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 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 Color-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.”

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 secresy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpens his scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him to his destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariably predict, that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are much in 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 abstract, he is here to-day and gone to-morrow—but, very unlike man indeed, he is here again the next day. This evening he will be casually looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir Leicester Dedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walking on the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks, pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A few hours afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together, comparing forefingers.

It is likely that these occupations are irreconcileable with home