Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, what you’ve trusted to me I’ll go through with.  Don’t you be afraid of my turning out of my way, right or left, or taking a sleep, or a wash, or a shave till I have found what I go in search of.  Say everything as is kind and forgiving on your part?  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I will.  And I wish you better, and these family affairs smoothed over—­as, Lord, many other family affairs equally has been, and equally will be, to the end of time.”

With this peroration, Mr. Bucket, buttoned up, goes quietly out, looking steadily before him as if he were already piercing the night in quest of the fugitive.

His first step is to take himself to Lady Dedlock’s rooms and look all over them for any trifling indication that may help him.  The rooms are in darkness now; and to see Mr. Bucket with a wax-light in his hand, holding it above his head and taking a sharp mental inventory of the many delicate objects so curiously at variance with himself, would be to see a sight—­which nobody does see, as he is particular to lock himself in.

“A spicy boudoir, this,” says Mr. Bucket, who feels in a manner furbished up in his French by the blow of the morning.  “Must have cost a sight of money.  Rum articles to cut away from, these; she must have been hard put to it!”

Opening and shutting table-drawers and looking into caskets and jewel-cases, he sees the reflection of himself in various mirrors, and moralizes thereon.

“One might suppose I was a-moving in the fashionable circles and getting myself up for almac’s,” says Mr. Bucket.  “I begin to think I must be a swell in the Guards without knowing it.”

Ever looking about, he has opened a dainty little chest in an inner drawer.  His great hand, turning over some gloves which it can scarcely feel, they are so light and soft within it, comes upon a white handkerchief.

“Hum!  Let’s have a look at you,” says Mr. Bucket, putting down the light.  “What should you be kept by yourself for?  What’s your motive?  Are you her ladyship’s property, or somebody else’s?  You’ve got a mark upon you somewheres or another, I suppose?”

He finds it as he speaks, “Esther Summerson.”

“Oh!” says Mr. Bucket, pausing, with his finger at his ear.  “Come, I’ll take you.”

He completes his observations as quietly and carefully as he has carried them on, leaves everything else precisely as he found it, glides away after some five minutes in all, and passes into the street.  With a glance upward at the dimly lighted windows of Sir Leicester’s room, he sets off, full-swing, to the nearest coach-stand, picks out the horse for his money, and directs to be driven to the shooting gallery.  Mr. Bucket does not claim to be a scientific judge of horses, but he lays out a little money on the principal events in that line, and generally sums up his knowledge of the subject in the remark that when he sees a horse as can go, he knows him.