"He had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him the commonest of the common.

The surgeon had a notion that he had once been something better, both in appearance and condition." "What did they call the wretched being ?" "They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his name." "Not even any one who had attended on him ?" "No one had attended on him.

He was found dead.

In fact, I found him." "Without any clue to anything more ?" "Without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an old portmanteau, but--No, there were no papers." During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady Dedlock and Mr.Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject.

Sir Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the Dedlock on the staircase.