"Tony," says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, "once again understand me, as a friend. Without entering into further explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down. I have no purpose to serve now but burial in oblivion. To that I have pledged myself. I owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered image, as also to the circumstances over which I have no control. If you was to express to me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late lodgings any papers that so much as looked like the papers in question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own responsibility."
Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion by having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic and in part romantic--this gentleman having a passion for conducting anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything in the form of a summing up or a speech--accompanies his friend with dignity to the court.

"Tony," says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, "without entering into further explanations, I may repeat that the idol is laid low. I have no purpose now but burial in oblivion. If you was to tell me with a wink or a nod that you saw lying anywhere in your late lodgings any papers that looked like the papers in question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir."
Mr. Weevle nods. Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion by these observations, accompanies his friend with dignity to the court.


Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus' purse of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop. Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed brought down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. Smallweed, Judy, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in quantity, from the cook's shop, rummaging and searching, digging, delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented. What those treasures are they keep so secret that the court is maddened. In its delirium it imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots, crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses stuffed with Bank of England notes. It possesses itself of the sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece) of Mr. Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr. Elwes, of Suffolk, and transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to Mr. Krook. Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries into the baskets as they come forth. Many times the two gentlemen who write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are seen prowling in the neighbourhood--shy of each other, their late partnership being dissolved. The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights. Little Swills, in what are professionally known as "patter" allusions to the subject, is received with loud applause; and the same vocalist "gags" in the regular business like a man inspired. Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in the revived Caledonian melody of "We're a-Nodding," points the sentiment that "the dogs love broo" (whatever the nature of that refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr. Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double encore.

Never has the court been so full of gossip. Every morning at eight, the elder Mr. Smallweed is carried into the rag and bottle shop, accompanied by Mrs. Smallweed, Judy, and Bart; and there they remain until nine at night, rummaging and searching, digging and delving among the treasures of the late lamented. What those treasures are, they keep so secret that the court is maddened. It imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots, and mattresses stuffed with bank-notes. Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old paper and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries into the baskets as they come forth.


For all this, the court discovers nothing; and as Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appearance is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to discover everything, and more.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court's head upon them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's house, in a high state of popularity. But being contrary to the court's expectation admitted, they immediately become unpopular and are considered to mean no good.
The shutters are more or less closed all over the house, and the ground-floor is sufficiently dark to require candles. Introduced into the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they, fresh from the sunlight, can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in his chair upon the brink of a well or grave of waste-paper, the virtuous Judy groping therein like a female sexton, and Mrs. Smallweed on the level ground in the vicinity snowed up in a heap of paper fragments, print, and manuscript which would appear to be the accumulated compliments that have been sent flying at her in the course of the day. The whole party, Small included, are blackened with dust and dirt and present a fiendish appearance not relieved by the general aspect of the room. There is more litter and lumber in it than of old, and it is dirtier if possible; likewise, it is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant and even with his chalked writing on the wall.
On the entrance of visitors, Mr. Smallweed and Judy simultaneously fold their arms and stop in their researches.

As Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins now tell Mr. Weevle, the court is in one continual ferment.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, with every eye in the court upon them, knock at the closed door of the late lamented's house. Contrary to the court's expectation, they are admitted and are immediately considered to mean no good.
The shutters are closed all over the house, and the ground-floor is dark enough to require candles. Introduced into the back shop by Mr. Smallweed the younger, they can at first see nothing save darkness and shadows; but they gradually discern the elder Mr. Smallweed seated in his chair upon the brink of a well of waste-paper, Judy groping therein, and Mrs. Smallweed nearby snowed up in a heap of paper fragments. They are all blackened with dust and dirt and present a fiendish appearance; while the room is more littered and dirtier, if possible, than of old. It is ghostly with traces of its dead inhabitant and even his chalked writing on the wall.


"Aha!" croaks the old gentleman. "How de do, gentlemen, how de do! Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That's well, that's well. Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!"

"Aha!" croaks the old gentleman. "How de do! Come to fetch your property, Mr. Weevle? That's well. Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, if you had left it here much longer. Glad to see you!"


Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's eye follows Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back without any new intelligence in it. Mr. Guppy's eye comes back and meets Mr. Smallweed's eye. That engaging old gentleman is still murmuring, like some wound-up instrument running down, "How de do, sir--how de--how--" And then having run down, he lapses into grinning silence, as Mr. Guppy starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the darkness opposite with his hands behind him.
"Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says Grandfather Smallweed. "I am not the sort of client for a gentleman of such note, but he is so good!"
Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look, makes a shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy nod. Mr. Tulkinghorn is looking on as if he had nothing else to do and were rather amused by the novelty.
"A good deal of property here, sir, I should say," Mr. Guppy observes to Mr. Smallweed.

Mr. Weevle, thanking him, looks around. So does Mr. Guppy; who starts at seeing Mr. Tulkinghorn standing in the darkness opposite with his hands behind him.
"Gentleman so kind as to act as my solicitor," says Grandfather Smallweed.
Mr. Guppy, slightly nudging his friend to take another look around, makes a shuffling bow to Mr. Tulkinghorn, who returns it with an easy, amused nod.
"A good deal of property here, sir, I should say," Mr. Guppy observes to Mr. Smallweed.


"Principally rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish! Me and Bart and my granddaughter Judy are endeavouring to make out an inventory of what's worth anything to sell. But we haven't come to much as yet; we--haven't--come--to--hah!"
Mr. Smallweed has run down again, while Mr. Weevle's eye, attended by Mr. Guppy's eye, has again gone round the room and come back.
"Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle. "We won't intrude any longer if you'll allow us to go upstairs."
"Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You're at home. Make yourself so, pray!"

"Rags and rubbish, my dear friend! Rags and rubbish! We are trying to make out an inventory of what's worth anything to sell. But we haven't come to much as yet!"
Mr. Weevle's eye has again gone round the room and come back. "Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle. "We won't intrude any longer if you'll allow us to go upstairs."
"Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere!"


As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very dull and dismal, with the ashes of the fire that was burning on that memorable night yet in the discoloured grate. They have a great disinclination to touch any object, and carefully blow the dust from it first. Nor are they desirous to prolong their visit, packing the few movables with all possible speed and never speaking above a whisper.
"Look here," says Tony, recoiling. "Here's that horrible cat coming in!"

As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head. They find the old room very dull and dismal. They have a great disinclination to touch any object, and do not prolong their visit, packing up with all possible speed and never speaking above a whisper.
"Look here," says Tony, recoiling. "Here's that horrible cat coming in!"


Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. "Small told me of her. She went leaping and bounding and tearing about that night like a dragon, and got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight, and then came tumbling down the chimney very thin. Did you ever see such a brute? Looks as if she knew all about it, don't she? Almost looks as if she was Krook. Shoohoo! Get out, you goblin!"
Lady Jane, in the doorway, with her tiger snarl from ear to ear and her club of a tail, shows no intention of obeying; but Mr. Tulkinghorn stumbling over her, she spits at his rusty legs, and swearing wrathfully, takes her arched back upstairs. Possibly to roam the house-tops again and return by the chimney.

Mr. Guppy retreats behind a chair. "Small told me she went leaping and tearing about that night like a dragon, and got out on the house-top, and roamed about up there for a fortnight, and then came tumbling down the chimney. Did you ever see such a brute? Shoo! Get out, you goblin!"
Lady Jane in the doorway, with her tiger snarl, shows no intention of obeying; but when Mr. Tulkinghorn stumbles over her, she spits and runs upstairs.


"Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word with you?"
Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty from the wall and depositing those works of art in their old ignoble band-box. "Sir," he returns, reddening, "I wish to act with courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, I am sure, towards a member of it so well known as yourself--I will truly add, sir, so distinguished as yourself. Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir, I must stipulate that if you have any word with me, that word is spoken in the presence of my friend."
"Oh, indeed?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"Yes, sir. My reasons are not of a personal nature at all, but they are amply sufficient for myself."

"Mr. Guppy," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "could I have a word with you?"
Mr. Guppy is engaged in collecting the Galaxy Gallery of British Beauty from the wall. "Sir," he returns, reddening, "I wish to act with courtesy towards every member of the profession, and especially, I am sure, towards a member so distinguished as yourself. Still, Mr. Tulkinghorn, sir, I must ask that if you have any word with me, it is spoken in the presence of my friend."


