“Ha!” said my aunt, knitting her brows thoughtfully, and glancing at Agnes. “And what’s become of him?”

“I don’t know. He left here,” said Traddles, “with his mother, who had been clamouring, and beseeching, and disclosing, the whole time. They went away by one of the London night coaches, and I know no more about him; except that his malevolence to me at parting was audacious. He seemed to consider himself hardly less indebted to me, than to Mr. Micawber; which I consider (as I told him) quite a compliment.”

“Do you suppose he has any money, Traddles?” I asked.