Allegory looks pretty cool in Lincoln's Inn Fields, though theevening is hot, for both Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows are wide open,and the room is lofty, gusty, and gloomy. These may not bedesirable characteristics when November comes with fog and sleet orJanuary with ice and snow, but they have their merits in the sultrylong vacation weather. They enable Allegory, though it has cheekslike peaches, and knees like bunches of blossoms, and rosyswellings for calves to its legs and muscles to its arms, to looktolerably cool to-night.

　　Plenty of dust comes in at Mr. Tulkinghorn's windows, and plentymore has generated among his furniture and papers. It lies thickeverywhere. When a breeze from the country that has lost its waytakes fright and makes a blind hurry to rush out again, it flingsas much dust in the eyes of Allegory as the law-or Mr. Tulkinghorn,one of its trustiest representatives--may scatter, on occasion, inthe eyes of the laity.

　　In his lowering magazine of dust, the universal article into whichhis papers and himself, and all his clients, and all things ofearth, animate and inanimate, are resolving, Mr. Tulkinghorn sitsat one of the open windows enjoying a bottle of old port. Though ahard-grained man, close, dry, and silent, he can enjoy old winewith the best. He has a priceless bin of port in some artfulcellar under the Fields, which is one of his many secrets. When hedines alone in chambers, as he has dined to-day, and has his bit offish and his steak or chicken brought in from the coffee-house, hedescends with a candle to the echoing regions below the desertedmansion, and heralded by a remote reverberation of thunderingdoors, comes gravely back encircled by an earthy atmosphere andcarrying a bottle from which he pours a radiant nectar, two scoreand ten years old, that blushes in the glass to find itself sofamous and fills the whole room with the fragrance of southerngrapes.

　　Mr. Tulkinghorn, sitting in the twilight by the open window, enjoyshis wine. As if it whispered to him of its fifty years of silenceand seclusion, it shuts him up the closer. More impenetrable thanever, he sits, and drinks, and mellows as it were in secrecy,pondering at that twilight hour on all the mysteries he knows,associated with darkening woods in the country, and vast blankshut-up houses in town, and perhaps sparing a thought or two forhimself, and his family history, and his money, and his will--all amystery to every one--and that one bachelor friend of his, a man ofthe same mould and a lawyer too, who lived the same kind of lifeuntil he was seventy-five years old, and then suddenly conceiving(as it is supposed) an impression that it was too monotonous, gavehis gold watch to his hair-dresser one summer evening and walkedleisurely home to the Temple and hanged himself.

　　But Mr. Tulkinghorn is not alone to-night to ponder at his usuallength. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestlyand uncomfortably drawn a little way from it, sits a bald, mild,shining man who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyerbids him fill his glass.

　　"Now, Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "to go over this odd storyagain.""If you please, sir.""You told me when you were so good as to step round here lastnight--""For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir;but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in thatperson, and I thought it possible that you might--just--wish--to--"Mr. Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion or toadmit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr.

　　Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, "I must askyou to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.""Not at all," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "You told me, Snagsby, thatyou put on your hat and came round without mentioning yourintention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it's nota matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned.""Well, sir," returns Mr. Snagsby, "you see, my little woman is--notto put too fine a point upon it--inquisitive. She's inquisitive.

　　Poor little thing, she's liable to spasms, and it's good for her tohave her mind employed. In consequence of which she employs it--Ishould say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whetherit concerns her or not--especially not. My little woman has a veryactive mind, sir."Mr. Snagsby drinks and murmurs with an admiring cough behind hishand, "Dear me, very fine wine indeed!""Therefore you kept your visit to yourself last night?" says Mr.

　　Tulkinghorn. "And to-night too?""Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in--not to put too fine a point on it--in a pious state, or in what sheconsiders such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is thename they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. Hehas a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I amnot quite favourable to his style myself. That's neither here northere. My little woman being engaged in that way made it easierfor me to step round in a quiet manner."Mr. Tulkinghorn assents. "Fill your glass, Snagsby.""Thank you, sir, I am sure," returns the stationer with his coughof deference. "This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!""It is a rare wine now," says Mr. Tulkinghorn. "It is fifty yearsold.""Is it indeed, sir? But I am not surprised to hear it, I am sure.

　　It might be--any age almost." After rendering this general tributeto the port, Mr. Snagsby in his modesty coughs an apology behindhis hand for drinking anything so precious.

　　"Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?" asks Mr.

　　Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rustysmallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair.

　　"With pleasure, sir."Then, with fidelity, though with some prolixity, the law-stationerrepeats Jo's statement made to the assembled guests at his house.

　　On coming to the end of his narrative, he gives a great start andbreaks off with, "Dear me, sir, I wasn't aware there was any othergentleman present!"Mr. Snagsby is dismayed to see, standing with an attentive facebetween himself and the lawyer at a little distance from the table,a person with a hat and stick in his hand who was not there when hehimself came in and has not since entered by the door or by eitherof the windows. There is a press in the room, but its hinges havenot creaked, nor has a step been audible upon the floor. Yet thisthird person stands there with his attentive face, and his hat andstick in his hands, and his hands behind him, a composed and quietlistener. He is a stoutly built, steady-looking, sharp-eyed man inblack, of about the middle-age. Except that he looks at Mr.

　　Snagsby as if he were going to take his portrait, there is nothingremarkable about him at first sight but his ghostly manner ofappearing.