"No doubt, no doubt." Mr. Tulkinghorn is as imperturbable as the hearthstone to which he has quietly walked. "The matter is not of that consequence that I need put you to the trouble of making any conditions, Mr. Guppy." He pauses here to smile, and his smile is as dull and rusty as his pantaloons. "You are to be congratulated, Mr. Guppy; you are a fortunate young man, sir."
"Pretty well so, Mr. Tulkinghorn; I don't complain."
"Complain? High friends, free admission to great houses, and access to elegant ladies! Why, Mr. Guppy, there are people in London who would give their ears to be you."

"The matter is not of that much consequence, Mr. Guppy." Mr. Tulkinghorn pauses here to smile a dull and rusty smile. "You are a fortunate young man, sir. You have high friends, free admission to great houses, and access to elegant ladies!"


Mr. Guppy, looking as if he would give his own reddening and still reddening ears to be one of those people at present instead of himself, replies, "Sir, if I attend to my profession and do what is right by Kenge and Carboy, my friends and acquaintances are of no consequence to them nor to any member of the profession, not excepting Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields. I am not under any obligation to explain myself further; and with all respect for you, sir, and without offence--I repeat, without offence--"
"Oh, certainly!"
"--I don't intend to do it."
"Quite so," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a calm nod. "Very good; I see by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the fashionable great, sir?"
He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits the soft impeachment.

Mr. Guppy says, reddening still more, "Sir, if I attend to my profession and do what is right by Kenge and Carboy, my friends are of no consequence to them nor to anyone else. I am not under any obligation to explain myself further."
"Quite so," says Mr. Tulkinghorn with a calm nod. "Very good; I see by these portraits that you take a strong interest in the fashionable great, sir?"
He addresses this to the astounded Tony, who admits it.


"A virtue in which few Englishmen are deficient," observes Mr. Tulkinghorn. He has been standing on the hearthstone with his back to the smoked chimney-piece, and now turns round with his glasses to his eyes. "Who is this? 'Lady Dedlock.' Ha! A very good likeness in its way, but it wants force of character. Good day to you, gentlemen; good day!"
When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration, nerves himself to the hasty completion of the taking down of the Galaxy Gallery, concluding with Lady Dedlock.

Mr. Tulkinghorn puts his glasses to his eyes. "Who is this? 'Lady Dedlock.' Ha! A very good likeness in its way, but it wants force of character. Good day to you, gentlemen; good day!"
When he has walked out, Mr. Guppy, in a great perspiration, hastily takes down the rest of the Galaxy Gallery.


"Tony," he says hurriedly to his astonished companion, "let us be quick in putting the things together and in getting out of this place. It were in vain longer to conceal from you, Tony, that between myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy whom I now hold in my hand, there has been undivulged communication and association. The time might have been when I might have revealed it to you. It never will be more. It is due alike to the oath I have taken, alike to the shattered idol, and alike to circumstances over which I have no control, that the whole should be buried in oblivion. I charge you as a friend, by the interest you have ever testified in the fashionable intelligence, and by any little advances with which I may have been able to accommodate you, so to bury it without a word of inquiry!"
This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of forensic lunacy, while his friend shows a dazed mind in his whole head of hair and even in his cultivated whiskers.

"Tony," he says hurriedly, "let us be quick in getting out of this place. I cannot conceal from you, Tony, that between myself and one of the members of a swan-like aristocracy whom I now hold in my hand, there has been some communication. I can say no more due to the oath I have taken, the shattered idol, and circumstances over which I have no control. I charge you as a friend to bury it in oblivion without a word of inquiry!"
This charge Mr. Guppy delivers in a state little short of lunacy, while his friend appears dazed down to his whiskers.


On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, that is to say, more particularly in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook's Court, at most times a shady place, Mr. Snagsby has dealt in all sorts of blank forms of legal process; in skins and rolls of parchment; in paper--foolscap, brief, draft, brown, white, whitey-brown, and blotting; in stamps; in office-quills, pens, ink, India-rubber, pounce, pins, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers; in red tape and green ferret; in pocket-books, almanacs, diaries, and law lists; in string boxes, rulers, inkstands--glass and leaden--pen-knives, scissors, bodkins, and other small office-cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention, ever since he was out of his time and went into partnership with Peffer. On that occasion, Cook's Court was in a manner revolutionized by the new inscription in fresh paint, PEFFER AND SNAGSBY, displacing the time-honoured and not easily to be deciphered legend PEFFER only. For smoke, which is the London ivy, had so wreathed itself round Peffer's name and clung to his dwelling-place that the affectionate parasite quite overpowered the parent tree.
Peffer is never seen in Cook's Court now. He is not expected there, for he has been recumbent this quarter of a century in the churchyard of St. Andrews, Holborn, with the waggons and hackney-coaches roaring past him all the day and half the night like one great dragon. If he ever steal forth when the dragon is at rest to air himself again in Cook's Court until admonished to return by the crowing of the sanguine cock in the cellar at the little dairy in Cursitor Street, whose ideas of daylight it would be curious to ascertain, since he knows from his personal observation next to nothing about it--if Peffer ever do revisit the pale glimpses of Cook's Court, which no law-stationer in the trade can positively deny, he comes invisibly, and no one is the worse or wiser.

On the eastern borders of Chancery Lane, in Cook's Court, Mr. Snagsby, law-stationer, pursues his lawful calling. In the shade of Cook's Court, at most times a shady place, Mr. Snagsby has dealt in all sorts of blank legal forms; in rolls of parchment; in paper; in stamps; in quills, pens, ink, India-rubber, pencils, sealing-wax, and wafers; in pocket-books, almanacs, and diaries; in ink-stands, scissors, and other small office-cutlery; in short, in articles too numerous to mention, ever since he went into partnership with Peffer. The inscription in Cook's Court used to read PEFFER AND SNAGSBY, but Peffer has been lying for a quarter of a century in the churchyard.


In his lifetime, and likewise in the period of Snagsby's "time" of seven long years, there dwelt with Peffer in the same law-stationering premises a niece--a short, shrewd niece, something too violently compressed about the waist, and with a sharp nose like a sharp autumn evening, inclining to be frosty towards the end. The Cook's Courtiers had a rumour flying among them that the mother of this niece did, in her daughter's childhood, moved by too jealous a solicitude that her figure should approach perfection, lace her up every morning with her maternal foot against the bed-post for a stronger hold and purchase; and further, that she exhibited internally pints of vinegar and lemon-juice, which acids, they held, had mounted to the nose and temper of the patient. With whichsoever of the many tongues of Rumour this frothy report originated, it either never reached or never influenced the ears of young Snagsby, who, having wooed and won its fair subject on his arrival at man's estate, entered into two partnerships at once. So now, in Cook's Court, Cursitor Street, Mr. Snagsby and the niece are one; and the niece still cherishes her figure, which, however tastes may differ, is unquestionably so far precious that there is mighty little of it.

In his lifetime, there dwelt with Peffer a niece - a short, shrewd niece, with a sharp nose. The Cook's Courtiers had a rumour that this niece had been dosed with pints of vinegar, which had mounted to her temper. However, this rumour never reached the ears of young Snagsby, who wooed and won her, and so entered into two partnerships at once.


Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one bone and one flesh, but, to the neighbours' thinking, one voice too. That voice, appearing to proceed from Mrs. Snagsby alone, is heard in Cook's Court very often. Mr. Snagsby, otherwise than as he finds expression through these dulcet tones, is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back. He tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands at his door in Cook's Court in his grey shop-coat and black calico sleeves, looking up at the clouds, or stands behind a desk in his dark shop with a heavy flat ruler, snipping and slicing at sheepskin in company with his two 'prentices, he is emphatically a retiring and unassuming man. From beneath his feet, at such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arise complainings and lamentations in the voice already mentioned; and haply, on some occasions when these reach a sharper pitch than usual, Mr. Snagsby mentions to the 'prentices, "I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster!"
This proper name, so used by Mr. Snagsby, has before now sharpened the wit of the Cook's Courtiers to remark that it ought to be the name of Mrs. Snagsby, seeing that she might with great force and expression be termed a Guster, in compliment to her stormy character. It is, however, the possession, and the only possession except fifty shillings per annum and a very small box indifferently filled with clothing, of a lean young woman from a workhouse (by some supposed to have been christened Augusta) who, although she was farmed or contracted for during her growing time by an amiable benefactor of his species resident at Tooting, and cannot fail to have been developed under the most favourable circumstances, "has fits," which the parish can't account for.

Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby are not only one flesh, but, to the neighbours' thinking, one voice too. That voice, through Mrs. Snagsby, is heard in Cook's Court very often. Mr. Snagsby is rarely heard. He is a mild, bald, timid man with a shining head. He tends to meekness and obesity. As he stands behind a desk in his dark shop, snipping parchment with his two apprentices, he is an unassuming man. At such times, as from a shrill ghost unquiet in its grave, there frequently arise complainings in the voice already mentioned; and Mr. Snagsby says, "I think my little woman is a-giving it to Guster!"
Guster is the name of a lean young woman from a workhouse (supposed to have been christened Augusta), who "has fits".


Guster, really aged three or four and twenty, but looking a round ten years older, goes cheap with this unaccountable drawback of fits, and is so apprehensive of being returned on the hands of her patron saint that except when she is found with her head in the pail, or the sink, or the copper, or the dinner, or anything else that happens to be near her at the time of her seizure, she is always at work. She is a satisfaction to the parents and guardians of the 'prentices, who feel that there is little danger of her inspiring tender emotions in the breast of youth; she is a satisfaction to Mrs. Snagsby, who can always find fault with her; she is a satisfaction to Mr. Snagsby, who thinks it a charity to keep her. The law-stationer's establishment is, in Guster's eyes, a temple of plenty and splendour. She believes the little drawing-room upstairs, always kept, as one may say, with its hair in papers and its pinafore on, to be the most elegant apartment in Christendom. The view it commands of Cook's Court at one end (not to mention a squint into Cursitor Street) and of Coavinses' the sheriff's officer's backyard at the other she regards as a prospect of unequalled beauty. The portraits it displays in oil--and plenty of it too--of Mr. Snagsby looking at Mrs. Snagsby and of Mrs. Snagsby looking at Mr. Snagsby are in her eyes as achievements of Raphael or Titian. Guster has some recompenses for her many privations.

Guster, aged three or four and twenty, but looking ten years older, is cheap because of this drawback of fits, and is so apprehensive of being returned to the workhouse that she is always at work. The law-stationer's establishment is, in her eyes, a temple of plenty and splendour. She believes the little drawing-room to be the most elegant apartment in Christendom, and its view of Cook's Court and Coavinses' the sheriff's officer's backyard to be a prospect of unequalled beauty.


Mr. Snagsby refers everything not in the practical mysteries of the business to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches the tax-gatherers, appoints the times and places of devotion on Sundays, licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and acknowledges no responsibility as to what she thinks fit to provide for dinner, insomuch that she is the high standard of comparison among the neighbouring wives a long way down Chancery Lane on both sides, and even out in Holborn, who in any domestic passages of arms habitually call upon their husbands to look at the difference between their (the wives') position and Mrs. Snagsby's, and their (the husbands') behaviour and Mr. Snagsby's. Rumour, always flying bat-like about Cook's Court and skimming in and out at everybody's windows, does say that Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that Mr. Snagsby is sometimes worried out of house and home, and that if he had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. It is even observed that the wives who quote him to their self-willed husbands as a shining example in reality look down upon him and that nobody does so with greater superciliousness than one particular lady whose lord is more than suspected of laying his umbrella on her as an instrument of correction. But these vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby's being in his way rather a meditative and poetical man, loving to walk in Staple Inn in the summer-time and to observe how countrified the sparrows and the leaves are, also to lounge about the Rolls Yard of a Sunday afternoon and to remark (if in good spirits) that there were old times once and that you'd find a stone coffin or two now under that chapel, he'll be bound, if you was to dig for it. He solaces his imagination, too, by thinking of the many Chancellors and Vices, and Masters of the Rolls who are deceased; and he gets such a flavour of the country out of telling the two 'prentices how he HAS heard say that a brook "as clear as crystal" once ran right down the middle of Holborn, when Turnstile really was a turnstile, leading slap away into the meadows--gets such a flavour of the country out of this that he never wants to go there.
The day is closing in and the gas is lighted, but is not yet fully effective, for it is not quite dark. Mr. Snagsby standing at his shop-door looking up at the clouds sees a crow who is out late skim westward over the slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court. The crow flies straight across Chancery Lane and Lincoln's Inn Garden into Lincoln's Inn Fields.

Mr. Snagsby refers everything apart from stationery to Mrs. Snagsby. She manages the money, reproaches the tax-gatherers, licenses Mr. Snagsby's entertainments, and orders what she likes for dinner. Rumour, always flying bat-like about Cook's Court and skimming in and out at everybody's windows, does say that Mrs. Snagsby is jealous and inquisitive and that if Mr. Snagsby had the spirit of a mouse he wouldn't stand it. But these vague whisperings may arise from Mr. Snagsby's being rather a meditative and poetical man.
The day is closing in now and the gas is lit. Mr. Snagsby, standing at his shop-door, sees a crow skim westward over the slice of sky belonging to Cook's Court, and straight across Chancery Lane into Lincoln's Inn Fields.


Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr. Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers still remain; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among balustrades and pillars, flowers, clouds, and big-legged boys, and makes the head ache--as would seem to be Allegory's object always, more or less. Here, among his many boxes labelled with transcendent names, lives Mr. Tulkinghorn, when not speechlessly at home in country-houses where the great ones of the earth are bored to death. Here he is to-day, quiet at his table. An oyster of the old school whom nobody can open.

Here, in a large house, lives Mr. Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts. But its roomy staircases, passages, and antechambers remain; and even its painted ceilings, where Allegory, in Roman helmet and celestial linen, sprawls among pillars, flowers, and clouds. Here lives Mr. Tulkinghorn, when not speechless in country-houses. Here he is today, quiet at his table; an oyster of the old school whom nobody can open.


Like as he is to look at, so is his apartment in the dusk of the present afternoon. Rusty, out of date, withdrawing from attention, able to afford it. Heavy, broad-backed, old-fashioned, mahogany-and-horsehair chairs, not easily lifted; obsolete tables with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers; presentation prints of the holders of great titles in the last generation or the last but one, environ him. A thick and dingy Turkey-carpet muffles the floor where he sits, attended by two candles in old-fashioned silver candlesticks that give a very insufficient light to his large room. The titles on the backs of his books have retired into the binding; everything that can have a lock has got one; no key is visible. Very few loose papers are about. He has some manuscript near him, but is not referring to it. With the round top of an inkstand and two broken bits of sealing-wax he is silently and slowly working out whatever train of indecision is in his mind. Now the inkstand top is in the middle, now the red bit of sealing-wax, now the black bit. That's not it.

His apartment is rusty and out of date. Heavy, old-fashioned, mahogany-and-horsehair chairs; obsolete tables with spindle-legs and dusty baize covers. Two candles that give a very insufficient light to his large room. The titles on the backs of his books have retired into the binding; everything that can have a lock has got one. Very few loose papers are about. He has some manuscript near him, but is not reading. He is fiddling with some sealing-wax, and thinking.


Mr. Tulkinghorn must gather them all up and begin again.
Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with foreshortened Allegory staring down at his intrusion as if it meant to swoop upon him, and he cutting it dead, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. He keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, usually a little out at elbows, who sits in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn is not in a common way. He wants no clerks. He is a great reservoir of confidences, not to be so tapped. His clients want HIM; he is all in all. Drafts that he requires to be drawn are drawn by special-pleaders in the temple on mysterious instructions; fair copies that he requires to be made are made at the stationers', expense being no consideration. The middle-aged man in the pew knows scarcely more of the affairs of the peerage than any crossing-sweeper in Holborn.

Here, beneath the painted ceiling, with Allegory staring down at him, Mr. Tulkinghorn has at once his house and office. He keeps no staff, only one middle-aged man, who sits in a high pew in the hall and is rarely overburdened with business. Mr. Tulkinghorn needs no clerks. He is a great reservoir of confidences; his clients want him; he is all in all. Any copies that he requires are made at the stationers'.


