Two things are especially observable as Mr. Bucket proceeds to a conclusion.  First, that he seems imperceptibly to establish a dreadful right of property in mademoiselle.  Secondly, that the very atmosphere she breathes seems to narrow and contract about her as if a close net or a pall were being drawn nearer and yet nearer around her breathless figure.

“There is no doubt that her ladyship was on the spot at the eventful period,” says Mr. Bucket, “and my foreign friend here saw her, I believe, from the upper part of the staircase.  Her ladyship and George and my foreign friend were all pretty close on one another’s heels.  But that don’t signify any more, so I’ll not go into it.  I found the wadding of the pistol with which the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn was shot.  It was a bit of the printed description of your house at Chesney Wold.  Not much in that, you’ll say, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.  No.  But when my foreign friend here is so thoroughly off her guard as to think it a safe time to tear up the rest of that leaf, and when Mrs. Bucket puts the pieces together and finds the wadding wanting, it begins to look like Queer Street.”

“These are very long lies,” mademoiselle interposes.  “You prose great deal.  Is it that you have almost all finished, or are you speaking always?”

“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,” proceeds Mr. Bucket, who delights in a full title and does violence to himself when he dispenses with any fragment of it, “the last point in the case which I am now going to mention shows the necessity of patience in our business, and never doing a thing in a hurry.  I watched this young woman yesterday without her knowledge when she was looking at the funeral, in company with my wife, who planned to take her there; and I had so much to convict her, and I saw such an expression in her face, and my mind so rose against her malice towards her ladyship, and the time was altogether such a time for bringing down what you may call retribution upon her, that if I had been a younger hand with less experience, I should have taken her, certain.  Equally, last night, when her ladyship, as is so universally admired I am sure, come home looking—­why, Lord, a man might almost say like Venus rising from the ocean—­it was so unpleasant and inconsistent to think of her being charged with a murder of which she was innocent that I felt quite to want to put an end to the job.  What should I have lost?  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I should have lost the weapon.  My prisoner here proposed to Mrs. Bucket, after the departure of the funeral, that they should go per bus a little ways into the country and take tea at a very decent house of entertainment.  Now, near that house of entertainment there’s a piece of water.  At tea, my prisoner got up to fetch her pocket handkercher from the bedroom where the bonnets was; she was rather a long time gone and came back a little out of wind.  As soon as they came home this was reported to me by Mrs. Bucket, along with her observations and suspicions.  I had the piece of water dragged by moonlight, in presence of a couple of our men, and the pocket pistol was brought up before it had been there half-a-dozen hours.  Now, my dear, put your arm a little further through mine, and hold it steady, and I shan’t hurt you!”