“My little woman,” said Mr. Snagsby, entering behind us, “to wave—­ not to put too fine a point upon it, my dear—­hostilities for one single moment in the course of this prolonged night, here is Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady.”

She looked very much astonished, as she had reason for doing, and looked particularly hard at me.

“My little woman,” said Mr. Snagsby, sitting down in the remotest corner by the door, as if he were taking a liberty, “it is not unlikely that you may inquire of me why Inspector Bucket, Mr. Woodcourt, and a lady call upon us in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, at the present hour.  I don’t know.  I have not the least idea.  If I was to be informed, I should despair of understanding, and I’d rather not be told.”

He appeared so miserable, sitting with his head upon his hand, and I appeared so unwelcome, that I was going to offer an apology when Mr. Bucket took the matter on himself.

“Now, Mr. Snagsby,” said he, “the best thing you can do is to go along with Mr. Woodcourt to look after your Guster—­”

“My Guster, Mr. Bucket!” cried Mr. Snagsby.  “Go on, sir, go on.  I shall be charged with that next.”

“And to hold the candle,” pursued Mr. Bucket without correcting himself, “or hold her, or make yourself useful in any way you’re asked.  Which there’s not a man alive more ready to do, for you’re a man of urbanity and suavity, you know, and you’ve got the sort of heart that can feel for another.  Mr. Woodcourt, would you be so good as see to her, and if you can get that letter from her, to let me have it as soon as ever you can?”

As they went out, Mr. Bucket made me sit down in a corner by the fire and take off my wet shoes, which he turned up to dry upon the fender, talking all the time.

“Don’t you be at all put out, miss, by the want of a hospitable look from Mrs. Snagsby there, because she’s under a mistake altogether.  She’ll find that out sooner than will be agreeable to a lady of her generally correct manner of forming her thoughts, because I’m a-going to explain it to her.”  Here, standing on the hearth with his wet hat and shawls in his hand, himself a pile of wet, he turned to Mrs. Snagsby.  “Now, the first thing that I say to you, as a married woman possessing what you may call charms, you know—­’Believe Me, if All Those Endearing,’ and cetrer—­you’re well acquainted with the song, because it’s in vain for you to tell me that you and good society are strangers—­charms—­attractions, mind you, that ought to give you confidence in yourself—­is, that you’ve done it.”

Mrs. Snagsby looked rather alarmed, relented a little and faltered, what did Mr. Bucket mean.

“What does Mr. Bucket mean?” he repeated, and I saw by his face that all the time he talked he was listening for the discovery of the letter, to my own great agitation, for I knew then how important it must be; “I’ll tell you what he means, ma’am.  Go and see Othello acted.  That’s the tragedy for you.”