The red bit, the black bit, the inkstand top, the other inkstand top, the little sand-box. So! You to the middle, you to the right, you to the left. This train of indecision must surely be worked out now or never. Now! Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, adjusts his spectacles, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, goes out, tells the middle-aged man out at elbows, "I shall be back presently." Very rarely tells him anything more explicit.
Mr. Tulkinghorn goes, as the crow came--not quite so straight, but nearly--to Cook's Court, Cursitor Street. To Snagsby's, Law-Stationer's, Deeds engrossed and copied, Law-Writing executed in all its branches, &c., &c., &c.

Now Mr. Tulkinghorn gets up, puts on his hat, puts the manuscript in his pocket, and goes out, telling the middle-aged man, "I shall be back presently." He goes, as the crow came, to Cook's Court: to Snagsby's, Law-Stationer's.


It is somewhere about five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. It hovers about Snagsby's door. The hours are early there: dinner at half-past one and supper at half-past nine. Mr. Snagsby was about to descend into the subterranean regions to take tea when he looked out of his door just now and saw the crow who was out late.
"Master at home?"
Guster is minding the shop, for the 'prentices take tea in the kitchen with Mr. and Mrs. Snagsby; consequently, the robe-maker's two daughters, combing their curls at the two glasses in the two second-floor windows of the opposite house, are not driving the two 'prentices to distraction as they fondly suppose, but are merely awakening the unprofitable admiration of Guster, whose hair won't grow, and never would, and it is confidently thought, never will.
"Master at home?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. Guster disappears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and veneration as a storehouse of awful implements of the great torture of the law--a place not to be entered after the gas is turned off.

It is five or six o'clock in the afternoon, and a balmy fragrance of warm tea hovers in Cook's Court. Mr. Snagsby has descended into the subterranean regions to take tea.
"Master at home?"
Guster is minding the shop. Master is at home, and Guster will fetch him. She disappears, glad to get out of the shop, which she regards with mingled dread and veneration.


Mr. Snagsby appears, greasy, warm, herbaceous, and chewing. Bolts a bit of bread and butter. Says, "Bless my soul, sir! Mr. Tulkinghorn!"
"I want half a word with you, Snagsby."
"Certainly, sir! Dear me, sir, why didn't you send your young man round for me? Pray walk into the back shop, sir." Snagsby has brightened in a moment.

Mr. Snagsby appears, greasy, warm, and chewing. He bolts a bit of bread and butter, and says, "Bless my soul, sir! Mr. Tulkinghorn!"
"I want half a word with you, Snagsby."
"Certainly, sir! Pray walk into the back shop."


The confined room, strong of parchment-grease, is warehouse, counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits, facing round, on a stool at the desk.
"Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby."
"Yes, sir." Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs behind his hand, modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsby, as a timid man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, and so to save words.
"You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately."
"Yes, sir, we did."

The confined room is warehouse, counting-house, and copying-office. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits on a stool at the desk.
"Jarndyce and Jarndyce, Snagsby."
"Yes, sir." Mr. Snagsby turns up the gas and coughs, modestly anticipating profit. Mr. Snagsby, as a timid man, is accustomed to cough with a variety of expressions, so as to save words.
"You copied some affidavits in that cause for me lately."
"Yes, sir, we did."


"There was one of them," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly feeling--tight, unopenable oyster of the old school!--in the wrong coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and I rather like. As I happened to be passing, and thought I had it about me, I looked in to ask you--but I haven't got it. No matter, any other time will do. Ah! here it is! I looked in to ask you who copied this."

"There was one of them," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, carelessly feeling in the wrong coat-pocket, "the handwriting of which is peculiar, and which I rather like. As I happened to be passing, I looked in to ask you who copied this."


"Who copied this, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, taking it, laying it flat on the desk, and separating all the sheets at once with a twirl and a twist of the left hand peculiar to lawstationers. "We gave this out, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to my book."
Mr. Snagsby takes his book down from the safe, makes another bolt of the bit of bread and butter which seemed to have stopped short, eyes the affidavit aside, and brings his right forefinger travelling down a page of the book, "Jewby--Packer--Jarndyce."

"Who copied this, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby, laying it flat on the desk. "We gave this out, sir. We were giving out rather a large quantity of work just at that time. I can tell you in a moment who copied it, sir, by referring to my book."
Mr. Snagsby takes his book down from the safe, and brings his right forefinger down a page.


"Jarndyce! Here we are, sir," says Mr. Snagsby. "To be sure! I might have remembered it. This was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane."
Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.

"Here we are, sir," he says. "To be sure! This was given out, sir, to a writer who lodges just across the lane."
Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry and read it while the forefinger was still coming down the page.


"WHAT do you call him? Nemo?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo, sir. Here it is. Forty-two folio. Given out on the Wednesday night at eight o'clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine."
"Nemo!" repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo is Latin for no one."

"What do you call him? Nemo?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"Nemo, sir. Given out on the Wednesday night at eight o'clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine."
"Nemo!" repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Nemo is Latin for no one."


"It must be English for some one, sir, I think," Mr. Snagsby submits with his deferential cough. "It is a person's name. Here it is, you see, sir! Forty-two folio. Given out Wednesday night, eight o'clock; brought in Thursday morning, half after nine."
The tail of Mr. Snagsby's eye becomes conscious of the head of Mrs. Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to Mrs. Snagsby, as who should say, "My dear, a customer!"

"It must be English for some one, sir, I think," Mr. Snagsby submits with his deferential cough. "Here it is, you see, sir!"
Mr. Snagsby becomes conscious of the head of Mrs. Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by deserting his tea. Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to her.


"Half after nine, sir," repeats Mr. Snagsby. "Our law-writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by. I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the King's Bench Office, and the Judges' Chambers, and so forth. You know the kind of document, sir--wanting employ?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of Coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in Coavinses' windows. Coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds. Mr. Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect: "Tul-king-horn--rich--in-flu-en-tial!"
"Have you given this man work before?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Our law-writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot, sir; and this may not be his name, but it's the name he goes by. He has an advertisement stuck up at the Rule Office, and the Judges' Chambers, and so forth. You know the kind of document, sir - wanting employ?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at Coavinses', the sheriff's officer's, where lights shine in the windows. Coavinses' coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen loom cloudily upon the blinds.
"Have you given this man work before?" asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"Oh, dear, yes, sir! Work of yours."
"Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he lived?"
"Across the lane, sir. In fact, he lodges at a--" Mr. Snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread and butter were insurmountable "--at a rag and bottle shop."
"Can you show me the place as I go back?"
"With the greatest pleasure, sir!"

"Oh, dear, yes, sir!"
"I forget where you said he lived?"
"Across the lane, sir. He lodges at a rag and bottle shop."
"Can you show me the place as I go back?"
"With the greatest pleasure, sir!"


Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his black coat, takes his hat from its peg. "Oh! Here is my little woman!" he says aloud. "My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with Mr. Tulkinghorn? Mrs. Snagsby, sir--I shan't be two minutes, my love!"
Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries in the book still lying open. Is evidently curious.

Mr. Snagsby pulls on his black coat, and takes his hat from its peg. "Oh! Here is my little woman!" he says. "My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with Mr. Tulkinghorn?"
Mrs. Snagsby retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, and looks at the entries in the book still lying open.


"You will find that the place is rough, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to the lawyer; "and the party is very rough. But they're a wild lot in general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never wants sleep. He'll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long as ever you like."
It is quite dark now, and the gas-lamps have acquired their full effect. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against plaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sorts, and against the general crowd, in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the commonest business of life; diving through law and equity, and through that kindred mystery, the street mud, which is made of nobody knows what and collects about us nobody knows whence or how--we only knowing in general that when there is too much of it we find it necessary to shovel it away--the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and bottle shop and general emporium of much disregarded merchandise, lying and being in the shadow of the wall of Lincoln's Inn, and kept, as is announced in paint, to all whom it may concern, by one Krook.
"This is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer.
"This is where he lives, is it?" says the lawyer unconcernedly. "Thank you."

"You will find that the place is rough, sir," says Mr. Snagsby. "But they're a wild lot in general, sir. The advantage of this particular man is that he never wants sleep. He'll work as long as ever you like."
It is quite dark now. Jostling against clerks going to post the day's letters, and against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner, and against plaintiffs and defendants and suitors of all sorts, the lawyer and the law-stationer come to a rag and bottle shop in the shadow of the wall of Lincoln's Inn, kept by one Krook.
"This is where he lives, sir," says the law-stationer.
"Thank you.


