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into Mr。 Bumble’s eyes。
“Now listen to me；” said the stranger； after closing the door and
window。 “I came down to this place； today； to find you out； and； by
one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his
friends sometimes； you walked into the very room I was sitting in；
while you were uppermost in my mind。 I want some information
from you。 I don’t ask you to give it for nothing； slight as it is。 Put
up that； to begin with。”
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As he spoke； he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table；
to his companion； carefully； as though unwilling that the clinking
of money should be heard without。 When Mr。 Bumble had
scrupulously examined the coins； to see that they were genuine；
and had put them up； with much satisfaction in his waistcoat
pocket； he went on：
“Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years； last
winter。”
“It’s a long time；” said Mr。 Bumble。 “Very good。 I’ve done it。”
“The scene； the workhouse。”
“Good！”
“And the time； night。”
“Yes。”
“And the place； the crazy hole； wherever it was； in which
miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied
to themselves—gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear；
and hid their shame； rot ’em； in the grave！”
“The lying…in room； I suppose？” said Mr。 Bumble； not quite
following the stranger’s excited description。
“Yes；” said the stranger。 “A boy was born there。”
“A many boys；” observed Mr。 Bumble； shaking his head
despondingly。
“A murrain on the young devils！” cried the stranger； “I speak of
one； a meek…looking； pale…faced boy； who was apprenticed down
here to a coffin…maker—I wish he had made his coffin； and
screwed his body in it—and who afterwards ran away to London；
as it was supposed。”
“Why； you mean Oliver！ Young Twist！” said Mr。 Bumble； “I
remember him； of course。 There wasn’t an obstinater young
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rascal—”
“It’s not of him I want to hear； I’ve heard enough of him；” said
the stranger； stopping Mr。 Bumble in the very outset of a tirade on
the subject of poor Oliver’s vices。 “It’s of a woman； the hag that
nursed his mother。 Where is she？”
“Where is she？” said Mr。 Bumble； whom the gin…and…water had
rendered facetious。 “It would be hard to tell。 There’s no midwifery
there； whichever place she’s gone to； so I suppose she’s out of
employment； anyway。”
“What do you mean？” demanded the stranger sternly。
“That she died last winter；” rejoined Mr。 Bumble。
The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this
information； and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some
time afterwards； his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted；
and he seemed lost in thought。 For some time； he appeared
doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the
intelligence； but at length he breathed more freely； and
withdrawing his eyes； observed that it was no great matter。 With
that he rose； as if to depart。
But Mr。 Bumble was cunning enough； and he at once saw that
an opportunity was opened； for the lucrative disposal of some
secret in the possession of his better half。 He well remembered the
night of old Sally’s death； which the occurrences of that day had
given him good reason to recollect； as the occasion on which he
had proposed to Mrs。 Corney； and although that lady had never
confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary
witness； he had heard enough to know that it related to something
that had occurred in the old woman’s attendance； as workhouse
nurse； upon the young mother of Oliver Twist。 Hastily calling this
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circumstance to mind； he informed the stranger； with an air of
mystery； that one woman had been closeted with the old harridan
shortly before she died； and that she could； as he had reason to
believe； throw some light on the subject of his inquiry。
“How can I find her？” said the stranger； thrown off his guard；
and plainly showing that all his fears （whatever they were） were
aroused afresh by the intelligence。
“Only through me；” rejoined Mr。 Bumble。
“When？” cried the stranger hastily。
“Tomorrow；” rejoined Bumble。
“At nine in the evening；” said the stranger； producing a scrap of
paper； and writing down upon it； an obscure address by the waterside； in characters that betrayed his agitation； “at nine in the
evening； bring her to me there。 I needn’t tell you to be secret。 It’s
your interest。”
With these words； he led the way to the door； after stopping to
pay for the liquor that had been drunk。 Shortly remarking that
their roads were different； he departed without more ceremony
than an emphatic repetition of the hour of appointment for the
following night。
On glancing at the address； the parochial functionary observed
that it contained no name。 The stranger had not gone far； so he
made after him to ask it。
“What do you want；” cried the man； turning quickly round； as
Bumble touched him on the arm； “following me？”
“Only to ask a question；” said the other； pointing to the scrap of
paper。 “What name am I to ask for？”
“Monks！” rejoined the man； and strode hastily away。
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Chapter 38
Containing An Account Of What Passed Between
Mr。 And Mrs。 Bumble； And Mr。 Monks； At Their
Nocturnal Interview。
It was a dull； close； overcast summer evening。 The clouds；
which had been threatening all day； spread out in a dense and
sluggish mass of vapour； already yielded large drops of rain；
and seemed to presage a violent thunder…storm； when Mr。 and
Mrs。 Bumble； turning out of the main street of the town； directed
their course towards a scattered little colony of ruinous houses；
distant from it some miles and a half； or thereabouts； and erected
on a low； unwholesome swamp； bordering upon the river。
They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments；
which might； perhaps； serve the double purpose of protecting
their persons from the rain； and sheltering them from observation。
The husband carried a lantern； from which； however； no light yet
shone； and trudged a few paces in front as though—the way being
dirty—to give his wife the benefit of treading in his heavy
footprints。 They went on； in profound silence； every now and then；
Mr。 Bumble relaxed his pace； and turned his head as if to make
sure that his helpmate was following； then； discovering that she
was close at his heels he mended his rate of walking； and
proceeded； at a considerable increase of speed； towards their place
of destination。
This was far from being a place of doubtful character； for it had
long been known as the residence of none but low ruffians； who；
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under various pretences of living by their labour； subsisted chiefly
on plunder and crime。 It was a collection of mere hovels—some；
ha