“She didn’t utter another word,” said the woman, to all appearance unmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man’s violence; “but she clutched my gown violently with one hand, which was partly closed, and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.” “Which contained—” interposed Monks, stretching forward. “Nothing,” replied the woman; “it was a pawnbroker’s duplicate.” “For what?” demanded Monks. “In good time I’ll tell you,” said the woman. “I judge that she had kept the trinket for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account, and then pawned it, and saved or scraped together money to pay the pawnbroker’s interest year by year, and prevent its running out, so that if any thing came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too, and so redeemed the pledge.” “Where is it now?” asked Monks quickly. “_There_,” replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It contained a little gold locket, in which were two locks of hair, and a plain gold wedding-ring. “It has the word ‘Agnes’ engraved on the inside,” said the woman. “There is a blank left for the surname, and then follows the date, which is within a year before the child was born; I found out that.” “And this is all?” said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the contents of the little packet. “All,” replied the woman. Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back again; and now took courage to wipe off the perspiration, which had been trickling over his nose unchecked during the whole of the previous conversation. “I know nothing of the story beyond what I can guess at,” said his wife, addressing Monks after a short silence, “and I want to know nothing, for it’s safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?” “You may ask,” said Monks, with some show of surprise, “but whether I answer or not is another question.” “—Which makes three,” observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of facetiousness. “Is that what you expected to get from me?” demanded the matron. “It is,” replied Monks. “The other question?—” “What you propose to do with it. Can it be used against me?” “Never,” rejoined Monks; “nor against me either. See here; but don’t move a step forward, or your life’s not worth a bulrush!” With these words he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened close at Mr. Bumble’s feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward with great precipitation.