“You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw him. I didn’t mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with ’em. I know ’em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy⁠—only with this difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What did he do before he went? What do you say;” Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his sentences, as if it were a tambourine; “to his being seen⁠—night after night⁠—watching the Bank?⁠—to his lurking about there⁠—after dark?⁠—To its striking Mrs. Sparsit⁠—that he could be lurking for no good⁠—To her calling Bitzer’s attention to him, and their both taking notice of him⁠—And to its appearing on inquiry today⁠—that he was also noticed by the neighbours?” Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his tambourine on his head.