Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. “I have now my instructions,” he says. “ Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of trouble—”
“It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn,” Sir Leicester interrupts him, “ to give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned, levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably have been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and severely punished—if not,” adds Sir Leicester after a moment’s pause, “if not hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory thing to having the sentence executed.
“But night is coming on,” says he, “and my Lady will take cold. My dear, let us go in.”
As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr. Tulkinghorn for the first time.
“You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I happened to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circumstance; I had quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can’t imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely had some.”
“You had some?” Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.
“Oh, yes!” returns my Lady carelessly. “I think I must have had some. And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that actual thing—what is it!—affidavit?”
“Yes.”
“How very odd!”