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 surogeon's professional interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual ; from the old man's unction ; and the little crazy woman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghoni from his case.

He now interposes ; addressing the young surgeon, in his unmoved, professional way.

“I looked in here,” he observes, “just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my stationer—Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knows anything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah !” to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in Court, and whom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the law stationer. “Suppose you do!”

While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation, and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook and he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing ; but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.

Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily, in his grey coat and his black sleeves. “Dear me, dear me,” he says ; “and it has come to this, has it ! Bless my soul !”

“Can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, Snagsby ?” inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. “He was in arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know.”

“Well, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind his hand; “I really don't know what advice I could offer, except sending for the beadle.”

“I don't speak of advice,” returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. “I could advise”

(“No one better, sir, I am sure,” says Mr. Snagsby, with his deferential cough.)

“I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he came from, or to anything concerning him.”

“I assure you, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, after prefacing his reply with his cough of general propitiation, “that I no more know where he came from, than I know”

“Where he has gone to, perhaps,” suggests the surgeon, to help him out.

A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook, with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.

“As to his connexions, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, “if a person was to say to me, ‘Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the Bank of England, if you'll only name one of 'em, I couldn't do it, sir ! About a year and a half ago—to the best of my belief at the time when he first came to lodge at the present Rag and Bottle Shop—”

“That was the time !” says Krook, with a nod.

“About a year and a half ago,” says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, “he