　　"Don't mind this gentleman," says Mr. Tulkinghorn in his quiet way.

　　"This is only Mr. Bucket.""Oh, indeed, sir?" returns the stationer, expressing by a coughthat he is quite in the dark as to who Mr. Bucket may be.

　　"I wanted him to hear this story," says the lawyer, "because I havehalf a mind (for a reason) to know more of it, and he is veryintelligent in such things. What do you say to this, Bucket?""It's very plain, sir. Since our people have moved this boy on,and he's not to be found on his old lay, if Mr. Snagsby don'tobject to go down with me to Tom-all-Alone's and point him out, wecan have him here in less than a couple of hours' time. I can doit without Mr. Snagsby, of course, but this is the shortest way.""Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby," says the lawyer inexplanation.

　　"Is he indeed, sir?" says Mr. Snagsby with a strong tendency in hisclump of hair to stand on end.

　　"And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to theplace in question," pursues the lawyer, "I shall feel obliged toyou if you will do so."In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dipsdown to the bottom of his mind.

　　"Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy," he says. "You won't dothat. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall onlybring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him,and he'll be paid for his trouble and sent away again. It'll be agood job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see theboy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; youan't going to do that.""Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!" cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully. Andreassured, "Since that's the case--""Yes! And lookee here, Mr. Snagsby," resumes Bucket, taking himaside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, andspeaking in a confidential tone. "You're a man of the world, youknow, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That's what YOUare.""I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion," returnsthe stationer with his cough of modesty, "but--""That's what YOU are, you know," says Bucket. "Now, it an'tnecessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, whichis a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake andhave his senses about him and his head screwed on tight (I had anuncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a manlike you that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matterslike this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!""Certainly, certainly," returns the other.

　　"I don't mind telling YOU," says Bucket with an engaging appearanceof frankness, "that as far as I can understand it, there seems tobe a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a littleproperty, and whether this female hasn't been up to some gamesrespecting that property, don't you see?""Oh!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.

　　"Now, what YOU want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby onthe breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is that everyperson should have their rights according to justice. That's whatYOU want.""To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.

　　"On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you callit, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncleused to call it.""Why, I generally say customer myself," replies Mr. Snagsby.

　　"You're right!" returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quiteaffectionately. "--On account of which, and at the same time tooblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, inconfidence, to Tom-all-Alone's and to keep the whole thing quietever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about yourintentions, if I understand you?""You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby.

　　"Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimatewith it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, I am."They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of hisunfathomable depths, drinking his old wine, and go down into thestreets.

　　"You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name ofGridley, do you?" says Bucket in friendly converse as they descendthe stairs.

　　"No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know anybody of thatname. Why?""Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only having allowed his temperto get a little the better of him and having been threatening somerespectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant Ihave got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense shoulddo."As they walk along, Mr. Snagsby observes, as a novelty, thathowever quick their pace may be, his companion still seems in someundefinable manner to lurk and lounge; also, that whenever he isgoing to turn to the right or left, he pretends to have a fixedpurpose in his mind of going straight ahead, and wheels off,sharply, at the very last moment. Now and then, when they pass apolice-constable on his beat, Mr. Snagsby notices that both theconstable and his guide fall into a deep abstraction as they cometowards each other, and appear entirely to overlook each other, andto gaze into space. In a few instances, Mr. Bucket, coming behindsome under-sized young man with a shining hat on, and his sleekhair twisted into one flat curl on each side of his head, almostwithout glancing at him touches him with his stick, upon which theyoung man, looking round, instantly evaporates. For the most partMr. Bucket notices things in general, with a face as unchanging asthe great mourning ring on his little finger or the brooch,composed of not much diamond and a good deal of setting, which hewears in his shirt.

　　When they come at last to Tom-all-Alone's, Mr. Bucket stops for amoment at the corner and takes a lighted bull's-eye from theconstable on duty there, who then accompanies him with his ownparticular bull's-eye at his waist. Between his two conductors,Mr. Snagsby passes along the middle of a villainous street,undrained, unventilated, deep in black mud and corrupt water--though the roads are dry elsewhere--and reeking with such smellsand sights that he, who has lived in London all his life, canscarce believe his senses. Branching from this street and itsheaps of ruins are other streets and courts so infamous that Mr.

　　Snagsby sickens in body and mind and feels as if he were goingevery moment deeper down into the infernal gulf.

　　"Draw off a bit here, Mr. Snagsby," says Bucket as a kind of shabbypalanquin is borne towards them, surrounded by a noisy crowd.

　　"Here's the fever coming up the street!"As the unseen wretch goes by, the crowd, leaving that object ofattraction, hovers round the three visitors like a dream ofhorrible faces and fades away up alleys and into ruins and behindwalls, and with occasional cries and shrill whistles of warning,thenceforth flits about them until they leave the place.

　　"Are those the fever-houses, Darby?" Mr. Bucket coolly asks as heturns his bull's-eye on a line of stinking ruins.

　　Darby replies that "all them are," and further that in all, formonths and months, the people "have been down by dozens" and havebeen carried out dead and dying "like sheep with the rot." Bucketobserving to Mr. Snagsby as they go on again that he looks a littlepoorly, Mr. Snagsby answers that he feels as if he couldn't breathethe dreadful air.

　　There is inquiry made at various houses for a boy named Jo. As fewpeople are known i............