“Well!” said Wemmick, “that’s over!  He’s a wonderful man, without his living likeness; but I feel that I have to screw myself up when I dine with him — and I dine more comfortably unscrewed.”

I felt that this was a good statement of the case, and told him so.

“Wouldn’t say it to anybody but yourself,” he answered.  “I know that what is said between you and me, goes no further.”

I asked him if he had ever seen Miss Havisham’s adopted daughter, Mrs. Bentley Drummle?  He said no.  To avoid being too abrupt, I then spoke of the Aged, and of Miss Skiffins.  He looked rather sly when I mentioned Miss Skiffins, and stopped in the street to blow his nose, with a roll of the head and a flourish not quite free from latent boastfulness.

“Wemmick,” said I, “do you remember telling me before I first went to Mr. Jaggers’s private house, to notice that housekeeper?”

“Did I?” he replied.  “Ah, I dare say I did.  Deuce take me,” he added, suddenly, “I know I did.  I find I am not quite unscrewed yet.”

“A wild beast tamed, you called her.”

“And what do you call her?”

“The same.  How did Mr. Jaggers tame her, Wemmick?”

“That’s his secret.  She has been with him many a long year.”

“I wish you would tell me her story.  I feel a particular interest in being acquainted with it.  You know that what is said between you and me goes no further.”

“Well!” Wemmick replied, “I don’t know her story — that is, I don’t know all of it.  But what I do know, I’ll tell you.  We are in our private and personal capacities, of course.”

“Of course.”

“A score or so of years ago, that woman was tried at the Old Bailey for murder, and was acquitted.  She was a very handsome young woman, and I believe had some gipsy blood in her.  Anyhow, it was hot enough when it was up, as you may suppose.”

“But she was acquitted.”

“Mr. Jaggers was for her,” pursued Wemmick, with a look full of meaning, “and worked the case in a way quite astonishing.  It was a desperate case, and it was comparatively early days with him then, and he worked it to general admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to have made him.  He worked it himself at the police-office, day after day for many days, contending against even a committal; and at the trial where he couldn’t work it himself, sat under Counsel, and — every one knew — put in all the salt and pepper.  The murdered person was a woman; a woman, a good ten years older, very much larger, and very much stronger.  It was a case of jealousy.  They both led tramping lives, and this woman in Gerrard-street here had been married very young, over the broomstick (as we say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury in point of jealousy.  The murdered woman — more a match for the man, certainly, in point of years — was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath.  There had been a violent struggle, perhaps a fight.