“Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” returns Mr Bucket, “put it to her Ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her Ladyship, if you think it right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You’ll find, or I’m much mistaken, that the deceased Mr Tulkinghorn had the intention of communicating the whole to you, as soon as he considered it ripe; and further, that he had given her Ladyship so to understand. Why, he might have been going to reveal it the very morning when I examined the body! You don’t know what I’m going to say and do, five minutes from this present time, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet; and supposing I was to be picked off now, you might wonder why I hadn’t done it, don’t you see?”

True. Sir Leicester, avoiding, with some trouble, those obtrusive sounds, says, “True.” At this juncture, a considerable noise of voices is heard in the hall. Mr Bucket, after listening, goes to the library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again. Then he draws in his head, and whispers, hurriedly, but composedly, “Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family affair has taken air, as I expected it might; the deceased Mr Tulkinghorn being cut down so sudden. The chance to hush it, is to let in these people now in a wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sitting quiet — on the family account — while I reckon ’em up? And would you just throw in a nod, when I seem to ask you for it?”

Sir Leicester indistinctly answers, “Officer. The best you can, the best you can!” and Mr Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crook of the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voices quickly die away. He is not long in returning, a few paces ahead of Mercury, and a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomed smalls, who bear between them a chair in which is an incapable old man. Another man and two women come behind. Directing the pitching of the chair, in an affable and easy manner, Mr Bucket dismisses the Mercuries, and locks the door again. Sir Leicester looks on at this invasion of the sacred precincts with an icy stare.

“Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen,” says Mr Bucket, in a confidential voice. “I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective, I am; and this,” producing the tip of his convenient little staff from his breast-pocket, “is my authority. Now, you wanted to see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Well! You do see him; and, mind you, it ain’t every one as is admitted to that honour. Your name, old gentleman, is Smallweed; that’s what your name is; I know it well.”

“Well, and you never heard any harm of it!” cries Mr Smallweed in a shrill loud voice.

“You don’t happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?” retorts Mr Bucket, with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper.

“No!”

“Why, they killed him,” says Mr Bucket, “on account of his having so much cheek. Don’t you get into the same position, because it isn’t worthy of you. You ain’t in the habit of conversing with a deaf person, are you?”

“Yes,” snarls Mr Smallweed, “my wife’s deaf.”

“That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as she ain’t here, just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and I’ll not only be obliged to you, but it’ll do you more credit,” says Mr Bucket. “This other gentleman is in the preaching line, I think?”

“Name of Chadband,” Mr Smallweed puts in, speaking henceforth in a much lower key.

“Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name,” says Mr Bucket, offering his hand, “and consequently feel a liking for it. Mrs Chadband, no doubt?”

“And Mrs Snagsby,” Mr Smallweed introduces.