Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is that he has had to do with. Something is wrong somewhere, but what something, what may come of it, to whom, when, and from which unthought of and unheard of quarter is the puzzle of his life. His remote impressions of the robes and coronets, the stars and garters, that sparkle through the surface-dust of Mr. Tulkinghorn's chambers; his veneration for the mysteries presided over by that best and closest of his customers, whom all the Inns of Court, all Chancery Lane, and all the legal neighbourhood agree to hold in awe; his remembrance of Detective Mr. Bucket with his forefinger and his confidential manner, impossible to be evaded or declined, persuade him that he is a party to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. And it is the fearful peculiarity of this condition that, at any hour of his daily life, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, at any entrance of a messenger, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may take air and fire, explode, and blow up--Mr. Bucket only knows whom.

Mr. Snagsby cannot make out what it is all about. Something is wrong somewhere, but what something is the puzzle of his life. His veneration for Mr. Tulkinghorn, and his remembrance of Detective Bucket with his confidential manner, persuade him that he is a party to some dangerous secret without knowing what it is. At any moment, at any opening of the shop-door, at any pull of the bell, or any delivery of a letter, the secret may explode, and blow up - Mr. Bucket only knows whom.
