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head and heavings of his chest still linger behind; not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Jo and his conductor presently return, and Jo is assisted to his mattress by the careful Phil; to whom, after due administration of medicine by his own hands, Allan confides all needful means and instructions. The morning is by this time getting on apace. He repairs to his lodgings to dress and breakfast; and then, without seeking rest, goes away to Mr. Jarndyce to communicate his discovery.

With him Mr. Jarndyce returns alone, confidentially telling him that there are reasons for keeping this matter very quiet indeed; and showing a serious interest in it. To Mr. Jarndyce, Jo repeats in substance what he said in the morning; without any material variation. Only, that cart of his is heavier to draw, and draws with a hollower sound.

“Let me lay here quiet, and not be chivied no more,” falters Jo; “and be so kind any person as is a passin' nigh where I used fur to sweep, as jist to say to Mr. Sangsby that Jo, wot he known once, is a moving on right forards with his duty, and I'll be wery thankful. I'd be more thankful than I am aready, if it was any ways possible for an unfortnet to be it.”

He makes so many of these references to the law-stationer in the course of a day or two, that Allan, after conferring with Mr. Jarndyce, good-naturedly resolves to call in Cook's Court; the rather, as the cart seems to be breaking down.

To Cook's Court, therefore, he repairs. Mr. Snagsby is behind his counter in his grey coat and sleeves, inspecting an Indenture of several skins which has just come in from the engrosser's; an immense desert of law-hand and parchment, with here and there a resting-place of a few large letters, to break the awful monotony, and save the traveller from despair. Mr. Snagsby puts up at one of these inky wells, and greets the stranger with his cough of general preparation for business.

“You don't remember me, Mr. Snagsby?”

The stationer's heart begins to thump heavily, for his old apprehensions have never abated. It is as much as he can do to answer, No, sir, I can't say I do. I should have considered—not to put too fine a point upon it—that I never saw you before, sir.”

“Twice before,” says Allan Woodcourt. “Once at a poor bedside, and once———”

“It's come at last!” thinks the afflicted stationer, as recollection breaks upon him. “It's got to a head now, and is going to burst!” But, he has sufficient presence of mind to conduct his visitor into the little counting-house, and to shut the door.

“Are you a married man, sir?”

“No, I am not.”

“Would you make the attempt, though single,” says Mr. Snagsby in a melancholy whisper, “to speak as low as you can? For my little woman is a listening somewheres, or I'll forfeit the business and five hundred pound!”