“Who did you want?” said the boy, fitting two of the spikes into his chin.

“There was a follower, or an officer, or something, here,” said Mr. Jarndyce, “who is dead.”

“Yes?” said the boy.  “Well?”

“I want to know his name, if you please?”

“Name of Neckett,” said the boy.

“And his address?”

“Bell Yard,” said the boy.  “Chandler’s shop, left hand side, name of Blinder.”

“Was he—­I don’t know how to shape the question—­” murmured my guardian, “industrious?”

“Was Neckett?” said the boy.  “Yes, wery much so.  He was never tired of watching.  He’d set upon a post at a street corner eight or ten hours at a stretch if he undertook to do it.”

“He might have done worse,” I heard my guardian soliloquize.  “He might have undertaken to do it and not done it.  Thank you.  That’s all I want.”

We left the boy, with his head on one side and his arms on the gate, fondling and sucking the spikes, and went back to Lincoln’s Inn, where Mr. Skimpole, who had not cared to remain nearer Coavinses, awaited us.  Then we all went to Bell Yard, a narrow alley at a very short distance.  We soon found the chandler’s shop.  In it was a good-natured-looking old woman with a dropsy, or an asthma, or perhaps both.

“Neckett’s children?” said she in reply to my inquiry.  “Yes, Surely, miss.  Three pair, if you please.  Door right opposite the stairs.”  And she handed me the key across the counter.

I glanced at the key and glanced at her, but she took it for granted that I knew what to do with it.  As it could only be intended for the children’s door, I came out without asking any more questions and led the way up the dark stairs.  We went as quietly as we could, but four of us made some noise on the aged boards, and when we came to the second story we found we had disturbed a man who was standing there looking out of his room.

“Is it Gridley that’s wanted?” he said, fixing his eyes on me with an angry stare.

“No, sir,” said I; “I am going higher up.”

He looked at Ada, and at Mr. Jarndyce, and at Mr. Skimpole, fixing the same angry stare on each in succession as they passed and followed me.  Mr. Jarndyce gave him good day.  “Good day!” he said abruptly and fiercely.  He was a tall, sallow man with a careworn head on which but little hair remained, a deeply lined face, and prominent eyes.  He had a combative look and a chafing, irritable manner which, associated with his figure—­still large and powerful, though evidently in its decline—­rather alarmed me.  He had a pen in his hand, and in the glimpse I caught of his room in passing, I saw that it was covered with a litter of papers.

Leaving him standing there, we went up to the top room.  I tapped at the door, and a little shrill voice inside said, “We are locked in.  Mrs. Blinder’s got the key!”