Jo looks aghast at Mr. Bucket.  “Not a bit!”

“Then, what,” retorts that worthy, pointing to the figure, “did you say it was the lady for?”

“Cos,” says Jo with a perplexed stare but without being at all shaken in his certainty, “cos that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd.  It is her and it an’t her.  It an’t her hand, nor yet her rings, nor yet her woice.  But that there’s the wale, the bonnet, and the gownd, and they’re wore the same way wot she wore ’em, and it’s her height wot she wos, and she giv me a sov’ring and hooked it.”

“Well!” says Mr. Bucket slightly, “we haven’t got much good out of you.  But, however, here’s five shillings for you.  Take care how you spend it, and don’t get yourself into trouble.”  Bucket stealthily tells the coins from one hand into the other like counters—­which is a way he has, his principal use of them being in these games of skill—­and then puts them, in a little pile, into the boy’s hand and takes him out to the door, leaving Mr. Snagsby, not by any means comfortable under these mysterious circumstances, alone with the veiled figure.  But on Mr. Tulkinghorn’s coming into the room, the veil is raised and a sufficiently good-looking Frenchwoman is revealed, though her expression is something of the intensest.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle Hortense,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual equanimity.  “I will give you no further trouble about this little wager.”

“You will do me the kindness to remember, sir, that I am not at present placed?” says mademoiselle.

“Certainly, certainly!”

“And to confer upon me the favour of your distinguished recommendation?”

“By all means, Mademoiselle Hortense.”

“A word from Mr. Tulkinghorn is so powerful.”

“It shall not be wanting, mademoiselle.”

“Receive the assurance of my devoted gratitude, dear sir.”

“Good night.”

Mademoiselle goes out with an air of native gentility; and Mr. Bucket, to whom it is, on an emergency, as natural to be groom of the ceremonies as it is to be anything else, shows her downstairs, not without gallantry.

“Well, Bucket?” quoth Mr. Tulkinghorn on his return.

“It’s all squared, you see, as I squared it myself, sir.  There an’t a doubt that it was the other one with this one’s dress on.  The boy was exact respecting colours and everything.  Mr. Snagsby, I promised you as a man that he should be sent away all right.  Don’t say it wasn’t done!”

“You have kept your word, sir,” returns the stationer; “and if I can be of no further use, Mr. Tulkinghorn, I think, as my little woman will be getting anxious—­”

“Thank you, Snagsby, no further use,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn.  “I am quite indebted to you for the trouble you have taken already.”

“Not at all, sir.  I wish you good night.”

“You see, Mr. Snagsby,” says Mr. Bucket, accompanying him to the door and shaking hands with him over and over again, “what I like in you is that you’re a man it’s of no use pumping; that’s what you are.  When you know you have done a right thing, you put it away, and it’s done with and gone, and there’s an end of it.  That’s what you do.”