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his pocket； “how is she going？ What money has she got？”
Mrs Bagnet made another application to her skirts； and
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brought forth a leathern purse in which she hastily counted over a
few shillings； and which she then shut up with perfect satisfaction。
“Never you mind for me； miss； I’m a soldier’s wife； and
accustomed to travelling in my own way。 Lignum； old boy；”
kissing him； “one for yourself； three for the children。 Now； I’m
away into Lincolnshire after George’s mother！”
And she actually set off while we three stood looking at one
another lost in amazement。 She actually trudged away in her grey
cloak at a sturdy pace； and turned the corner； and was gone。
“Mr Bagnet；” said my Guardian。 “Do you mean to let her go in
that way？”
“Can’t help it；” he returned。 “Made her way home once。 From
another quarter of the world。 With the same grey cloak。 And same
umbrella。 Whatever the old girl says； do。 Do it！ Whenever the old
girl says； I’ll do it。 She does it。”
“Then she is as honest and genuine as she looks；” rejoined my
Guardian； “and it is impossible to say more for her。”
“She’s Colour…Serjeant of the Nonpareil Battalion；” said Mr
Bagnet； looking at us over his shoulder； as he went his way also。
“And there’s not such another。 But I never own to it before her。
Discipline must be maintained。”
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Chapter 53
The Track
r Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation
together under existing circumstances。 When Mr
M
Bucket has a matter of this pressing interest under his
consideration； the fat forefinger seems to rise to the dignity of a
familiar demon。 He puts it to his ears； and it whispers information；
he puts it to his lips； and it enjoins him to secrecy； he rubs it over
his nose； and it sharpens his scent； he shakes it before a guilty
man； and it charms him to his destruction。 The Augurs of the
Detective Temple invariably； predict； that when Mr Bucket and
that finger are much in conference； a terrible avenger will be
heard of before long。
Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature；
on the whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe
upon the follies of mankind； Mr Bucket pervades a vast number of
houses； and strolls about an infinity of streets； to outward
appearance rather languishing for want of an object。 He is in the
friendliest condition towards his species； and will drink with most
of them。 He is free with his money； affable in his manners；
innocent in his conversation—but； through the placid stream of
his life； there glides an undercurrent of forefinger。
Time and place cannot bind Mr Bucket。 Like man in the
abstract； he is here today and gone tomorrow—but； very unlike
man indeed； he is here again the next day。 This evening he will be
casually looking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir
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Leicester Dedlock’s house in town； and tomorrow morning he will
be walking on the leads at Chesney Wold； where erst the old man
walked whose ghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas。
Drawers； desks； pockets； all things belonging to him； Mr Bucket
examines。 A few hours afterwards； he and the Roman will be alone
together； comparing forefingers。
It is likely that these occupations are irreconcileable with home
enjoyment； but it is certain that Mr Bucket at present does not go
home。 Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs
Bucket—a lady of a natural detective genius； which if it had been
improved by professional exercise might have done great things；
but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur—he holds
himself aloof from that dear solace。 Mrs Bucket is dependent on
their lodger （fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes an
interest） for companionship and conversation。
A great crowd assembles in Lincoln’s Inn Fields on the day of
the funeral。 Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person；
strictly speaking； there are only three other human followers； that
is to say； Lord Doodle； William Buffy； and the debilitated cousin
（thrown in as a make…weight）； but the amount of inconsolable
carriages is immense。 The Peerage contributes more four…wheeled
affliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood。 Such is
the assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels； that the
Heralds’ College might be supposed to have lost its father and
mother at a blow。 The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dust
and ashes； with silver wheel…boxes； patent axles； all the last
improvements； and three bereaved worms； six feet high； holding
on behind； in a bunch of woe。 All the state coachmen in London
seem plunged into mourning； and if that dead old man of the rusty
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garb； be not beyond a taste in horseflesh （which appears
impossible）； it must be highly gratified this day。
Quiet among the undertakers； and the equipages； and the
calves of so many legs all steeped in grief； Mr Bucket sits
concealed in one of the inconsolable carriages； and at his ease
surveys the crowd through the lattice blinds。 He has a keen eye for
a crowd—as for what not？—and looking here and there； now from
this side of the carriage； now from the other； now up at the house
windows； now along the people’s heads； nothing escapes him。
“And there you are； my partner； eh？” says Mr Bucket to
himself； apostrophising Mrs Bucket； stationed； by his favour； on
the steps of the deceased’s house。
“And so you are。 And so you are！ And very well indeed you are
looking； Mrs Bucket！”
The procession has not started yet； but is waiting for the cause
of its assemblage to be brought out。 Mr Bucket； in the foremost
emblazoned carriage； uses his two fat forefingers to hold the
lattice a hair’s breadth open while he looks。
And it says a great deal for his attachment； as a husband； that
he is still occupied with Mrs B。 “There you are； my partner； eh？”
he murmuringly repeats。 “And our lodger with you。 I’m taking
notice of you； Mrs Bucket； I hope you’re all right in your health；
my dear！”
Not another word does Mr Bucket say； but sits with