"That's what you _are_, you know," says Bucket. "Now it an't necessary to say to a man like you, engaged in your business, which is a business of trust, and requires a person to be wide awake and have his senses about him, and his head screwed on right (I had an uncle in your business once)--it an't necessary to say to a man like you, that it's the best and wisest way to keep little matters like this quiet. Don't you see? Quiet!" "Certainly, certainly," returns the stationer. "I don't mind telling _you_," says Bucket, with an engaging appearance of frankness, "that, as far as I can understand it, there seems to be a doubt whether this dead person wasn't entitled to a little property, and whether this female hasn't been up to some games respecting that property, don't you see!" "O!" says Mr. Snagsby, but not appearing to see quite distinctly. "Now, what _you_ want," pursues Bucket, again tapping Mr. Snagsby on the breast in a comfortable and soothing manner, "is, that every person should have their rights according to justice. That's what _you_ want." "To be sure," returns Mr. Snagsby, with a nod. "On account of which, and at the same time to oblige a--do you call it, in your business, customer or client? I forget how my uncle used to call it." "Why, I generally say customer, myself," replies Mr. Snagsby. "You're right!" returns Mr. Bucket, shaking hands with him quite affectionately--"on account of which, and at the same time to oblige a real good customer, you mean to go down with me, in confidence, to Tom-all-Alone's, and to keep the whole thing quiet ever afterward and never mention it to any one. That's about your intentions, if I understand you?" "You are right, sir. You are right," says Mr. Snagsby. "Then here's your hat," returns his new friend, quite as intimate with it as if he had made it; "and if you're ready, I am." They leave Mr. Tulkinghorn, without a ruffle on the surface of his unfathomable depths, drinking his old wine; and go down into the streets. "You don't happen to know a very good sort of person of the name of Gridley, do you?" says Bucket, in friendly converse as they descend the stairs. "No," says Mr. Snagsby, considering, "I don't know any body of that name. Why?" "Nothing particular," says Bucket; "only, having allowed his temper to get a little the better of him, and having been threatening some respectable people, he is keeping out of the way of a warrant I have got against him--which it's a pity that a man of sense should do."