behind. Directing the pitching
of the chair, in an affable and easy manner, Mr. Bucket dismisses the Mercuries,
and locks the door again. Sir Leicester looks on at this invasion of the sacred
precincts with an icy stare.
    »Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen,« says Mr. Bucket, in a
confidential voice. »I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective, I am; and this,«
producing the tip of his convenient little staff from his breast-pocket, »is my
authority. Now, you wanted to see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Well! You do
see him; and, mind you, it ain't every one as is admitted to that honour. Your
name, old gentleman, is Smallweed; that's what your name is; I know it well.«
    »Well, and you never heard any harm of it!« cries Mr. Smallweed in a shrill
loud voice.
    »You don't happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?« retorts Mr.
Bucket, with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper.
    »No!«
    »Why, they killed him,« says Mr. Bucket, »on account of his having so much
cheek. Don't you get into the same position, because it isn't worthy of you. You
ain't in the habit of conversing with a deaf person, are you?«
    »Yes,« snarls Mr. Smallweed, »my wife's deaf.«
    »That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as she ain't here,
just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and I'll not only be obliged to
you, but it'll do you more credit,« says Mr. Bucket. »This other gentleman is in
the preaching line, I think?«
    »Name of Chadband,« Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking henceforth in a much
lower key.
    »Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name,« says Mr. Bucket,
offering his hand, »and consequently feel a liking for it. Mrs. Chadband, no
doubt?«
    »And Mrs. Snagsby,« Mr. Smallweed introduces.
    »Husband a law-stationer, and a friend of my own,« says Mr. Bucket. »Love
him like a brother! - Now, what's up?«
    »Do you mean what business have we come upon?« Mr. Smallweed asks, a little