 else's? You've got a mark upon you, somewheres
or another, I suppose?«
    He finds it as he speaks, »Esther Summerson.«
    »Oh!« says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear. »Come, I'll take
you.«
    He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has carried
them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it, glides away after some
five minutes in all, and passes into the street. With a glance upward at the
dimly lighted windows of Sir Leicester's room, he sets off, full-swing to the
nearest coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be driven
to the Shooting Gallery. Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge of
horses; but he lays out a little money on the principal events in that line, and
generally sums up his knowledge of the subject in the remark, that when he sees
a horse as can go, he knows him.
    His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance. Clattering over the
stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his keen eyes to bear on
every slinking creature whom he passes in the midnight streets, and even on the
lights in upper windows where people are going or gone to bed, and on all the
turnings that he rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where
the snow lies thin - for something may present itself to assist him, anywhere -
he dashes to his destination at such a speed, that when he stops, the horse half
smothers him in a cloud of steam.
    »Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I'll be back.«
    He runs up the long wooden entry, and finds the trooper smoking his pipe.
    »I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, my lad. I
haven't a word to spare. Now, honour! All to save a woman. Miss Summerson that
was here when Gridley died - that was the name, I. Know - all right! - where
does she live?«
    The trooper has just come from there, and gives him the address near Oxford
Street.
    »You won't repent it, George. Good night!«
    He is off again, with an impression of having seen Phil sitting by the
frosty fire, staring at him open- and gallops away again, and gets out in a
cloud of steam again.
    Mr. Jarndyce, the only