"Are you not going in, sir?"
"No, thank you, no; I am going on to the Fields at present. Good evening. Thank you!" Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat and returns to his little woman and his tea.
But Mr. Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present. He goes a short way, turns back, comes again to the shop of Mr. Krook, and enters it straight. It is dim enough, with a blot-headed candle or so in the windows, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back part by a fire. The old man rises and comes forward, with another blot-headed candle in his hand.
"Pray is your lodger within?"

Good evening!"
Mr. Snagsby lifts his hat and returns to his little woman and his tea.
Mr. Tulkinghorn enters the shop. It is dim enough, with a candle in the window, and an old man and a cat sitting in the back by a fire. The old man rises and comes forward, with another candle in his hand.
"Pray is your lodger within?


"Male or female, sir?" says Mr. Krook.
"Male. The person who does copying."
Mr. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute.
"Did you wish to see him, sir?"
"Yes."

The person who does copying."
Mr. Krook has eyed his man narrowly. Knows him by sight. Has an impression of his aristocratic repute.
"Did you wish to see him, sir?"
"Yes."


"It's what I seldom do myself," says Mr. Krook with a grin. "Shall I call him down? But it's a weak chance if he'd come, sir!"
"I'll go up to him, then," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.

"Shall I call him down? But it's a weak chance he'd come, sir!" says Mr. Krook with a grin.
"I'll go up to him, then," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"Second floor, sir. Take the candle. Up there!" Mr. Krook, with his cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase, looking after Mr. Tulkinghorn. "Hi-hi!" he says when Mr. Tulkinghorn has nearly disappeared. The lawyer looks down over the hand-rail. The cat expands her wicked mouth and snarls at him.

"Second floor, sir. Take the candle." Mr. Krook, with his cat beside him, stands at the bottom of the staircase. The cat snarls at Mr. Tulkinghorn.


"Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You know what they say of my lodger?" whispers Krook, going up a step or two.
"What do they say of him?"
"They say he has sold himself to the enemy, but you and I know better--he don't buy. I'll tell you what, though; my lodger is so black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he'd as soon make that bargain as any other. Don't put him out, sir. That's my advice!"

"Order, Lady Jane! Behave yourself to visitors, my lady! You know what they say of my lodger?" whispers Krook.
"What do they say of him?"
"They say he has sold himself to the devil, but you and I know better. I'll tell you what, though; my lodger is so black-humoured and gloomy that I believe he'd as soon make that bargain as any other. Don't put him out, sir. That's my advice!"


Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark door on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer, opens it, and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so.
The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished it if he had not. It is a small room, nearly black with soot, and grease, and dirt. In the rusty skeleton of a grate, pinched at the middle as if poverty had gripped it, a red coke fire burns low. In the corner by the chimney stand a deal table and a broken desk, a wilderness marked with a rain of ink. In another corner a ragged old portmanteau on one of the two chairs serves for cabinet or wardrobe; no larger one is needed, for it collapses like the cheeks of a starved man. The floor is bare, except that one old mat, trodden to shreds of rope-yarn, lies perishing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the darkness of the night, but the discoloured shutters are drawn together, and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine might be staring in--the banshee of the man upon the bed.

Mr. Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way. He comes to the dark door on the second floor. He knocks, receives no answer; opens it.
It is a small room, nearly black with soot and dirt. In the rusty grate, a red fire burns low. In the corner by the chimney stand an old table and a broken desk, marked with a rain of ink. In another corner a ragged old portmanteau serves for a wardrobe, collapsing like the cheeks of a starved man. The floor is bare, except that one old mat, trodden to shreds, lies perishing upon the hearth. No curtain veils the darkness of the night, but the discoloured shutters are drawn together, and through the two gaunt holes pierced in them, famine might be staring in - the banshee of the man upon the bed.


For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork, lean-ribbed ticking, and coarse sacking, the lawyer, hesitating just within the doorway, sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt and trousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectral darkness of a candle that has guttered down until the whole length of its wick (still burning) has doubled over and left a tower of winding-sheet above it. His hair is ragged, mingling with his whiskers and his beard--the latter, ragged too, and grown, like the scum and mist around him, in neglect. Foul and filthy as the room is, foul and filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive what fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the general sickliness and faintness, and the odour of stale tobacco, there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium.
"Hallo, my friend!" he cries, and strikes his iron candlestick against the door.
He thinks he has awakened his friend. He lies a little turned away, but his eyes are surely open.

For, on a low bed opposite the fire, a confusion of dirty patchwork and coarse sacking, the lawyer sees a man. He lies there, dressed in shirt and trousers, with bare feet. He has a yellow look in the spectral darkness of a drooping, dying candle. His hair is ragged and neglected, as is his beard. Foul and filthy as the room is, foul and filthy as the air is, it is not easy to perceive what fumes those are which most oppress the senses in it; but through the general sickliness and odour of stale tobacco, there comes into the lawyer's mouth the bitter, vapid taste of opium.
"Hallo, my friend!" he cries.
The man lies a little turned away, but his eyes are surely open.


"Hallo, my friend!" he cries again. "Hallo! Hallo!"
As he rattles on the door, the candle which has drooped so long goes out and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shutters staring down upon the bed.

"Hallo, my friend!" cries Tulkinghorn again. "Hallo! Hallo!"
And the drooping candle goes out and leaves him in the dark, with the gaunt eyes in the shutters staring down upon the bed.


Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town house stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and gives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriages rattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancient charmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a rather ghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed these fascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together, dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easily swinging carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs, deep sunk into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount luscious Mercuries bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hats broadwise, a spectacle for the angels.
The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours pass before its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia the fair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom and finding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence, ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene. Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it and peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.
The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of the ancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity which impels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidle about with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of every description. Certain it is that she avails herself of the present opportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers like a bird, taking a short peck at this document and a blink with her head on one side at that document, and hopping about from table to table with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and restless manner. In the course of these researches she stumbles over something, and turning her glass in that direction, sees her kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.

Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town house stares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur and gives no outward sign of anything wrong within. Hours pass before its exalted dullness is disturbed. But Volumnia the fair, becoming bored, ventures at length to the library for change of scene. Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens it and peeps in; seeing no one there, enters.
She takes the opportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers like a bird, taking a short peck at this document and a blink at that document with her head on one side, hopping about from table to table in an inquisitive and restless manner. In the course of these researches she stumbles over something, and turning, sees her kinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.


Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentation of reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in commotion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently rung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in all directions, but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since she last rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered on her table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received another missive from another world requiring to be personally answered, and all the living languages, and all the dead, are as one to him.
They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, and put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit, the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before his stertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness of the candle that is occasionally passed before them. But when this change begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves his eyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.

Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable increase of reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly in commotion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violently rung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought, but not found. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered on her table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not received another missive summoning him to another world,
They lay him down upon his bed, fan him, put ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. The day has gone, and it is night before his stertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousness of the candle that is passed before them. But by and by he nods or moves his eyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.


He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhat infirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. He lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit shadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had so long been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankind of any word he said that his words really had come to sound as if there were something in them. But now he can only whisper, and what he whispers sounds like what it is--mere jumble and jargon.
His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. It is the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it. After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he makes signs for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot at first understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out what he wants and brings in a slate.
After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a hand that is not his, "Chesney Wold?"

He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman. He lies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepit shadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and self-important. But now he can only whisper mere jumble and jargon.
His faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. It is the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure from it. After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, he makes signs for a pencil. At last his old housekeeper makes out what he wants and brings in a slate.
He slowly scrawls upon it in a strange hand, "Chesney Wold?"


No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in the library this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened to come to London and is able to attend upon him.
"It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester. You will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester. All the gentlemen say so." This, with the tears coursing down her fair old face.
After making a survey of the room and looking with particular attention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, "My Lady."
"My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, and don't know of your illness yet."

No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in the library this morning.
"It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester. You will be much better tomorrow." This, with the tears coursing down her fair old face.
After looking all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, "My Lady."
"My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, and don't know of your illness yet."


He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They all try to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. On their looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate once more and writes "My Lady. For God's sake, where?" And makes an imploring moan.
It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Lady Dedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or can surmise. She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal. Having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of relapse or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he opens his eyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm. The doctors know that he is best with her, and when not actively engaged about him, stand aloof.

