“Live at Brass’s the attorney’s!” cried Mr. Witherden in some surprise, having professional knowledge of the gentleman in question.
“Aye” was the reply. “I entered upon his lodgings t’other day, chiefly because I had seen this very board. It matters little to me where I live, and I had a desperate hope that some intelligence might be cast in my way there, which would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I live at Brass’s—more shame for me, I suppose?”
“That’s a mere matter of opinion,” said the Notary, shrugging his shoulders. “He is looked upon as rather a doubtful character.”
“Doubtful?” echoed the other. “I am glad to hear there’s any doubt about it. I supposed that had been thoroughly settled, long ago. But will you let me speak a word or two with you in private?”
Mr. Witherden consenting, they walked into that gentleman’s private closet, and remained there in close conversation for some quarter of an hour, when they returned into the outer office. The stranger had left his hat in Mr. Witherden’s room, and seemed to have established himself in this short interval on quite a friendly footing.
“I’ll not detain you any longer now,” he said, putting a crown into Kit’s hand, and looking towards the Notary. “You shall hear from me again. Not a word of this, you know, except to your master and mistress.”
“Mother, sir, would be glad to know—” said Kit, faltering.
“Glad to know what?”
“Anything—so that it was no harm—about Miss Nell.”
“Would she? Well then, you may tell her if she can keep a secret. But mind, not a word of this to anybody else. Don’t forget that. Be particular.”
“I’ll take care, sir,” said Kit. “Thankee, sir, and good morning.”
Now, it happened that the gentleman, in his anxiety to impress upon Kit that he was not to tell anybody what had passed between them, followed him out to the door to repeat his caution, and it further happened that at that moment the eyes of Mr. Richard Swiveller were turned in that direction, and beheld his mysterious friend and Kit together.
It was quite an accident, and the way in which it came about was this. Mr. Chuckster being a gentleman of a cultivated taste and refined spirit, was one of that Lodge of Glorious Apollos whereof Mr. Swiveller was Perpetual Grand. Mr. Swiveller passing through the street in the execution of some Brazen errand, and beholding one of his Glorious Brotherhood intently gazing on a pony, crossed over to give him that fraternal greeting with which Perpetual Grands are by the very constitution of their office bound to cheer and encourage their disciples. He had scarcely bestowed upon him his blessing, and followed it with a general remark touching the present state and prospects of the weather, when lifting up his eyes, he beheld the single gentleman of Bevis Marks in earnest conversation with Christopher Nubbles.
“Hallo!” said Dick, “who is that?”
“He called to see my Governor this morning,” replied Mr. Chuckster, “and beyond that I don’t know him from Adam.”
“At least you know his name?” said Dick.
To which Mr. Chuckster replied, with an elevation of speech becoming a Glorious Apollo, that he was “everlastingly blessed” if he did.
“All I know, my dear feller,” said Mr. Chuckster, running his fingers through his hair, “is, that he is the cause of my having stood here twenty minutes, for which I hate him with a mortal and undying hatred, and would pursue him to the confines of eternity, if I could afford the time.”
While they were thus discoursing, the subject of their conversation (who had not appeared to recognise Mr. Richard Swiveller) re-entered the house, and Kit came down the steps and joined them; to whom Mr. Swiveller again propounded his inquiry with no better success.
“He is a very nice gentleman, sir,” said Kit, “and that’s all I know about him.”
Mr. Chuckster waxed wroth at this answer, and without applying the remark to any particular case, mentioned as a general truth that it was expedient to break the heads of Snobs, and to tweak their noses. Without expressing his concurrence in this sentiment, Mr. Swiveller after a few moments of abstraction inquired which way Kit was driving, and being informed, declared it was his way, and that he would trespass on him for a lift. Kit would gladly have declined the proffered honour, but as Mr. Swiveller was already established in the seat beside him, he had no means of doing so otherwise than by a forcible ejectment, and therefore drove briskly off—so briskly indeed as to cut short the leave-taking between Mr. Chuckster and his Grand Master, and to occasion the former gentleman some inconvenience from having his corns squeezed by the impatient pony.
As Whisker was tired of standing, and Mr. Swiveller was kind enough to stimulate him still further by shrill whistles, and various sporting cries, they rattled off at too sharp a pace to admit of much conversation, especially as the pony, incensed by Mr. Swiveller’s admonitions, took a particular fancy for the lampposts and cart wheels, and evinced a strong desire to run on the pavement and rasp himself against brick walls. It was not, therefore, until they had arrived at the stable, and the chaise had been extricated from a very small doorway into which the pony dragged it under the impression that he could take it along with him into his usual stall, that Mr. Swiveller found time to talk.
“It’s hard work,” said Richard. “What do you say to some beer?”
Kit at first declined, but presently consented, and they adjourned to the neighbouring bar together.
“We’ll drink our friend what’s-his-name,” said Dick, holding up the bright frothy pot; “—that was talking to you this morning, you know—I know him—a good fellow, but eccentric—very—here’s what’s-his-name.”
Kit pledged him.
“He lives in my house,” said Dick; “at least in the house occupied by the firm in which I’m a sort of a—of a managing partner—a difficult fellow to get anything out
