Chapter 22 - Page 2

to-night, to ponder at his usual length. Seated at the same table, though with his chair modestly and uncomfortably drawn a little away from it, sits a bald, mild, shining man, who coughs respectfully behind his hand when the lawyer bids him fill his glass.

“Now, Snagsby,” says Mr Tulkinghorn, “to go over this odd story again.”

“If you please, sir.”

“You told me when you were so good as to step round here, last night—”

“For which I must ask you to excuse me if it was a liberty, sir; but I remember that you had taken a sort of an interest in that person, and I thought it possible that you might — just — wish — to—”

Mr Tulkinghorn is not the man to help him to any conclusion, or to admit anything as to any possibility concerning himself. So Mr Snagsby trails off into saying, with an awkward cough, “I must ask you to excuse the liberty, sir, I am sure.”

“Not at all,” says Mr Tulkinghorn. “You told me, Snagsby, that you put on your hat and came round without mentioning your intention to your wife. That was prudent I think, because it’s not a matter of such importance that it requires to be mentioned.”

“Well, sir,” returns Mr Snagsby, “you see my little woman is — not to put too fine a point upon it — inquisitive. She’s inquisitive. Poor little thing, she’s liable to spasms, and it’s good for her to have her mind employed. In consequence of which, she employs it — I should say upon every individual thing she can lay hold of, whether it concerns her or not — especially not. My little woman has a very active mind, sir.”

Mr Snagsby drinks, and murmurs with an admiring cough behind his hand. “Dear me, very fine wine indeed!”

“Therefore you kept your visit to yourself, last night?” says Mr Tulkinghorn. “And to-night, too?”

“Yes, sir, and to-night, too. My little woman is at present in — not to put too fine a point upon it — in a pious state, or in what she considers such, and attends the Evening Exertions (which is the name they go by) of a reverend party of the name of Chadband. He has a great deal of eloquence at his command, undoubtedly, but I am not quite favourable to his style myself. That’s neither here nor there. My little woman being engaged in that way, made it easier for me to step round in a quiet manner.”

Mr Tulkinghorn assents. “Fill your glass, Snagsby.”

“Thank you, sir, I am sure,” returns the stationer, with his cough of deference. “This is wonderfully fine wine, sir!”

“It is a rare wine now,” says Mr Tulkinghorn. “It is fifty years