, and so
long used to make his cramped nest in holes and corners of human nature that he
has forgotten its broader and better range, comes sauntering home. In the oven
made by the hot pavements and hot buildings, he has baked himself dryer than
usual; and he has, in his thirsty mind, his mellowed port-wine half a century
old.
    The lamplighter is skipping up and down his ladder on Mr. Tulkinghorn's side
of the Fields, when that high-priest of noble mysteries arrives at his own dull
court-yard. He ascends the door-steps, and is gliding into the dusky hall, when
he encounters, on the top step, a bowing and propitiatory little man.
    »Is that Snagsby?«
    »Yes, sir. I hope you are well, sir. I was just giving you up, sir, and
going home.«
    »Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?«
    »Well, sir,« says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his head, in
his deference towards his best customer, »I was wishful to say a word to you,
sir.«
    »Can you say it here?«
    »Perfectly, sir.«
    »Say it then.« The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing at the
top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the court-yard.
    »It is relating,« says Mr. Snagsby, in a mysterious low voice: »it is
relating - not to put too fine a point upon it - to the foreigner, sir.«
    Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. »What foreigner?«
    »The foreign female, sir. French, if I don't mistake? I am not acquainted
with that language myself, but I should judge from her manners and appearance
that she was French; anyways, certainly foreign. Her that was up-stairs, sir,
when Mr. Bucket and me had the honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy
that night.«
    »Oh! yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense.«
    »Indeed, sir?« Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind his hat. »I
am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in general, but I have no
doubt it would be that.« Mr. Snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with
some desperate design of repeating the name; but on reflection coughs again to
excuse himself.
    »And what can you have to say, Snagsby,