Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment.  Shall he come up?

There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester’s burning wish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room cleared of every one but the housekeeper.  It is speedily done, and Mr. Bucket appears.  Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems fallen from his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon this man.

“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I’m sorry to see you like this.  I hope you’ll cheer up.  I’m sure you will, on account of the family credit.”

Sir Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in his face while he reads it.  A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket’s eye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye is still glancing over the words, he indicates, “Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I understand you.”

Sir Leicester writes upon the slate.  “Full forgiveness.  Find—­” Mr. Bucket stops his hand.

“Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I’ll find her.  But my search after her must be begun out of hand.  Not a minute must be lost.”

With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock’s look towards a little box upon a table.

“Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet?  Certainly.  Open it with one of these here keys?  Certainly.  The littlest key?  To be sure.  Take the notes out?  So I will.  Count ’em?  That’s soon done.  Twenty and thirty’s fifty, and twenty’s seventy, and fifty’s one twenty, and forty’s one sixty.  Take ’em for expenses?  That I’ll do, and render an account of course.  Don’t spare money?  No I won’t.”

The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket’s interpretation on all these heads is little short of miraculous.  Mrs. Rouncewell, who holds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and hands as he starts up, furnished for his journey.

“You’re George’s mother, old lady; that’s about what you are, I believe?” says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on and buttoning his coat.

“Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother.”

“So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now.  Well, then, I’ll tell you something.  You needn’t be distressed no more.  Your son’s all right.  Now, don’t you begin a-crying, because what you’ve got to do is to take care of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and you won’t do that by crying.  As to your son, he’s all right, I tell you; and he sends his loving duty, and hoping you’re the same.  He’s discharged honourable; that’s about what he is; with no more imputation on his character than there is on yours, and yours is a tidy one, I’ll bet a pound.  You may trust me, for I took your son.  He conducted himself in a game way, too, on that occasion; and he’s a fine-made man, and you’re a fine-made old lady, and you’re a mother and son, the pair of you, as might be showed for models in a caravan.