Mr. Tulkinghorn has seen the entry, found it before the law-stationer, read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill.

“What do you call him?  Nemo?” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.  “Nemo, sir.  Here it is.  Forty-two folio.  Given out on the Wednesday night at eight o’clock, brought in on the Thursday morning at half after nine.”

“Nemo!” repeats Mr. Tulkinghorn.  “Nemo is Latin for no one.”

“It must be English for some one, sir, I think,” Mr. Snagsby submits with his deferential cough.  “It is a person’s name.  Here it is, you see, sir!  Forty-two folio.  Given out Wednesday night, eight o’clock; brought in Thursday morning, half after nine.”

The tail of Mr. Snagsby’s eye becomes conscious of the head of Mrs. Snagsby looking in at the shop-door to know what he means by deserting his tea.  Mr. Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough to Mrs. Snagsby, as who should say, “My dear, a customer!”

“Half after nine, sir,” repeats Mr. Snagsby.  “Our law-writers, who live by job-work, are a queer lot; and this may not be his name, but it’s the name he goes by.  I remember now, sir, that he gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule Office, and the King’s Bench Office, and the Judges’ Chambers, and so forth.  You know the kind of document, sir—­wanting employ?”

Mr. Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back of Coavinses’, the sheriff’s officer’s, where lights shine in Coavinses’ windows.  Coavinses’ coffee-room is at the back, and the shadows of several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds.  Mr. Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head to glance over his shoulder at his little woman and to make apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect:  “Tul-king-horn—­ rich—­in-flu-en-tial!”

“Have you given this man work before?” asks Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“Oh, dear, yes, sir!  Work of yours.”

“Thinking of more important matters, I forget where you said he lived?”

“Across the lane, sir.  In fact, he lodges at a—­” Mr. Snagsby makes another bolt, as if the bit of bread and buffer were insurmountable “—­at a rag and bottle shop.”

“Can you show me the place as I go back?”

“With the greatest pleasure, sir!”

Mr. Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat, pulls on his black coat, takes his hat from its peg.  “Oh!  Here is my little woman!” he says aloud.  “My dear, will you be so kind as to tell one of the lads to look after the shop while I step across the lane with Mr. Tulkinghorn?  Mrs. Snagsby, sir—­I shan’t be two minutes, my love!”

Mrs. Snagsby bends to the lawyer, retires behind the counter, peeps at them through the window-blind, goes softly into the back office, refers to the entries in the book still lying open.  Is evidently curious.

“You will find that the place is rough, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, walking deferentially in the road and leaving the narrow pavement to the lawyer; “and the party is very rough.  But they’re a wild lot in general, sir.  The advantage of this particular man is that he never wants sleep.  He’ll go at it right on end if you want him to, as long as ever you like.”