In his chambers Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant.  Gridley, a disappointed suitor, has been here to-day and has been alarming.  We are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow shall be held to bail again.  From the ceiling, foreshortened Allegory, in the person of one impossible Roman upside down, points with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively toward the window.  Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no reason, look out of window?  Is the hand not always pointing there?  So he does not look out of window.

And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by?  There are women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks—­too many; they are at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of that, they create business for lawyers.  What would it be to see a woman going by, even though she were going secretly?  They are all secret.  Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that very well.

But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house behind, between whose plain dress and her refined manner there is something exceedingly inconsistent.  She should be an upper servant by her attire, yet in her air and step, though both are hurried and assumed—­as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she treads with an unaccustomed foot—­she is a lady.  Her face is veiled, and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of those who pass her look round sharply.

She never turns her head.  Lady or servant, she has a purpose in her and can follow it.  She never turns her head until she comes to the crossing where Jo plies with his broom.  He crosses with her and begs.  Still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other side.  Then she slightly beckons to him and says, “Come here!”

Jo follows her a pace or two into a quiet court.

“Are you the boy I’ve read of in the papers?” she asked behind her veil.

“I don’t know,” says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, “nothink about no papers.  I don’t know nothink about nothink at all.”

“Were you examined at an inquest?”

“I don’t know nothink about no—­where I was took by the beadle, do you mean?” says Jo.  “Was the boy’s name at the inkwhich Jo?”

“Yes.”

“That’s me!” says Jo.

“Come farther up.”

“You mean about the man?” says Jo, following.  “Him as wos dead?”

“Hush!  Speak in a whisper!  Yes.  Did he look, when he was living, so very ill and poor?”

“Oh, jist!” says Jo.

“Did he look like—­not like you?” says the woman with abhorrence.

“Oh, not so bad as me,” says Jo.  “I’m a reg’lar one I am!  You didn’t know him, did you?”

“How dare you ask me if I knew him?”

“No offence, my lady,” says Jo with much humility, for even he has got at the suspicion of her being a lady.