“In all other respects, my dear mother, I’ll be as tractable and obedient as you can wish; on this one alone, I stand out.  So now I am ready even for the lawyers.  I have been drawing up,” he glances at his writing on the table, “an exact account of what I knew of the deceased and how I came to be involved in this unfortunate affair.  It’s entered, plain and regular, like an orderly-book; not a word in it but what’s wanted for the facts.  I did intend to read it, straight on end, whensoever I was called upon to say anything in my defence.  I hope I may be let to do it still; but I have no longer a will of my own in this case, and whatever is said or done, I give my promise not to have any.”

Matters being brought to this so far satisfactory pass, and time being on the wane, Mrs. Bagnet proposes a departure.  Again and again the old lady hangs upon her son’s neck, and again and again the trooper holds her to his broad chest.

“Where are you going to take my mother, Mrs. Bagnet?”

“I am going to the town house, my dear, the family house.  I have some business there that must be looked to directly,” Mrs. Rouncewell answers.

“Will you see my mother safe there in a coach, Mrs. Bagnet?  But of course I know you will.  Why should I ask it!”

Why indeed, Mrs. Bagnet expresses with the umbrella.

“Take her, my old friend, and take my gratitude along with you.  Kisses to Quebec and Malta, love to my godson, a hearty shake of the hand to Lignum, and this for yourself, and I wish it was ten thousand pound in gold, my dear!” So saying, the trooper puts his lips to the old girl’s tanned forehead, and the door shuts upon him in his cell.

No entreaties on the part of the good old housekeeper will induce Mrs. Bagnet to retain the coach for her own conveyance home.  Jumping out cheerfully at the door of the Dedlock mansion and handing Mrs. Rouncewell up the steps, the old girl shakes hands and trudges off, arriving soon afterwards in the bosom of the Bagnet family and falling to washing the greens as if nothing had happened.

My Lady is in that room in which she held her last conference with the murdered man, and is sitting where she sat that night, and is looking at the spot where he stood upon the hearth studying her so leisurely, when a tap comes at the door.  Who is it?  Mrs. Rouncewell.  What has brought Mrs. Rouncewell to town so unexpectedly?

“Trouble, my Lady.  Sad trouble.  Oh, my Lady, may I beg a word with you?”

What new occurrence is it that makes this tranquil old woman tremble so?  Far happier than her Lady, as her Lady has often thought, why does she falter in this manner and look at her with such strange mistrust?

“What is the matter?  Sit down and take your breath.”

“Oh, my Lady, my Lady.  I have found my son—­my youngest, who went away for a soldier so long ago.  And he is in prison.”