“Yes, I know a little of him and have called upon him at this place.”

“Indeed, sir?” said Mr. Bucket.  “Then you will be so good as to let me leave Miss Summerson with you for a moment while I go and have half a word with him?”

The last police-officer with whom he had conferred was standing silently behind us.  I was not aware of it until he struck in on my saying I heard some one crying.

“Don’t be alarmed, miss,” he returned.  “It’s Snagsby’s servant.”

“Why, you see,” said Mr. Bucket, “the girl’s subject to fits, and has ’em bad upon her to-night.  A most contrary circumstance it is, for I want certain information out of that girl, and she must be brought to reason somehow.”

“At all events, they wouldn’t be up yet if it wasn’t for her, Mr. Bucket,” said the other man.  “She’s been at it pretty well all night, sir.”

“Well, that’s true,” he returned.  “My light’s burnt out.  Show yours a moment.”

All this passed in a whisper a door or two from the house in which I could faintly hear crying and moaning.  In the little round of light produced for the purpose, Mr. Bucket went up to the door and knocked.  The door was opened after he had knocked twice, and he went in, leaving us standing in the street.

“Miss Summerson,” said Mr. Woodcourt, “if without obtruding myself on your confidence I may remain near you, pray let me do so.”

“You are truly kind,” I answered.  “I need wish to keep no secret of my own from you; if I keep any, it is another’s.”

“I quite understand.  Trust me, I will remain near you only so long as I can fully respect it.”

“I trust implicitly to you,” I said.  “I know and deeply feel how sacredly you keep your promise.”

After a short time the little round of light shone out again, and Mr. Bucket advanced towards us in it with his earnest face.  “Please to come in, Miss Summerson,” he said, “and sit down by the fire.  Mr. Woodcourt, from information I have received I understand you are a medical man.  Would you look to this girl and see if anything can be done to bring her round.  She has a letter somewhere that I particularly want.  It’s not in her box, and I think it must be about her; but she is so twisted and clenched up that she is difficult to handle without hurting.”

We all three went into the house together; although it was cold and raw, it smelt close too from being up all night.  In the passage behind the door stood a scared, sorrowful-looking little man in a grey coat who seemed to have a naturally polite manner and spoke meekly.

“Downstairs, if you please, Mr. Bucket,” said he.  “The lady will excuse the front kitchen; we use it as our workaday sitting-room.  The back is Guster’s bedroom, and in it she’s a-carrying on, poor thing, to a frightful extent!”

We went downstairs, followed by Mr. Snagsby, as I soon found the little man to be.  In the front kitchen, sitting by the fire, was Mrs. Snagsby, with very red eyes and a very severe expression of face.