Mr. Weevle reflects for some time.  Shakes his head.  Decidedly thinks not.

“Tony,” says Mr. Guppy as they walk towards the court, “once again understand me, as a friend.  Without entering into further explanations, I may repeat that the idol is down.  I have no purpose to serve now but burial in oblivion.  To that I have pledged myself.  I owe it to myself, and I owe it to the shattered image, as also to the circumstances over which I have no control.  If you was to express to me by a gesture, by a wink, that you saw lying anywhere in your late lodgings any papers that so much as looked like the papers in question, I would pitch them into the fire, sir, on my own responsibility.”

Mr. Weevle nods.  Mr. Guppy, much elevated in his own opinion by having delivered these observations, with an air in part forensic and in part romantic—­this gentleman having a passion for conducting anything in the form of an examination, or delivering anything in the form of a summing up or a speech—­accompanies his friend with dignity to the court.

Never since it has been a court has it had such a Fortunatus’ purse of gossip as in the proceedings at the rag and bottle shop.  Regularly, every morning at eight, is the elder Mr. Smallweed brought down to the corner and carried in, accompanied by Mrs. Smallweed, Judy, and Bart; and regularly, all day, do they all remain there until nine at night, solaced by gipsy dinners, not abundant in quantity, from the cook’s shop, rummaging and searching, digging, delving, and diving among the treasures of the late lamented.  What those treasures are they keep so secret that the court is maddened.  In its delirium it imagines guineas pouring out of tea-pots, crown-pieces overflowing punch-bowls, old chairs and mattresses stuffed with Bank of England notes.  It possesses itself of the sixpenny history (with highly coloured folding frontispiece) of Mr. Daniel Dancer and his sister, and also of Mr. Elwes, of Suffolk, and transfers all the facts from those authentic narratives to Mr. Krook.  Twice when the dustman is called in to carry off a cartload of old paper, ashes, and broken bottles, the whole court assembles and pries into the baskets as they come forth.  Many times the two gentlemen who write with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper are seen prowling in the neighbourhood—­shy of each other, their late partnership being dissolved.  The Sol skilfully carries a vein of the prevailing interest through the Harmonic nights.  Little Swills, in what are professionally known as “patter” allusions to the subject, is received with loud applause; and the same vocalist “gags” in the regular business like a man inspired.  Even Miss M. Melvilleson, in the revived Caledonian melody of “We’re a-Nodding,” points the sentiment that “the dogs love broo” (whatever the nature of that refreshment may be) with such archness and such a turn of the head towards next door that she is immediately understood to mean Mr. Smallweed loves to find money, and is nightly honoured with a double encore.  For all this, the court discovers nothing; and as Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins now communicate to the late lodger whose appearance is the signal for a general rally, it is in one continual ferment to discover everything, and more.