“Sir Leicester Dedlock, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was deep and close, and what he fully had in his mind in the very beginning I can’t quite take upon myself to say.  But I know from his lips that he long ago suspected Lady Dedlock of having discovered, through the sight of some handwriting—­in this very house, and when you yourself, Sir Leicester Dedlock, were present—­the existence, in great poverty, of a certain person who had been her lover before you courted her and who ought to have been her husband.”  Mr. Bucket stops and deliberately repeats, “Ought to have been her husband, not a doubt about it.  I know from his lips that when that person soon afterwards died, he suspected Lady Dedlock of visiting his wretched lodging and his wretched grave, alone and in secret.  I know from my own inquiries and through my eyes and ears that Lady Dedlock did make such visit in the dress of her own maid, for the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn employed me to reckon up her ladyship—­if you’ll excuse my making use of the term we commonly employ—­and I reckoned her up, so far, completely.  I confronted the maid in the chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields with a witness who had been Lady Dedlock’s guide, and there couldn’t be the shadow of a doubt that she had worn the young woman’s dress, unknown to her.  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I did endeavour to pave the way a little towards these unpleasant disclosures yesterday by saying that very strange things happened even in high families sometimes.  All this, and more, has happened in your own family, and to and through your own Lady.  It’s my belief that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death and that he and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them upon the matter that very night.  Now, only you put that to Lady Dedlock, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and ask her ladyship whether, even after he had left here, she didn’t go down to his chambers with the intention of saying something further to him, dressed in a loose black mantle with a deep fringe to it.”

Sir Leicester sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that is probing the life-blood of his heart.

“You put that to her ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, from me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective.  And if her ladyship makes any difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it’s no use, that Inspector Bucket knows it and knows that she passed the soldier as you called him (though he’s not in the army now) and knows that she knows she passed him on the staircase.  Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, why do I relate all this?”