“To be sure she did! I let her into the garden over the way.”

“And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw you doing it.”

“I didn’t see you,” says Mercury.

“I was rather in a hurry,” returns Mr Bucket, “for I was going to visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea — next door but two to the old original Bun House — ninety year old the old lady is, a single woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to be passing at the time. Let’s see. What time might it be? It wasn’t ten.”

“Half-past nine.”

“You’re right. So it was. And if I don’t deceive myself, my Lady was muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?”

“Of course she was.”

Of course she was. Mr Bucket must return to a little work he has to get on with up-stairs; but he must shake hands with Mercury in acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he — this is all he asks — will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think of bestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the advantage of both parties?