to be regarded, in that boney light!’ ” Having repeated the fatal expressions, Mr Venus drinks more tea by gulps, and offers an explanation of his doing so.

“It lowers me. When I’m equally lowered all over, lethargy sets in. By sticking to it till one or two in the morning, I get oblivion. Don’t let me detain you, Mr Wegg. I’m not company for any one.”

“It is not on that account,” says Silas, rising, “but because I’ve got an appointment. It’s time I was at Harmon’s.”

“Eh?” said Mr Venus. “Harmon’s, up Battle Bridge way?”

Mr Wegg admits that he is bound for that port.

“You ought to be in a good thing, if you’ve worked yourself in there. There’s lots of money going, there.”

“To think,” says Silas, “that you should catch it up so quick, and know about it. Wonderful!”

“Not at all, Mr Wegg. The old gentleman wanted to know the nature and worth of everything that was found in the dust; and many’s the bone, and feather, and what not, that he’s brought to me.”

“Really, now!”

“Yes. (Oh dear me, dear me!) And he’s buried quite in this neighbourhood, you know. Over yonder.”

Mr Wegg does not know, but he makes as if he did, by responsively nodding his head. He also follows with his eyes, the toss of Venus’s head: as if to seek a direction to over yonder.

“I took an interest in that discovery in the river,” says Venus. “(She hadn’t written her cutting refusal at that time.) I’ve got up there — never mind, though.” He had raised the candle at arm’s length towards one of the dark shelves, and Mr Wegg had turned to look, when he broke off.

“The old gentleman was well known all round here. There used to be stories about his having hidden all kinds of property in those dust mounds. I suppose there was nothing in ’em. Probably you know, Mr Wegg?”

“Nothing in ’em,” says Wegg, who has never heard a word of this before.

“Don’t let me detain you. Good night!”

The unfortunate Mr Venus gives him a shake of the hand with a shake of his own head, and drooping down in his chair, proceeds to pour himself out more tea. Mr Wegg, looking back over his shoulder as he pulls the door open by the strap, notices that the movement so shakes the crazy shop, and so shakes a momentary flare out of the candle, as that the babies — Hindoo, African, and British — the “human warious”, the French gentleman, the green glass-eyed cats, the dogs, the ducks, and all the rest of the collection, show for an instant as if paralytically animated; while even poor little Cock Robin at Mr Venus’s elbow turns over on his innocent side. Next moment, Mr Wegg is stumping under the gaslights and through the mud.