“That is, I am deputed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to consider (without admitting or promising anything) this bit of business,” says Mr. Bucket—­Sir Leicester mechanically bows his head—­“and you ask me to consider a proposal of five hundred pounds.  Why, it’s an unreasonable proposal!  Two fifty would be bad enough, but better than that.  Hadn’t you better say two fifty?”

Mr. Smallweed is quite clear that he had better not.

“Then,” says Mr. Bucket, “let’s hear Mr. Chadband.  Lord!  Many a time I’ve heard my old fellow-serjeant of that name; and a moderate man he was in all respects, as ever I come across!”

Thus invited, Mr. Chadband steps forth, and after a little sleek smiling and a little oil-grinding with the palms of his hands, delivers himself as follows, “My friends, we are now—­Rachael, my wife, and I—­in the mansions of the rich and great.  Why are we now in the mansions of the rich and great, my friends?  Is it because we are invited?  Because we are bidden to feast with them, because we are bidden to rejoice with them, because we are bidden to play the lute with them, because we are bidden to dance with them?  No.  Then why are we here, my friends?  Air we in possession of a sinful secret, and do we require corn, and wine, and oil, or what is much the same thing, money, for the keeping thereof?  Probably so, my friends.”

“You’re a man of business, you are,” returns Mr. Bucket, very attentive, “and consequently you’re going on to mention what the nature of your secret is.  You are right.  You couldn’t do better.”

“Let us then, my brother, in a spirit of love,” says Mr. Chadband with a cunning eye, “proceed unto it.  Rachael, my wife, advance!”

Mrs. Chadband, more than ready, so advances as to jostle her husband into the background and confronts Mr. Bucket with a hard, frowning smile.

“Since you want to know what we know,” says she, “I’ll tell you.  I helped to bring up Miss Hawdon, her ladyship’s daughter.  I was in the service of her ladyship’s sister, who was very sensitive to the disgrace her ladyship brought upon her, and gave out, even to her ladyship, that the child was dead—­she was very nearly so—­when she was born.  But she’s alive, and I know her.”  With these words, and a laugh, and laying a bitter stress on the word “ladyship,” Mrs. Chadband folds her arms and looks implacably at Mr. Bucket.

“I suppose now,” returns that officer, “You will be expecting a twenty-pound note or a present of about that figure?”

Mrs. Chadband merely laughs and contemptuously tells him he can “offer” twenty pence.

“My friend the law-stationer’s good lady, over there,” says Mr. Bucket, luring Mrs. Snagsby forward with the finger.  “What may your game be, ma’am?”