“Aye? What is it? What do you want with me?”
“Well, sir,” says Mr. Snagsby, holding his hat at the side of his head in his deference towards his best customer, “I was wishful to say a word to you, sir.”
“Can you say it here?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Say it then.” The lawyer turns, leans his arms on the iron railing at the top of the steps, and looks at the lamplighter lighting the courtyard.
“It is relating,” says Mr. Snagsby in a mysterious low voice, “it is relating—not to put too fine a point upon it—to the foreigner, sir!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn eyes him with some surprise. “What foreigner?”
“The foreign female, sir. French, if I don’t mistake? I am not acquainted with that language myself, but I should judge from her manners and appearance that she was French; anyways, certainly foreign. Her that was upstairs, sir, when Mr. Bucket and me had the honour of waiting upon you with the sweeping-boy that night.”
“Oh! Yes, yes. Mademoiselle Hortense.”
“Indeed, sir?” Mr. Snagsby coughs his cough of submission behind his hat. “I am not acquainted myself with the names of foreigners in general, but I have no doubt it would be that.” Mr. Snagsby appears to have set out in this reply with some desperate design of repeating the name, but on reflection coughs again to excuse himself.
“And what can you have to say, Snagsby,” demands Mr. Tulkinghorn, “about her?”