“And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?” asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal: looking sideways at Oliver as he resumed the subject. “To-morrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, my dear.” “Yes, sir,” replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him. “I’ll tell you what,” whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; “he won’t come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my dear friend.” “I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly. “If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll——” and down went the stick. “I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life,” said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table. “And I for his falsehood with my head,” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also. “We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising passion. “We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.” As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in at this moment a small parcel of books which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper who has already figured in this history; which having laid on the table, she prepared to leave the room. “Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow; “there is something to go back.” “He has gone, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin. “Call after him,” said Mr. Brownlow; “it’s particular. He is a poor man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.” The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way, and the girl another, and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight, and both Oliver and the girl returned in a breathless state to report that there were no tidings of him. “Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; “I particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.” “Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig with an ironical smile; “he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.” “Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver; “I’ll run all the way, sir.” The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account, when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should, and by his prompt discharge of the commission prove to him the injustice of his suspicions, on this head at least, at once. “You _shall_ go, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.” Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bustle, and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.