“Mr. Bucket is a detective officer, Snagsby,” says the lawyer in explanation.
“Is he indeed, sir?” says Mr. Snagsby, with a strong tendency in his clump of hair to stand on end.
“And if you have no real objection to accompany Mr. Bucket to the place in question,” pursues the lawyer, “I shall feel obliged to you if you will do so.”
In a moment's hesitation on the part of Mr. Snagsby, Bucket dips down to the bottom of his mind.
“Don't you be afraid of hurting the boy,” he says. “You won't do that. It's all right as far as the boy's concerned. We shall only bring him here to ask him a question or so I want to put to him, and he'll be paid for his trouble, and sent away again. It'll be a good job for him. I promise you, as a man, that you shall see the boy sent away all right. Don't you be afraid of hurting him; you an't going to do that.”
“Very well, Mr. Tulkinghorn!” cries Mr. Snagsby cheerfully, and re-assured, “since that's the case———.”
“Yes! and lookee here, Mr. Snagsby,” resumes Bucket, taking him aside by the arm, tapping him familiarly on the breast, and speaking in a confidential tone. “You're a man of the world, you know, and a man of business, and a man of sense. That's what you are.”
“I am sure I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,” retunis the stationer, with his cough of modesty, “but———”
“That's what you are, you know,” says Bucket. “Now, it an't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him, and his head screwed on tight (I had an uncle in your business once)—it an't necessary to say to a man like you, that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!”
“Certainly, certainly,” returns the stationer.
“I don't mind telling you,” says Bucket, with an engaging appearance of frankness, “that, as far as I can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see!”
“O!” says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly.
“Now, what you want,” pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, “is, that every person should have their rights according to justice. That's what you want.”
“To be sure,” returns Mr. Snagsby with a nod.
“On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a—do you call it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used to call it.”
“Why, I generally say customer myself,” replies Mr. Snagsby.
“You're right!” returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite affectionately,—“on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's, and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterwards and never mention it to any one. That's about your intentions, if I understand you?”
“You are right, sir. You are right,” says Mr. Snagsby.
