever contained, and I cared for nothing else. I do
believe I was a little mad, for I walked about the rest of that day, not
knowing where I went to, and at last I found myself, tired, worn out,
famishing, opposite to Mrs. Lovett's shop-window, and the steam of those
abominable pies began to tempt me, so much that I went into the shop,
and after some talk, I actually accepted the situation of cook to her,
and there, but for you, I should have breathed my last." "Not a doubt of it. And now, my young friend, you know that I am a
police-magistrate, and I dare say you have heard a great deal about my
sources of information, and the odd way in which I find out things when
folks think they keep them a profound secret. You have told me all your
history, but you have thought proper, as you were, if you pleased, quite
justified in doing, to withhold your name." "I have done so, but I hardly know why. I will tell it to you, however,
now." "Hold, I know it." "You know it, sir?" "Yes, your name is Mark Ingestrie!" "It is, indeed. But how you came to know that, sir, is to me most
mysterious." "Oh, I know more than that. The name of the young lady who, you believe,
played you such a trick, is Johanna Oakley." Mark Ingestrie, for it was indeed no other, sprang to his feet,
exclaiming--

"Are you man or devil, that you know what I have never breathed to you?" "Don't be surprised, my young friend. I can tell you a little more than
that even. The friend to whom you intrusted your String of Pearls, was
named Francis Thornhill; and his dog--let me see--Oh, his large dog was
called 'Hector.'" Mark Ingestrie trembled excessively, and sinking back in his seat, he
turned very pale. "This must be a dream," he said, "or you, sir, get your information from
the spirits of the dead." "Not at all. But have you faith in my inspiration now sufficient to
induce you to believe anything that I may tell you?" "In good truth, I have; and I may well have, for after what you have
already told me, your power of knowledge cannot by me be for one moment
doubted." "Very well, then. In the first place, Mr. Francis Thornhill reached
London in safety." "He did?" "I tell you so. He arrived in London with your String of Pearls in his
pocket. He fully believed you were dead. Indeed, he fancied that he had
seen the last of you, and was quite prepared to say as much to Miss
Johanna Oakley." "And he did? That will be some excuse for her, if she thought that I was
gone." "No, he did not. On his route he turned into the shop of Sweeney Todd to
be shaved, and there he was murdered." "Murdered!" "Yes, most foully murdered; and the String of Pearls got into the
possession of that man, proving ultimately one of the means by which his
frightful villainous crime came to light. The dog remained at Todd's
door seeking for its master, to the great discomfiture of the murderer,
who made every effort within his power for its destruction, in which
however he did not succeed." "Gracious Heaven! my poor friend Thornhill to meet with such a fate! Oh
God! and all on account of that fatal String of Pearls! Oh,
Thornhill--Thornhill! rather would I have sunk for ever beneath the
wave, than such a dreadful end should have been yours." "The past cannot be recalled," said Sir Richard. "It is only with the
present, and with the future that we have anything to do now. Would you
like to hear more?" "More? Of whom? Is he not dead?--my poor friend?" "Yes, he is dead; but I can tell you more of other people. I can tell
you that Johanna Oakley was faithful to you. I can tell you that she
mourned your loss as you would wish her to mourn it, knowing how you
would mourn hers. I can tell you that the gentleman's arm she was
leaning upon was only a dear friend, and that the fact of her having to
be supported by him at the unlucky moment when you saw this was solely
owing to the deep grief she was plunged into upon your account." "Oh no--no--no!" "I say yes. It was so, Mr. Ingestrie; and if you had at that moment
stepped forward, you would have saved yourself much misery, and you
would have saved her such heart-breaking thoughts, and such danger, as
it will frighten you to listen to." CHAPTER CXVI. JOHANNA IS AMPLY PAID FOR HER BRIEF SERVICE AT TODD'S. Upon hearing all this, poor Mark Ingestrie turned very faint and fell
back in his chair, looking so pale and wan, that Sir Richard Blunt was
compelled to go across the room to hold him up. After giving him a glass
of wine, he recovered, and with a deep sigh he said--

"And so I have wronged her after all! Oh, my Johanna, I am unworthy of
you!" "That," said Sir Richard, "is a subject entirely for the young lady's
own consideration.--N. O. W."

Mark Ingestrie looked curiously in the face of Sir Richard Blunt, as
with marked emphasis upon each letter he said, "N. O. W!"