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“Jarndyce！ Here we are； sir；” says Mr Snagsby。 “To be sure！ I
might have remembered it。 This was given out； sir； to a Writer who
lodges just over on the opposite side of the lane。”
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Mr Tulkinghorn has seen the entry； found it before the Law…
stationer； read it while the forefinger was coming down the hill。
“What do you call him？ Nemo？” says Mr Tulkinghorn。
“Nemo； sir。 Here it is。 Forty…two folio。 Given out on the
Wednesday night； at eight o’clock； brought in on the Thursday
morning at half after nine。”
“Nemo！” repeats Mr Tulkinghorn。 “Nemo is Latin for no one。”
“It must be English for some one； sir； I think；” Mr Snagsby
submits； with his deferential cough。 “It is a person’s name。 Here it
is； you see； sir！ Forty…two folio。 Given out Wednesday night； eight
o’clock； brought in； Thursday morning； half after nine。”
The tail of Mr Snagsby’s eye becomes conscious of the head of
Mrs Snagsby looking in at the shop…door to know what he means
by deserting his tea。 Mr Snagsby addresses an explanatory cough
to Mrs Snagsby； as who should say； “My dear； a customer！”
“Half after nine； sir；” repeats Mr Snagsby。 “Our law…writers；
who live by job…work； are a queer lot； and this may not be his
name； but it’s the name he goes by。 I remember now； sir； that he
gives it in a written advertisement he sticks up down at the Rule
Office； and the King’s Bench Office； and the Judges’ Chambers；
and so forth。 You know the kind of document； sir—wanting
employ？”
Mr Tulkinghorn glances through the little window at the back
of Coavins’s； the sheriff’s officer’s； where lights shine in Coavins’s
windows。 Coavins’s coffee…room is at the back； and the shadows of
several gentlemen under a cloud loom cloudily upon the blinds。
Mr Snagsby takes the opportunity of slightly turning his head； to
glance over his shoulder at his little woman； and to make
apologetic motions with his mouth to this effect：
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“Tul…king…horn—rich—in…flu…en…tial！”
“Have you given this man work before？” asks Mr Tulkinghorn。
“O dear； yes； sir！ Work of yours。”
“Thinking of more important matters； I forget where you said
he lived？”
“Across the lane； sir。 In fact； he lodges at a—” Mr Snagsby
makes another bolt； as if the bit of bread and butter were
insurmountable—“at a Rag and Bottle shop。”
“Can you show me the place as I go back？”
“With the greatest pleasure； sir！”
Mr Snagsby pulls off his sleeves and his grey coat； pulls on his
black coat； takes his hat from its peg。 “Oh！ here is my little
woman！” he says aloud。 “My dear； will you be so kind as to tell one
of the lads to look after the shop； while I step across the lane with
Mr Tulkinghorn？ Mrs Snagsby； sir—I shan’t be two minutes； my
love！”
Mrs Snagsby bends to the lawyer； retires behind the counter；
peeps at them through the window…blind； goes softly into the back
office； refers to the entries in the book still lying open。 Is evidently
curious。
“You will find that the place is rough； sir；” says Mr Snagsby；
walking deferentially in the road； and leaving the narrow
pavement to the lawyer； “and the party is very rough。 But they’re
a wild lot in general； sir。 The advantage of this particular man is；
that he never wants sleep。 He’ll go at it right on end； if you want
him to； as long as ever you like。”
It is quite dark now； and the gas…lamps have acquired their full
effect。 Jostling against clerks going to post the day’s letters； and
against counsel and attorneys going home to dinner； and against
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plaintiffs and defendants； and suitors of all sorts； and against the
general crowd； in whose way the forensic wisdom of ages has
interposed a million of obstacles to the transaction of the
commonest business of life—diving through law and equity； and
through that kindred mystery； the street mud； which is made of
nobody knows what； and collects about us nobody knows whence
or how： we only knowing in general that when there is too much of
it； we find it necessary to shovel it away—the lawyer and the law…
stationer come to a Rag and Bottle shop； and general emporium of
much disregarded merchandise； lying and being in the shadow of
the wall of Lincoln’s Inn； and kept； as is announced in paint； to all
whom it may concern； by one Krook。
“This is where he lives； sir；” says the law…stationer。
“This is where he lives； is it？” says the lawyer unconcernedly。
“Thank you。”
“Are you not going in； sir？”
“No； thank you； no； I am going on to the Fields at present。 Good
evening。 Thank you！” Mr Snagsby lifts his hat； and returns to his
little woman and his tea。
But； Mr Tulkinghorn does not go on to the Fields at present。 He
goes a short way； turns back； comes again to the shop of Mr
Krook； and enters it straight。 It is dim enough； with a blot…headed
candle or so in the windows； and an old man and a cat sitting in
the back part by a fire。 The old man rises and comes forward； with
another blot…headed candle in his hand。
“Pray is your lodger within？”
“Male or female； sir？” says Mr Krook。
“Male。 The person who does copying。”
Mr Krook has eyed his man narrowly。 Knows him by sight。 Has
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an indistinct impression of his aristocratic repute。
“Did you wish to see him； sir？”
“Yes。”
“It’s what I seldom do myself；” says Mr Krook with a grin。
“Shall I call him down？ But it’s a weak chance if he’d come； sir！”
“I’ll go up to him； then；” says Mr Tulkinghorn。
“Second floor； sir。 Take the candle。 Up there！” Mr Krook； with
his cat beside him； stands at the bottom of the staircase looking
after Mr Tulkinghorn。 “Hi…hi！” he says； when Mr Tulkinghorn has
nearly disappeared。 The lawyer looks down over the handrail。 The
cat expands her wicked mouth； and snarls at him。
“Order； Lady Jane！ Behave yourself to visitors； my lady！ You
know what they say of my lodger？” whispers Krook； going up a
step or two。
“What do they say of him？”
“They say he has sold himself to the Enemy； but you and I
know better—he don’t buy。 I’ll tell you what； though； my lodger is
so black…humoured and gloomy； that I believe he’d as soon make
that bargain as any other。 Don’t put him out； sir。 That’s my
advice！”
Mr Tulkinghorn with a nod goes on his way。 He comes to the
dark door on the second floor。 He knocks； receives no answer；
opens it； and accidentally extinguishes his candle in doing so。
The air of the room is almost bad enough to have extinguished
it； if he had not。 It is a small room； nearly black with soot； and
grease； and dirt。 In the rusty skeleton of a grate； pinched at the
middle as if Poverty had gripped it； a red coke fire burns low。 In
the corner by the chimney； stand a deal table and a broken desk； a
wilderness marked with a rain of ink。 In another corner； a ragged
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old portmanteau on one of the two chairs； serves for cabinet or
wardrobe； no larger one is needed； for it collapses like the cheeks
of a starved man。 The floor is bare； except that one old ma