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.

“O 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!”

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.

“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.”

“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?”