his head down, the person for whose
information he so unconsciously laboured, moved from the door behind him
to within a short stride of his shoulder, and looked eagerly towards the
creeping track of his hand upon the table. At the same time, Alice, from
her opposite chair, watched it narrowly as it shaped the letters, and
repeated each one on her lips as he made it, without articulating it
aloud. At the end of every letter her eyes and Mr Dombey's met, as if
each of them sought to be confirmed by the other; and thus they both
spelt D.I.J.O.N.

'There!' said the Grinder, moistening the palm of his hand hastily, to
obliterate the word; and not content with smearing it out, rubbing and
planing all trace of it away with his coat-sleeve, until the very colour
of the chalk was gone from the table. 'Now, I hope you're contented,
Misses Brown!'

The old woman, in token of her being so, released his arm and patted his
back; and the Grinder, overcome with mortification, cross-examination,
and liquor, folded his arms on the table, laid his head upon them, and
fell asleep.

Not until he had been heavily asleep some time, and was snoring roundly,
did the old woman turn towards the door where Mr Dombey stood concealed,
and beckon him to come through the room, and pass out. Even then, she
hovered over Rob, ready to blind him with her hands, or strike his head
down, if he should raise it while the secret step was crossing to the
door. But though her glance took sharp cognizance of the sleeper, it was
sharp too for the waking man; and when he touched her hand with his, and
in spite of all his caution, made a chinking, golden sound, it was as
bright and greedy as a raven's.

The daughter's dark gaze followed him to the door, and noted well how
pale he was, and how his hurried tread indicated that the least delay
was an insupportable restraint upon him, and how he was burning to be
active and away. As he closed the door behind him, she looked round at
her mother. The old woman trotted to her; opened her hand to show what
was within; and, tightly closing it again in her jealousy and avarice,
whispered:

'What will he do, Ally?'

'Mischief,' said the daughter.

'Murder?' asked the old woman.

'He's a madman, in his wounded pride, and may do that, for anything we
can say, or he either.'

Her glance was brighter than her mother's, and the fire that shone in it
was fiercer; but her face was colourless, even to her lips.

They s