He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They try to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. On their looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes the slate once more and writes "My Lady. For God's sake, where?" And makes an imploring moan.
It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him Lady Dedlock's letter. She opens it for him and holds it out. Having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that it shall not be seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind of swoon, and it is an hour before he opens his eyes.


The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants to write he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he must go mad in the necessity he feels for haste and the inability under which he labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom. He has written the letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, in the height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it. The old housekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank heaven! That's his meaning.
Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. Shall he come up?

He signs for the slate again, but the word he wants to write he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, and affliction are pitiable to behold. It seems as if he must go mad in his need for haste and his inability to express what or who he wants. He has written the letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, he puts Mr. before it. The old housekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank heaven! That's his meaning.
Mr. Bucket is downstairs. Shall he come up?


There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burning wish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr. Bucket appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems fallen from his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this man.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this. I hope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the family credit."
Sir Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his face while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket's eye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye is still glancing over the words, he indicates, "Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I understand you."

There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burning wish to see him, or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of everyone but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr. Bucket appears.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this."
Sir Leicester puts the letter in his hands and looks intently in his face while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket's eye as he reads on; he indicates that he understands it.


Sir Leicester writes upon the slate. "Full forgiveness. Find--" Mr. Bucket stops his hand.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'll find her. But my search after her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost."
With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock's look towards a little box upon a table.

Sir Leicester writes upon the slate. "Full forgiveness. Find-" Mr. Bucket stops his hand.
"I'll find her. But my search must begin at once. Not a minute must be lost."
With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock's look towards a little box upon a table.


"Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Open it with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? TO be sure. Take the notes out? So I will. Count 'em? That's soon done.

"Shall I bring it here, Sir Leicester? Certainly. Open it with one of these here keys? Take the notes out? So I will. Count 'em? That


Twenty and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, and fifty's one twenty, and forty's one sixty. Take 'em for expenses? That I'll do, and render an account of course. Don't spare money? No I won't."
The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on all these heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, who holds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands as he starts up, furnished for his journey.
"You're George's mother, old lady; that's about what you are, I believe?" says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on and buttoning his coat.
"Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother."

's one sixty. Take 'em for expenses? That I'll do. Don't spare money? No, I won't."
The speed of Mr. Bucket's interpretation is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, who holds the light, is giddy as he starts up for his journey.
"You're George's mother, old lady, I believe?" says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on and buttoning his coat.
"Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother."


"So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now. Well, then, I'll tell you something. You needn't be distressed no more. Your son's all right. Now, don't you begin a-crying, because what you've got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and you won't do that by crying. As to your son, he's all right, I tell you; and he sends his loving duty, and hoping you're the same. He's discharged honourable; that's about what HE is; with no more imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one, I'LL bet a pound. You may trust me, for I took your son. He conducted himself in a game way, too, on that occasion; and he's a fine-made man, and you're a fine-made old lady, and you're a mother and son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, what you've trusted to me I'll go through with.

"So I thought. Well, then, I'll tell you something. Your son's all right. Now, don't you begin a-crying, because what you've got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and you won't do that by crying. As to your son, he sends his loving duty. He's discharged honourable, with no more stain on his character than there is on yours. He's a fine-made man, and you're a fine-made old lady, a true mother and son, the pair of you. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, what you've trusted to me I'll go through with.


Don't you be afraid of my turning out of my way, right or left, or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found what I go in search of. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will. And I wish you better, and these family affairs smoothed over--as, Lord, many other family affairs equally has been, and equally will be, to the end of time."
With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out, looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night in quest of the fugitive.
His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms and look all over them for any trifling indication that may help him. The rooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-light in his hand, holding it above his head and taking a sharp mental inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variance with himself, would be to see a sight--which nobody DOES see, as he is particular to lock himself in.
"A spicy boudoir, this," says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning. "Must have cost a sight of money. Rum articles to cut away from, these; she must have been hard put to it!"

I shan't rest till I have found what I go in search of. Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part? Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will."
With this, Mr. Bucket goes quietly out.
He first takes himself to Lady Dedlock's rooms and looks all over them for anything that may help him. The rooms are in darkness now; Mr. Bucket locks himself in, and holds a light above his head.
"A spicy boudoir, this," says Mr. Bucket. "Must have cost a sight of money!"


Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets and jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors, and moralizes thereon.
"One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles and getting myself up for almac's," says Mr. Bucket. "I begin to think I must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it."
Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an inner drawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves which it can scarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon a white handkerchief.

He has opened a dainty little chest in an inner drawer. His great hand, turning over some gloves, comes upon a white handkerchief.


"Hum! Let's have a look at YOU," says Mr. Bucket, putting down the light. "What should YOU be kept by yourself for? What's YOUR motive? Are you her ladyship's property, or somebody else's? You've got a mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose?"
He finds it as he speaks, "Esther Summerson."
"Oh!" says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. "Come, I'll take YOU."

"Hum! Let's have a look at you," says Mr. Bucket, putting down the light. "What should you be kept by yourself for? What's your motive? Are you her ladyship's property, or somebody else's? You've got a mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose?"
He finds it as he speaks: "Esther Summerson."
"Oh!" says Mr. Bucket, pausing. "Come, I'll take you."


He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has carried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it, glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the street. With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of Sir Leicester's room, he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be driven to the shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on the principal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledge of the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go, he knows him.
His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clattering over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows where people are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that he rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where the snow lies thin--for something may present itself to assist him, anywhere--he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam.
"Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I'll be back."
He runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking his pipe.

He completes his observations carefully, leaves everything else precisely as he found it, and glides away into the street. He sets off to the nearest coach-stand, picks out a horse, and directs to be driven to the shooting gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge of horses, but he remarks that when he sees a horse as can go, he knows him.
His knowledge is not at fault tonight. Clattering over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully watching with keen eyes every slinking creature whom he passes in the midnight streets, where the snow lies thin, he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam.
He runs up the entry and finds the trooper smoking his pipe.


"I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, my lad. I haven't a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save a woman. Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died--that was the name, I know--all right--where does she live?"
The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address, near Oxford Street.
"You won't repent it, George. Good night!"
He is off again, with an impression of having seen Phil sitting by the frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops away again, and gets out in a cloud of steam again.
Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to bed, rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell, and comes down to the door in his dressing-gown.

"I haven't a word to spare, George. Now, honour! All to save a woman. Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died - where does she live?"
The trooper gives him the address, near Oxford Street.
"You won't repent it, George. Good night!"
He is off again, and gallops away in another cloud of steam.
Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to bed when he hears the rapid ringing at the bell, and comes down to the door in his dressing-gown.


"Don't be alarmed, sir." In a moment his visitor is confidential with him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand upon the lock. "I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. Inspector Bucket. Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss Esther Summerson's. Found it myself put away in a drawer of Lady Dedlock's, quarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of life or death. You know Lady Dedlock?"
"Yes."

"Don't be alarmed, sir." In a moment his visitor is in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand upon the lock. "I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. Inspector Bucket. Look at this handkerchief, sir, Miss Esther Summerson's. Found it myself put away in a drawer of Lady Dedlock's, quarter of an hour ago. Not a moment to lose. Matter of life or death. You know Lady Dedlock?"
"Yes."


"There has been a discovery there to-day. Family affairs have come out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit--apoplexy or paralysis--and couldn't be brought to, and precious time has been lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!"
Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks.

"There has been a discovery there today. Family affairs have come out. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit - apoplexy or paralysis - and precious time has been lost. Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for him that looks bad. Run your eye over it. Here it is!"
Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks.


"I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there's more and more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that. I'd give a hundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present time. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to follow her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness. I have money and full power, but I want something else. I want Miss Summerson."
Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, "Miss Summerson?"

"I don't know. It looks like suicide. Anyways, there's more danger of that, every minute. Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to follow her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness. I have money, but I want something else. I want Miss Summerson."
Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, "Miss Summerson?"


"Now, Mr. Jarndyce"--Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatest attention all along--"I speak to you as a gentleman of a humane heart, and under such pressing circumstances as don't often happen. If ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now; and if ever you couldn't afterwards forgive yourself for causing it, this is the time. Eight or ten hours, worth, as I tell you, a hundred pound apiece at least, have been lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. I am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all the rest that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes, suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she, being in ignorance of what Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has communicated to me, may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her in company with a young lady, answering to the description of a young lady that she has a tenderness for--I ask no question, and I say no more than that--she will give me credit for being friendly. Let me come up with her and be able to have the hold upon her of putting that young lady for'ard, and I'll save her and prevail with her if she is alive. Let me come up with her alone--a hard matter--and I'll do my best, but I don't answer for what the best may be.

