“I didn’t see you,” says Mercury.

“I was rather in a hurry,” returns Mr. Bucket, “for I was going to visit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea—­next door but two to the old original Bun House—­ninety year old the old lady is, a single woman, and got a little property.  Yes, I chanced to be passing at the time.  Let’s see.  What time might it be?  It wasn’t ten.”

“Half-past nine.”

“You’re right.  So it was.  And if I don’t deceive myself, my Lady was muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?”

“Of course she was.”

Of course she was.  Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he has to get on with upstairs, but he must shake hands with Mercury in acknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he—­this is all he asks—­will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think of bestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the advantage of both parties?

CHAPTER LIV

Springing a Mine

Refreshed by sleep, Mr. Bucket rises betimes in the morning and prepares for a field-day.  Smartened up by the aid of a clean shirt and a wet hairbrush, with which instrument, on occasions of ceremony, he lubricates such thin locks as remain to him after his life of severe study, Mr. Bucket lays in a breakfast of two mutton chops as a foundation to work upon, together with tea, eggs, toast, and marmalade on a corresponding scale.  Having much enjoyed these strengthening matters and having held subtle conference with his familiar demon, he confidently instructs Mercury “just to mention quietly to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, that whenever he’s ready for me, I’m ready for him.”  A gracious message being returned that Sir Leicester will expedite his dressing and join Mr. Bucket in the library within ten minutes, Mr. Bucket repairs to that apartment and stands before the fire with his finger on his chin, looking at the blazing coals.

Thoughtful Mr. Bucket is, as a man may be with weighty work to do, but composed, sure, confident.  From the expression of his face he might be a famous whist-player for a large stake—­say a hundred guineas certain—­with the game in his hand, but with a high reputation involved in his playing his hand out to the last card in a masterly way.  Not in the least anxious or disturbed is Mr. Bucket when Sir Leicester appears, but he eyes the baronet aside as he comes slowly to his easy-chair with that observant gravity of yesterday in which there might have been yesterday, but for the audacity of the idea, a touch of compassion.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, officer, but I am rather later than my usual hour this morning.  I am not well.  The agitation and the indignation from which I have recently suffered have been too much for me.  I am subject to—­gout”—­Sir Leicester was going to say indisposition and would have said it to anybody else, but Mr. Bucket palpably knows all about it—­“and recent circumstances have brought it on.”