His knowledge is not at fault in the present instance.  Clattering over the stones at a dangerous pace, yet thoughtfully bringing his keen eyes to bear on every slinking creature whom he passes in the midnight streets, and even on the lights in upper windows where people are going or gone to bed, and on all the turnings that he rattles by, and alike on the heavy sky, and on the earth where the snow lies thin—­for something may present itself to assist him, anywhere—­he dashes to his destination at such a speed that when he stops the horse half smothers him in a cloud of steam.

“Unbear him half a moment to freshen him up, and I’ll be back.”

He runs up the long wooden entry and finds the trooper smoking his pipe.

“I thought I should, George, after what you have gone through, my lad.  I haven’t a word to spare.  Now, honour!  All to save a woman.  Miss Summerson that was here when Gridley died—­that was the name, I know—­all right—­where does she live?”

The trooper has just come from there and gives him the address, near Oxford Street.

“You won’t repent it, George.  Good night!”

He is off again, with an impression of having seen Phil sitting by the frosty fire staring at him open-mouthed, and gallops away again, and gets out in a cloud of steam again.

Mr. Jarndyce, the only person up in the house, is just going to bed, rises from his book on hearing the rapid ringing at the bell, and comes down to the door in his dressing-gown.

“Don’t be alarmed, sir.”  In a moment his visitor is confidential with him in the hall, has shut the door, and stands with his hand upon the lock.  “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before.  Inspector Bucket.  Look at that handkerchief, sir, Miss Esther Summerson’s.  Found it myself put away in a drawer of Lady Dedlock’s, quarter of an hour ago.  Not a moment to lose.  Matter of life or death.  You know Lady Dedlock?”

“Yes.”

“There has been a discovery there to-day.  Family affairs have come out.  Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, has had a fit—­apoplexy or paralysis—­and couldn’t be brought to, and precious time has been lost.  Lady Dedlock disappeared this afternoon and left a letter for him that looks bad.  Run your eye over it.  Here it is!”

Mr. Jarndyce, having read it, asks him what he thinks.

“I don’t know.  It looks like suicide.  Anyways, there’s more and more danger, every minute, of its drawing to that.  I’d give a hundred pound an hour to have got the start of the present time.  Now, Mr. Jarndyce, I am employed by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to follow her and find her, to save her and take her his forgiveness.  I have money and full power, but I want something else.  I want Miss Summerson.”

Mr. Jarndyce in a troubled voice repeats, “Miss Summerson?”