seeing him again?
Mr Meagles, in the meanwhile, glanced all round the room without
observing anything in the shape of a box.

'Why, the truth is, Miss Wade,' said Mr Meagles, in a comfortable,
managing, not to say coaxing voice, 'it is possible that you may be able
to throw a light upon a little something that is at present dark. Any
unpleasant bygones between us are bygones, I hope. Can't be helped now.
You recollect my daughter? Time changes so! A mother!'

In his innocence, Mr Meagles could not have struck a worse key-note. He
paused for any expression of interest, but paused in vain.

'That is not the subject you wished to enter on?' she said, after a cold
silence.

'No, no,' returned Mr Meagles. 'No. I thought your good nature might--'

'I thought you knew,' she interrupted, with a smile, 'that my good
nature is not to be calculated upon?'

'Don't say so,' said Mr Meagles; 'you do yourself an injustice. However,
to come to the point.' For he was sensible of having gained nothing
by approaching it in a roundabout way. 'I have heard from my friend
Clennam, who, you will be sorry to hear, has been and still is very
ill--'

He paused again, and again she was silent.

'--that you had some knowledge of one Blandois, lately killed in London
by a violent accident. Now, don't mistake me! I know it was a slight
knowledge,' said Mr Meagles, dexterously forestalling an angry
interruption which he saw about to break. 'I am fully aware of that. It
was a slight knowledge, I know. But the question is,' Mr Meagles's voice
here became comfortable again, 'did he, on his way to England last time,
leave a box of papers, or a bundle of papers, or some papers or other in
some receptacle or other--any papers--with you: begging you to allow him
to leave them here for a short time, until he wanted them?'

'The question is?' she repeated. 'Whose question is?'

'Mine,' said Mr Meagles. 'And not only mine but Clennam's question, and
other people's question. Now, I am sure,' continued Mr Meagles, whose
heart was overflowing with Pet, 'that you can't have any unkind feeling
towards my daughter; it's impossible. Well! It's her question, too;
being one in which a particular friend of hers is nearly interested.
So here I am, frankly to say that is the question, and to ask, Now, did
he?'

'Upon my word,' she returned, 'I seem to be a mark for everybody who
knew anything of a man I once in my life hired, and paid, and dismissed,
to aim