,« kissing him, »one for yourself; three for the
children. Now, I'm away into Lincolnshire after George's mother!«
    And she actually set off while we three stood looking at one another lost in
amazement. She actually trudged away in her grey cloak at a sturdy pace, and
turned the corner, and was gone.
    »Mr. Bagnet,« said my guardian. »Do you mean to let her go in that way?«
    »Can't help it,« he returned. »Made her way home once. From another quarter
of the world. With the same grey cloak. And same umbrella. Whatever the old girl
says, do. Do it! Whenever the old girl says, I'll do it. She does it.«
    »Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks,« rejoined my guardian, »and
it is impossible to say more for her.«
    »She's Colour-Serjeant of the Nonpareil battalion,« said Mr. Bagnet, looking
at us over his shoulder, as he went his way also. »And there's not such another.
But I never own to it before her. Discipline must be maintained.«
 

                                  Chapter LIII

                                   The Track

Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation together under
existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter of this pressing
interest-under his consideration, the fat forefinger seems to rise to the
dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to his ears, and it whispers
information; he puts it to his lips, and it enjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it
over his nose, and it sharpens his scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and
it charms him to destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariably
predict, that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are in much conference, a terrible
avenger will be heard of before long.
    Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, on the whole a
benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe upon the follies of mankind, Mr.
Bucket pervades a vast number of houses, and strolls about an infinity of
streets: to outward appearance rather languishing for want of an object. He is
in the friendliest condition towards his species, and will drink with most of
them. He is free with his money, affable in his manners, innocent in his
conversation - - but, through the placid stream of his life, there glides an
under-current of forefinger.
    Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the
