Mr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide,
and took a chair by the bedside.

'I have sent for you, Sir,' said Dick--'but she told you on what
account?'

'She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don't know what
to say or think,' replied Mr Abel.

'You'll say that presently,' retorted Dick. 'Marchioness, take a seat
on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me;
and be particular. Don't you speak another word, Sir.'

The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before,
without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his eyes
fixed on his visitor during its narration, and directly it was
concluded, took the word again.

'You have heard it all, and you'll not forget it. I'm too giddy and
too queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what
to do. After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you
went home fast in your life, go home fast to-night. Don't stop to say
one word to me, but go. She will be found here, whenever she's wanted;
and as to me, you're pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two.
There are more reasons than one for that. Marchioness, a light! If
you lose another minute in looking at me, sir, I'll never forgive you!'

Mr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an
instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him down-stairs,
reported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had
dashed away at full gallop.

'That's right!' said Dick; 'and hearty of him; and I honour him from
this time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you
must be tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as much good to
see you take it as if I might drink it myself.'

Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to
indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr Swiveller's
extreme contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat
order, she wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug
before the fire.

Mr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, 'Strew then, oh
strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning blushes. Good
night, Marchioness!'

CHAPTER 66

On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow
degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the
curtains, he espied Mr Garland, Mr Abel,