"Now, Mr. Jarndyce" - Mr. Bucket has read his face with the greatest attention - "I speak to you as a humane gentleman. If ever delay was dangerous, it's dangerous now. Eight or ten hours have been lost since Lady Dedlock disappeared. I am charged to find her. I am Inspector Bucket. Besides all the rest that's heavy on her, she has upon her, as she believes, suspicion of murder. If I follow her alone, she may be driven to desperation. But if I follow her in company with a young lady that she has a tenderness for - I ask no question, and I say no more than that - she will give me credit for being friendly.


Time flies; it's getting on for one o'clock. When one strikes, there's another hour gone, and it's worth a thousand pound now instead of a hundred."
This is all true, and the pressing nature of the case cannot be questioned. Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaks to Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will, but acting on his usual principle, does no such thing, following upstairs instead and keeping his man in sight. So he remains, dodging and lurking about in the gloom of the staircase while they confer. In a very little time Mr. Jarndyce comes down and tells him that Miss Summerson will join him directly and place herself under his protection to accompany him where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satisfied, expresses high approval and awaits her coming at the door.

Time flies; it's getting on for one o'clock."
Mr. Jarndyce begs him to remain there while he speaks to Miss Summerson. Mr. Bucket says he will, but does no such thing, following upstairs instead and keeping his man in sight. He lurks in the gloom of the staircase while they confer. Mr. Jarndyce comes down and tells him that Miss Summerson will join him directly and will accompany him where he pleases. Mr. Bucket, satisfied, expresses high approval and awaits her coming at the door.


There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far and wide. Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through the streets; many solitary figures out on heaths, and roads, and lying under haystacks. But the figure that he seeks is not among them. Other solitaries he perceives, in nooks of bridges, looking over; and in shadowed places down by the river's level; and a dark, dark, shapeless object drifting with the tide, more solitary than all, clings with a drowning hold on his attention.
Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? If, as he folds the handkerchief and carefully puts it up, it were able with an enchanted power to bring before him the place where she found it and the night-landscape near the cottage where it covered the little child, would he descry her there? On the waste where the brick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flare, where the straw-roofs of the wretched huts in which the bricks are made are being scattered by the wind, where the clay and water are hard frozen and the mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day looks like an instrument of human torture--traversing this deserted, blighted spot there is a lonely figure with the sad world to itself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind, and cast out, it would seem, from all companionship. It is the figure of a woman, too; but it is miserably dressed, and no such clothes ever came through the hall and out at the great door of the Dedlock mansion.

There he mounts a high tower in his mind and looks out far and wide. Many solitary figures he perceives creeping through the streets; many solitary figures out on heaths, and lying under haystacks. But the figure that he seeks is not among them. Other solitaries he imagines, looking over bridges; and in shadowed places down by the river; and a dark, dark, shapeless object drifting with the tide, more solitary than all, clings with a drowning hold on his attention.
Where is she? Living or dead, where is she? On the waste where the brick-kilns are burning with a pale blue flare, where the clay and water are hard frozen and the mill in which the gaunt blind horse goes round all day looks like an instrument of torture - traversing this deserted, blighted spot there is a lonely figure with the sad world to itself, pelted by the snow and driven by the wind. It is the figure of a woman; but it is miserably dressed, and no such clothes ever came through the hall of the great Dedlock mansion.


As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets where the high church spires and the distances are so near and clear in the morning light that the city itself seems renewed by rest, Allan revolves in his mind how and where he shall bestow his companion. "It surely is a strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart of a civilized world this creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of than an unowned dog." But it is none the less a fact because of its strangeness, and the difficulty remains.
At first he looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is still really following. But look where he will, he still beholds him close to the opposite houses, making his way with his wary hand from brick to brick and from door to door, and often, as he creeps along, glancing over at him watchfully. Soon satisfied that the last thing in his thoughts is to give him the slip, Allan goes on, considering with a less divided attention what he shall do.
A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be done. He stops there, looks round, and beckons Jo. Jo crosses and comes halting and shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, kneading dirt with a natural pestle and mortar. What is a dainty repast to Jo is then set before him, and he begins to gulp the coffee and to gnaw the bread and butter, looking anxiously about him in all directions as he eats and drinks, like a scared animal.

As Allan Woodcourt and Jo proceed along the streets in the morning light, Allan revolves in his mind where he shall bestow his companion.
"It surely is a strange fact," he considers, "that in the heart of a civilized world this creature in human form should be more difficult to dispose of than an unowned dog."
He looks behind him often to assure himself that Jo is still following, and sees him making his way with his wary hand from brick to brick and from door to door.
A breakfast-stall at a street-corner suggests the first thing to be done. Allan stops there and beckons Jo, who comes shuffling up, slowly scooping the knuckles of his right hand round and round in the hollowed palm of his left, like a dirty pestle and mortar. When food is set before him, he begins to gulp the coffee and to gnaw the bread and butter, looking anxiously about in all directions, like a scared animal.


But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him. "I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting down his food, "but I don't know nothink--not even that. I don't care for eating wittles nor yet for drinking on 'em." And Jo stands shivering and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.
Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest. "Draw breath, Jo!" "It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." He might add, "And rattles like it," but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."

But he is so sick and miserable that even hunger has abandoned him.
"I thought I was amost a-starvin, sir," says Jo, soon putting down his food, "but I don't care for eating." And he stands shivering and looking at the breakfast wonderingly.
Allan Woodcourt lays his hand upon his pulse and on his chest. "Draw breath, Jo!"
"It draws," says Jo, "as heavy as a cart." He might add, "And rattles like it," but he only mutters, "I'm a-moving on, sir."


Allan looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at hand, but a tavern does as well or better. He obtains a little measure of wine and gives the lad a portion of it very carefully. He begins to revive almost as soon as it passes his lips. "We may repeat that dose, Jo," observes Allan after watching him with his attentive face. "So! Now we will take five minutes' rest, and then go on again."

Allan Woodcourt looks about for an apothecary's shop. There is none at hand, but at a tavern he obtains a little measure of wine and gives the lad some of it. Jo begins to revive almost as soon as it passes his lips.
"We may repeat that dose, Jo," observes Allan. "So! Now we will take five minutes' rest, and then go on again."


Leaving the boy sitting on the bench of the breakfast-stall, with his back against an iron railing, Allan Woodcourt paces up and down in the early sunshine, casting an occasional look towards him without appearing to watch him. It requires no discernment to perceive that he is warmed and refreshed. If a face so shaded can brighten, his face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice of bread he had so hopelessly laid down. Observant of these signs of improvement, Allan engages him in conversation and elicits to his no small wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil, with all its consequences. Jo slowly munches as he slowly tells it. When he has finished his story and his bread, they go on again.
Intending to refer his difficulty in finding a temporary place of refuge for the boy to his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite, Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first foregathered. But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss Flite no longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, much obscured by dust, whose age is a problem, but who is indeed no other than the interesting Judy, is tart and spare in her replies. These sufficing, however, to inform the visitor that Miss Flite and her birds are domiciled with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell Yard, he repairs to that neighbouring place, where Miss Flite (who rises early that she may be punctual at the divan of justice held by her excellent friend the Chancellor) comes running downstairs with tears of welcome and with open arms.

As he sits on the bench in the pale sunshine, Jo's face brightens somewhat; and by little and little he eats the slice of bread he had laid down. Seeing these signs of improvement, Allan talks to him and hears to his wonder the adventure of the lady in the veil. Jo munches as he slowly tells it. When he has finished his story and his bread, they go on again.
Hoping to find a temporary place of refuge for the boy with his old patient, zealous little Miss Flite, Allan leads the way to the court where he and Jo first met. But all is changed at the rag and bottle shop; Miss Flite no longer lodges there; it is shut up; and a hard-featured female, no other than Judy, is tart and spare in her replies.
These inform the visitor that Miss Flite and her birds are lodging with a Mrs. Blinder, in Bell Yard. Allan goes to that place, where Miss Flite comes running downstairs with tears of welcome and with open arms.


