“Thank you, Snagsby, no further use,” says Mr Tulkinghorn. “I am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already.”

“Not at all, sir. I wish you good night.”

“You see, Mr Snagsby,” says Mr Bucket, accompanying him to the door and shaking hands with him over and over again, “what I like in you, is, that you’re a man it’s of no use pumping; that’s what you are. When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it’s done with and gone, and there’s an end of it. That’s what you do.”

“That is certainly what I endeavour to do, sir,” returns Mr Snagsby.

“No, you don’t do yourself justice. It an’t what you endeavour to do,” says Mr Bucket, shaking hands with him and blessing him in the tenderest manner, “it’s what you do. That’s what I estimate in a man in your way of business.”

Mr Snagsby makes a suitable response; and goes homeward so confused by the events of the evening, that he is doubtful of his being awake and out — doubtful of the reality of the streets through which he goes — doubtful of the reality of the moon that shines above him. He is presently reassured on these subjects, by the unchallengeable reality of Mrs Snagsby, sitting up with her head in a perfect beehive of curl-papers and night-cap: who has dispatched Guster to the police station with official intelligence of her husband’s being made away with, and who within the last two hours, has passed through every stage of swooning with the greatest decorum. But, as the little woman feelingly says, many thanks she gets for it!