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 Herald's College might be sup-
posed 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 seemed plunged into mourn-
ing; and if that dead old man of the gusty garb, be not beyond a taste in horse-
flesh (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 car-
riages, 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, apostro-
phising 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 assem-
blage 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 occu-
pied 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 most attentive eyes until
the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down--Where are all those
secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did they fly with him on that sudden
journey?--and until the procession moves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed.
After which he composes himself for an easy ride; and takes note of the fittings
of the carriage, in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.

Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his dark carriage, and
Mr. Bucket shut up in his. Between the immeasurable track of space beyond the
little wound that has thrown the one into the fixed sleep which jolts so heavily
over the stones of the streets, and the narrow track of blood which keeps the
other in the watchful state expressed in every hair of his head! But it is all one
to both; neither is troubled about that.

Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner, and glides from the
carriage when the opportunity he has settled with himself arrives. He makes for
Sir Leicester Dedlock's, which is at present a sort of home to him, where he
comes and goes as he likes at all hours, where he is always welcome and made

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