“Was Neckett?” said the boy. “Yes, wery much so. He was never tired of watching. He’d set upon a post at a street corner, eight or ten hours at a stretch, if he undertook to do it.”

“He might have done worse,” I heard my Guardian soliloquise. “He might have undertaken to do it, and not done it. Thank you. That’s all I want.”

We left the boy, with his head on one side, and his arms on the gate, fondling and sucking the spikes; and went back to Lincoln’s Inn, where Mr Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer Coavinses, awaited us. Then, we all went to Bell Yard: a narrow alley, at a very short distance. We soon found the chandler’s shop. In it was a good-natured-looking old woman, with a dropsy, or an asthma, or perhaps both.

“Neckett’s children?” said she, in reply to my inquiry. “Yes, Surely, miss. Three pair, if you please. Door right opposite the top of the stairs.” And she handed me the key across the counter.

I glanced at the key, and glanced at her; but she took it for granted that I knew what to do with it. As it could only be intended for the children’s door, I came out, without askmg any more questions, and led the way up the dark stairs. We went as quietly as we could, but, four of us made some noise on the aged boards; and, when we came to the second story, we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there, looking out of his room.

“Is it Gridley that’s wanted?” he said, fixing his eyes on me with an angry stare.

“No, sir,” said I, “I am going higher up.”

He looked at Ada, and at Mr Jarndyce, and at Mr Skimpole: fixing the same angry stare on each in succession, as they passed and followed me. Mr Jarndyce gave him good day. “Good day!” he said, abruptly, and fiercely. He was a tall, sallow man, with a care-worn head, on which but little hair remained, a deeply- lined face, and prominent eyes. He had a combative look; and a chafing, irritable manner, which, associated with his figure — still large and powerful, though evidently in its decline — rather alarmed me. He had a pen in his hand, and, in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, I saw that it was covered with a litter of papers.

Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room. I tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, “We are locked in. Mrs Blinder’s got the key!”

I applied the key on hearing this, and opened the door. In a poor room with a sloping ceiling, and containing very little furniture, was a mite of a boy, some five or six years old, nursing and hushing a heavy child of eighteen months. There was no fire, though the weather was cold; both children were wrapped in some poor shawls and tippets, as a substitute. Their clothing was not so warm, however, but that their noses looked red and pinched, and their small figures shrunken, as the boy walked up and down, nursing and hushing the child with its head on his shoulder.

“Who has locked you up here alone?” we naturally asked.

“Charley,” said the boy, standing still to gaze at us.

“Is Charley your brother?”

“No. She’s my sister, Charlotte. Father called her Charley.”

“Are there any more of you besides Charley?”

“Me,” said the boy, “and Emma,” patting the limp bonnet of the child he was nursing. “And Charley.”

“Where is Charley now?”