"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My meritorious, distinguished, honourable officer!" She uses some odd expressions, but is as cordial and full of heart as sanity itself can be--more so than it often is. Allan, very patient with her, waits until she has no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in a doorway, and tells her how he comes there.
"Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? Now, you have a fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me."

"My dear physician!" cries Miss Flite. "My distinguished, honourable officer!" Allan patiently waits until she has no more raptures to express, then points out Jo, trembling in a doorway, and tells her how he comes there.
"Where can I lodge him hereabouts for the present? You have a fund of knowledge and good sense and can advise me."


Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, sets herself to consider; but it is long before a bright thought occurs to her. Mrs. Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's room. "Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands after a twentieth repetition of this remark. "Gridley! To be sure! Of course! My dear physician! General George will help us out."

Miss Flite, mighty proud of the compliment, considers. Mrs. Blinder is entirely let, and she herself occupies poor Gridley's room. "Gridley!" exclaims Miss Flite, clapping her hands. "Gridley! To be sure! General George will help us out."


It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, and would be, though Miss Flite had not already run upstairs to put on her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself with her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician in her disjointed manner on coming down in full array that General George, whom she often calls upon, knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce and takes a great interest in all connected with her, Allan is induced to think that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo, for his encouragement, that this walking about will soon be over now; and they repair to the general's. Fortunately it is not far.
From the exterior of George's Shooting Gallery, and the long entry, and the bare perspective beyond it, Allan Woodcourt augurs well. He also descries promise in the figure of Mr. George himself, striding towards them in his morning exercise with his pipe in his mouth, no stock on, and his muscular arms, developed by broadsword and dumbbell, weightily asserting themselves through his light shirt-sleeves.
"Your servant, sir," says Mr. George with a military salute. Good-humouredly smiling all over his broad forehead up into his crisp hair, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, and at some length, she performs the courtly ceremony of presentation. He winds it up with another "Your servant, sir!" and another salute.

It is hopeless to ask for any information about General George, as Miss Flite has already run upstairs to put on her pinched bonnet and her poor little shawl and to arm herself with her reticule of documents. But as she informs her physician that General George knows her dear Fitz Jarndyce and takes a great interest in her, Allan thinks that they may be in the right way. So he tells Jo that this walking about will soon be over. Fortunately the general's shooting gallery is not far.
From its exterior, Allan Woodcourt augurs well. He also sees promise in the figure of Mr. George himself, striding towards them with his pipe in his mouth, and his muscular arms weightily asserting themselves through his light shirt-sleeves.
"Your servant, sir," says Mr. George with a military salute. Good-humouredly smiling, he then defers to Miss Flite, as, with great stateliness, she performs the ceremony of introduction.
"Your servant, sir!


"Excuse me, sir. A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George.
"I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "but I am only a sea-going doctor."
"Indeed, sir! I should have thought you was a regular blue-jacket myself."
Allan hopes Mr. George will forgive his intrusion the more readily on that account, and particularly that he will not lay aside his pipe, which, in his politeness, he has testified some intention of doing. "You are very good, sir," returns the trooper. "As I know by experience that it's not disagreeable to Miss Flite, and since it's equally agreeable to yourself--" and finishes the sentence by putting it between his lips again. Allan proceeds to tell him all he knows about Jo, unto which the trooper listens with a grave face.

A sailor, I believe?" says Mr. George.
"I am proud to find I have the air of one," returns Allan; "but I am only a sea-going doctor." He proceeds to tell him all he knows about Jo, to which the trooper listens with a grave face.


"And that's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires, looking along the entry to where Jo stands staring up at the great letters on the whitewashed front, which have no meaning in his eyes.
"That's he," says Allan. "And, Mr. George, I am in this difficulty about him. I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, even if I could procure him immediate admission, because I foresee that he would not stay there many hours if he could be so much as got there. The same objection applies to a workhouse, supposing I had the patience to be evaded and shirked, and handed about from post to pillar in trying to get him into one, which is a system that I don't take kindly to."
"No man does, sir," returns Mr. George.
"I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered him to keep out of the way; in his ignorance, he believes this person to be everywhere, and cognizant of everything."

"That's the lad, sir, is it?" he inquires.
"That's he," says Allan. "I am unwilling to place him in a hospital, because I foresee that he would not stay there long even if he could be got there. The same objection applies to a workhouse, which is a system that I don't take kindly to."
"No man does, sir," returns Mr. George.
"I am convinced that he would not remain in either place, because he is possessed by an extraordinary terror of this person who ordered him to keep out of the way; he believes this person to be everywhere."


"I ask your pardon, sir," says Mr. George. "But you have not mentioned that party's name. Is it a secret, sir?"
"The boy makes it one. But his name is Bucket."
"Bucket the detective, sir?"
"The same man."
"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper after blowing out a cloud of smoke and squaring his chest, "and the boy is so far correct that he undoubtedly is a--rum customer." Mr. George smokes with a profound meaning after this and surveys Miss Flite in silence.

"Is that person's name a secret, sir?"
"His name is Bucket."
"Bucket the detective, sir?"
"The same man."
"The man is known to me, sir," returns the trooper, "and he undoubtedly is a - rum customer."


"Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson at least to know that this Jo, who tells so strange a story, has reappeared, and to have it in their power to speak with him if they should desire to do so. Therefore I want to get him, for the present moment, into any poor lodging kept by decent people where he would be admitted. Decent people and Jo, Mr. George," says Allan, following the direction of the trooper's eyes along the entry, "have not been much acquainted, as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know any one in this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my paying for him beforehand?"
As he puts the question, he becomes aware of a dirty-faced little man standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddly twisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. After a few more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down askant at the little man, and the little man winks up at the trooper.

"Now, I wish Mr. Jarndyce and Miss Summerson to know that Jo has reappeared, and to be able to speak with him if they should wish. Therefore I want to get him into any poor lodging kept by decent people. Decent people and Jo, Mr. George," says Allan, "have not been much acquainted, as you see. Hence the difficulty. Do you happen to know anyone in this neighbourhood who would receive him for a while on my paying for him beforehand?"
As he asks, he becomes aware of a little man standing at the trooper's elbow and looking up, with an oddly twisted figure and countenance, into the trooper's face. After a few more puffs at his pipe, the trooper looks down at the little man, who winks.


"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I would willingly be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all agreeable to Miss Summerson, and consequently I esteem it a privilege to do that young lady any service, however small. We are naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, both myself and Phil. You see what the place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy if the same would meet your views. No charge made, except for rations. We are not in a flourishing state of circumstances here, sir. We are liable to be tumbled out neck and crop at a moment's notice. However, sir, such as the place is, and so long as it lasts, here it is at your service."
With a comprehensive wave of his pipe, Mr. George places the whole building at his visitor's disposal.
"I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "you being one of the medical staff, that there is no present infection about this unfortunate subject?"

"Well, sir," says Mr. George, "I can assure you that I would willingly be knocked on the head at any time if it would be at all agreeable to Miss Summerson, and would do that young lady any service, however small. We are naturally in the vagabond way here, sir, myself and Phil. You see what the place is. You are welcome to a quiet corner of it for the boy. No charge made, except for rations. We are not in a flourishing state here; we are liable to be tumbled out at a moment's notice. However, sir, such as the place is, and so long as it lasts, it is at your service. I take it for granted, sir," he adds, "that there is no present infection about this unfortunate subject?"


Allan is quite sure of it.
"Because, sir," says Mr. George, shaking his head sorrowfully, "we have had enough of that."
His tone is no less sorrowfully echoed by his new acquaintance. "Still I am bound to tell you," observes Allan after repeating his former assurance, "that the boy is deplorably low and reduced and that he may be--I do not say that he is--too far gone to recover."
"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the trooper.
"Yes, I fear so."
"Then, sir," returns the trooper in a decisive manner, "it appears to me--being naturally in the vagabond way myself--that the sooner he comes out of the street, the better. You, Phil! Bring him in!"

Allan is quite sure of it. "Still I am bound to tell you," he adds, "that the boy is deplorably low and that he may be too far gone to recover."
"Do you consider him in present danger, sir?" inquires the trooper.
"Yes, I fear so."
"Then, sir," returns the trooper decisively, "the sooner he comes out of the street, the better. Phil! Bring him in!"