Quilp, desired, and that for his own reasons, he hated Kit, and wanted to have his reputation ruined.  Then Mr. Brass pulls out his pocket-book, and says, ’Well, here it is—­Quilp’s own five-pound note.  Kit is coming to-morrow morning, I know.  I’ll hold him in conversation, and put this property in his hat, and then convict him of theft.  And if that don’t get Kit out of Mr. Quilp’s way, and satisfy his grudge against the lad,’ he said, ’the devil’s in it,’ Then they seemed to be moving away, and I was afraid to stop any longer.  There!”

The small servant was so much agitated herself that she made no effort to restrain Mr. Swiveller when he sat up in bed, and hastily demanded whether this story had been told to anybody.

“How could it be?” replied his nurse.  “When I heard ’em say that you was gone, and so was the lodger, and ever since I come here, you’ve been out of your senses, so what would have been the good of telling you then?”

“Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, “if you’ll do me the favor to retire for a few minutes, and see what sort of a night it is, I’ll get up,”

“You mustn’t think of such a thing,” cried his nurse.

“I must indeed,” said the patient.  “Whereabouts are my clothes?”

“Oh, I’m so glad—­you haven’t got any,” replied the Marchioness.

“Ma’am!” said Mr. Swiveller, in great astonishment.

“I’ve been obliged to sell them, every one, to get the things that was ordered for you.  But don’t take on about that,” urged the Marchioness, as Dick fell back upon his pillow, “you’re too weak to stand indeed.”

“I’m afraid,” said Richard dolefully, “that you’re right.  Now, what is to be done?”

It occurred to him, on very little reflection, that the first step to take would be to communicate with Kit’s employer, Mr. Garland, or with his son Mr. Abel, at once.  It was possible that Mr. Abel had not yet left his office.  In as little time as it takes to tell it, the small servant had the address on a piece of paper, and a description of father and son, which would enable her to recognize either without difficulty.  Armed with these slender powers, she hurried away, commissioned to bring either Mr. Garland or Mr. Abel bodily to Mr. Swiveller’s apartment.

“I suppose,” said Dick, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped into the room again, to make sure that he was comfortable, “I suppose there’s nothing left—­not so much as a waistcoat?”

“No, nothing.”

“Its embarrassing,” said Mr. Swiveller, “in case of fire—­even an umbrella would be something—­but you did quite right, dear Marchioness.  I should have died without you.”