As Bradley walked on meditating, the Rogue walked on at his side muttering. The purport of the muttering was: “that Rogue Riderhood, by George! seemed to be made public property on, now, and that every man seemed to think himself free to handle his name as if it was a Street Pump.” The purport of the meditating was: “Here is an instrument. Can I use it?”

They had walked along the Strand, and into Pall Mall, and had turned uphill towards Hyde Park Corner; Bradley Headstone waiting on the pace and lead of Riderhood, and leaving him to indicate the course. So slow were the schoolmaster’s thoughts, and so indistinct his purposes when they were but tributary to the one absorbing purpose or rather when, like dark trees under a stormy sky, they only lined the long vista at the end of which he saw those two figures of Wrayburn and Lizzie on which his eyes were fixed⁠—that at least a good half-mile was traversed before he spoke again. Even then, it was only to ask:

“Where is your lock?”