its fading into sober method when compared with the
rampancy of Mr Pancks. 'Mr Clennam, Mr Rugg,' said Pancks. 'Stop a
moment. Come to the pump.'

They adjourned to the pump. Mr Pancks, instantly putting his head under
the spout, requested Mr Rugg to take a good strong turn at the handle.
Mr Rugg complying to the letter, Mr Pancks came forth snorting and
blowing to some purpose, and dried himself on his handkerchief.

'I am the clearer for that,' he gasped to Clennam standing astonished.
'But upon my soul, to hear her father making speeches in that chair,
knowing what we know, and to see her up in that room in that dress,
knowing what we know, is enough to--give me a back, Mr Rugg--a little
higher, sir,--that'll do!'

Then and there, on that Marshalsea pavement, in the shades of evening,
did Mr Pancks, of all mankind, fly over the head and shoulders of Mr
Rugg of Pentonville, General Agent, Accountant, and Recoverer of Debts.
Alighting on his feet, he took Clennam by the button-hole, led him
behind the pump, and pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of
papers. Mr Rugg, also, pantingly produced from his pocket a bundle of
papers.

'Stay!' said Clennam in a whisper.'You have made a discovery.'

Mr Pancks answered, with an unction which there is no language to
convey, 'We rather think so.'

'Does it implicate any one?'

'How implicate, sir?'

'In any suppression or wrong dealing of any kind?'

'Not a bit of it.'

'Thank God!' said Clennam to himself. 'Now show me.' 'You are to
understand'--snorted Pancks, feverishly unfolding papers, and speaking
in short high-pressure blasts of sentences, 'Where's the Pedigree?
Where's Schedule number four, Mr Rugg? Oh! all right! Here we are.--You
are to understand that we are this very day virtually complete. We
shan't be legally for a day or two. Call it at the outside a week. We've
been at it night and day for I don't know how long. Mr Rugg, you know
how long? Never mind. Don't say. You'll only confuse me. You shall tell
her, Mr Clennam. Not till we give you leave. Where's that rough total,
Mr Rugg? Oh! Here we are! There sir! That's what you'll have to break to
her. That man's your Father of the Marshalsea!'

CHAPTER 33. Mrs Merdle's Complaint

Resigning herself to inevitable fate by making the best of those people,
the Miggleses, and submitting her philosophy to the draught upon it, of
which she had foreseen the likelihood in her interview with Arthur,
M