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however； terminating at the cab； he deposits him there； and the
fair Judy takes her place beside him； and the chair embellishes the
roof； and Mr George takes the vacant place on the box。
Mr George is quite confounded by the spectacle he beholds
from time to time as he peeps into the cab； through the window
behind him； where the grim Judy is always motionless； and the old
gentleman with his cap over one eye is always sliding off the seat
into the straw； and looking upward at him； out of his other eye；
with a helpless expression of being jolted in the back。
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Chapter 27
More Old Soldiers Than One
r George has not far to ride with folded arms upon the
box； for the destination is Lincoln’s Inn Fields。 When
M
the driver stops his horses； Mr George alights； and
looking in at the window； says：
“What； Mr Tulkinghorn’s your man； is he？”
“Yes； my dear friend。 Do you know him； Mr George？”
“Why； I have heard of him—seen him too； I think。 But I don’t
know him； and he don’t know me。”
There ensues the carrying of Mr Smallweed upstairs； which is
done to perfection with the trooper’s help。 He is borne into Mr
Tulkinghorn’s great room； and deposited on the Turkey rug before
the fire。 Mr Tulkinghorn is not within at the present moment； but
will be back directly。 The occupant of the pew in the hall； having
said thus much； stirs the fire； and leaves the triumvirate to warm
themselves。
Mr George is mightily curious in respect of the room。 He looks
up at the painted ceiling； looks round at the old law…books；
contemplates the portraits of the great clients； reads aloud the
names on the boxes。
“‘Sir Leicester Dedlock； Baronet；’” Mr George reads
thoughtfully。 “Ha！ ‘Manor of Chesney Wold。’ Humph！” Mr George
stands looking at these boxes a long while—as if they were
pictures—and comes back to the fire repeating； “Sir Leicester
Dedlock； Baronet； and Manor of Chesney Wold； hey？”
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“Worth a mint of money； Mr George！” whispers Grandfather
Smallweed； rubbing his legs。 “Powerfully rich！”
“Who do you mean？ This old gentleman； or the Baronet？”
“This gentleman； this gentleman。”
“So I have heard； and knows a thing or two； I’ll hold a wager。
Not bad quarters； either；” says Mr George； looking round again。
“See the strong box； yonder！”
This reply is cut short by Mr Tulkinghorn’s arrival。 There is no
change in him； of course。 Rustily dressed； with his spectacles in
his hand； and the very case worn threadbare。 In manner； close and
dry。 In voice； husky and low。 In face； watchful behind a blind；
habitually not uncensorious and contemptuous perhaps。 The
peerage may have warmer worshippers and faithfuller believers
than Mr Tulkinghorn； after all； if everything were known。
“Good morning； Mr Smallweed； good morning！” he says as he
comes in。 “You have brought the serjeant； I see。 Sit down；
serjeant。”
As Mr Tulkinghorn takes off his gloves and puts them in his
hat； he looks with half…closed eyes across the room to where the
trooper stands； and says within himself perchance； “You’ll do； my
friend！”
“Sit down； serjeant；” he repeats as he comes to his table； which
is set on one side of the fire； and takes his easy chair。 “Cold and
raw this morning； cold and raw！” Mr Tulkinghorn warms before
the bars； alternately； the palms and knuckles of his hands； and
looks （from behind that blind which is always down） at the trio
sitting in a little semicircle before him。
“Now； I can feel what I am about！” （as perhaps he can in two
senses） “Mr Smallweed。” The old gentleman is newly shaken up
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by Judy； to bear his part in the conversation。 “You have brought
our good friend the serjeant； I see。”
“Yes； sir；” returns Mr Smallweed； very servile to the lawyer’s
wealth and influence。
“And what does the serjeant say about this business？”
“Mr George；” says Grandfather Smallweed； with a tremulous
wave of his shrivelled hand； “this is the gentleman； sir。”
Mr George salutes the gentleman； but otherwise sits bolt
upright and profoundly silent—very forward in his chair； as if the
full complement of regulation appendages for a field day hung
about him。
Mr Tulkinghorn proceeds： “Well； George？—I believe your
name is George？”
“It is so； sir。”
“What do you say； George？”
“I ask your pardon； sir；” returns the trooper； “but I should wish
to know what you say？”
“Do you mean in point of reward？”
“I mean in point of everything； sir。”
This is so very trying to Mr Smallweed’s temper； that he
suddenly breaks out with “You’re a brimstone beast！” and as
suddenly asks pardon of Mr Tulkinghorn； excusing himself for this
slip of the tongue； by saying to Judy； “I was thinking of your
grandmother； my dear。”
“I supposed； serjeant；” Mr Tulkinghorn resumes； as he leans on
one side of his chair and crosses his legs； “that Mr Smallweed
might have sufficiently explained the matter。 It lies in the smallest
compass； however。 You served under Captain Hawdon at one
time； and were his attendant in illness； and rendered him many
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little services； and were rather in his confidence； I am told。 That is
so； is it not？”
“Yes； sir； that is so；” says Mr George； with military brevity。
“Therefore you may happen to have in your possession
something—anything； no matter what—accounts； instructions；
orders； a letter； anything—in Captain Hawdon’s writing。 I wish to
compare his writing with some that I have。 If you can give me the
opportunity； you shall be rewarded for your trouble。 Three； four；
five； guineas； you would consider handsome； I dare say。”
“Noble； my dear friend！” cries Grandfather Smallweed；
screwing up his eyes。
“If not； say how much more； in your conscience as a soldier； you
can demand。 There is no need for you to part with the writing
against your inclination—though I should prefer to have it。”
Mr George sits squared in exactly the same attitude； looks at
the ground； looks at the painted ceiling； and says never a word。
The