"Yes," said I.
"I remember all that."
"Then, Mr. Pip, one of those two prisoners sat behind you tonight.
I saw him over your shoulder."
"Steady!" I thought. I asked him then,
"Which of the two do you suppose you saw?"
"The one who had been mauled," he answered readily, "and I'll swear I saw him!
The more I think of him, the more certain I am of him."
"This is very curious!" said I, with the best assumption I could put on of its being nothing more to me.
"Very curious indeed!"
I cannot exaggerate the enhanced disquiet into which this conversation threw me, or the special and peculiar terror I felt at Compeyson's having been behind me "like a ghost."
For if he had ever been out of my thoughts for a few moments together since the hiding had begun, it was in those very moments when he was closest to me; and to think that I should be so unconscious and off my guard after all my care was as if I had shut an avenue of a hundred doors to keep him out, and then had found him at my elbow.
I could not doubt, either, that he was there, because I was there, and that, however slight an appearance of danger there might be about us, danger was always near and active.
I put such questions to Mr. Wopsle as, When did the man come in?
He could not tell me that; he saw me, and over my shoulder he saw the man.
It was not until he had seen him for some time that he began to identify him; but he had from the first vaguely associated him with me, and known him as somehow belonging to me in the old village time.
How was he dressed?
Prosperously, but not noticeably otherwise; he thought, in black.
Was his face at all disfigured?
No, he believed not.
I believed not too, for, although in my brooding state I had taken no especial notice of the people behind me, I thought it likely that a face at all disfigured would have attracted my attention.
When Mr. Wopsle had imparted to me all that he could recall or I extract, and when I had treated him to a little appropriate refreshment, after the fatigues of the evening, we parted. It was between twelve and one o'clock when I reached the Temple, and the gates were shut.
No one was near me when I went in and went home.
Herbert had come in, and we held a very serious council by the fire.
But there was nothing to be done, saving to communicate to Wemmick what I had that night found out, and to remind him that we waited for his hint.
As I thought that I might compromise him if I went too often to the Castle, I made this communication by letter.
I wrote it before I went to bed, and went out and posted it; and again no one was near me.
Herbert and I agreed that we could do nothing else but be very cautious.
And we were very cautious indeed,—more cautious than before, if that were possible,—and I for my part never went near Chinks's Basin, except when I rowed by, and then I only looked at Mill Pond Bank as I looked at anything else.
Chapter XLVIII
The second of the two meetings referred to in the last chapter occurred about a week after the first.
I had again left my boat at the wharf below Bridge; the time was an hour earlier in the afternoon; and, undecided where to dine, I had strolled up into Cheapside, and was strolling along it, surely the most unsettled person in all the busy concourse, when a large hand was laid upon my shoulder by some one overtaking me.
It was Mr. Jaggers's hand, and he passed it through my arm.
"As we are going in the same direction, Pip, we may walk together.
Where are you bound for?"
"For the Temple, I think," said I.
"Don't you know?" said Mr. Jaggers.
"Well," I returned, glad for once to get the better of him in cross-examination,
"I do not know, for I have not made up my mind."
"You are going to dine?" said Mr. Jaggers.
"You don't mind admitting that, I suppose?"
"No," I returned, "I don't mind admitting that."
"And are not engaged?"
"I don't mind admitting also that I am not engaged."
"Then," said Mr. Jaggers, "come and dine with me."
I was going to excuse myself, when he added, "Wemmick's coming."
So I changed my excuse into an acceptance,—the few words I had uttered, serving for the beginning of either,—and we went along Cheapside and slanted off to Little Britain, while the lights were springing up brilliantly in the shop windows, and the street lamp-lighters, scarcely finding ground enough to plant their ladders on in the midst of the afternoon's bustle, were skipping up and down and running in and out, opening more red eyes in the gathering fog than my rushlight tower at the Hummums had opened white eyes in the ghostly wall.
At the office in Little Britain there was the usual letter-writing, hand-washing, candle-snuffing, and safe-locking, that closed the business of the day.
As I stood idle by Mr. Jaggers's fire, its rising and falling flame made the two casts on the shelf look as if they were playing a diabolical game at bo-peep with me; while the pair of coarse, fat office candles that dimly lighted Mr. Jaggers as he wrote in a corner were decorated with dirty winding-sheets, as if in remembrance of a host of hanged clients.
We went to Gerrard Street, all three together, in a hackney-coach: And, as soon as we got there, dinner was served.