But her hands were Estella's hands, and her
eyes were Estella's eyes, and if she had
reappeared a hundred times I could have been
neither more sure nor less sure that my
conviction was the truth.

It was a dull evening, for Wemmick drew
his wine when it came round, quite as a
matter of business—just as he might have drawn
his salary when that came round—and with his
eyes on his chief, sat in a state of perpetual
readings for cross-examination. As to the
quantity of wine, his post-office was as indifferent
and ready as any other post-office for its quantity
of letters. From my point, of view, he was
the wrong twin all the time, and only externally
like the Wemmick of Walworth.

We took our leave early, and left together.
Even when we were groping among Mr. Jaggers's
stock of boots for our hats, I felt that the right
twin was on his way back; and we had not gone
half a dozen yards down Gerrard-street in the
Walworth direction before I found that I was
walking arm-in-arm with the right twin, and
that the wrong twin had evaporated into the
evening air.

" Well!" said Wemmick, "that's over. He's
a wonderful man, without his living likeness;
but I feel that I have to screw myself up when
I dine with him—and I dine more comfortably,
unscrewed."

I felt that this was a good statement of the
case, and told him so.

"Wouldn't say it to anybody but yourself,"
he answered. "I know that what is said
between you and me, goes no further."

I asked him if he had ever seen Miss
Havisham's adopted daughter, Mrs. Bentley
Drummle? He said no. To avoid being too
abrupt, I then spoke of the Aged, and of Miss
Skiffins. He looked rather sly when I mentioned
Miss Skiffins, and stopped in the street
to blow his nose with a roll of the head and a
flourish, not quite free from latent boastfulness.

"Wemmick," said I, "do you remember
telling me before I first went to Mr. Jaggers's
private house, to notice that housekeeper?"

"Did I?" he replied. "Ah, I dare say I did.
Deuce take me," he added, suddenly, "I know
I did. I find I am not quite unscrewed yet."

"A wild beast tamed, you called her," said I.

"And what do you call her?" said he.

"The same. How did Mr. Jaggers tame
her, Wemmick?"

"That's his secret. She has been with him
many a long year."

"I wish you would tell me her story. I feel
a particular interest in being acquainted with it.
You know that what is said between you and
me goes no further."

"Well!" Wemmick replied, "I don't know
her story—that is, I don't know all of it. But
what I do know, I'll tell you. We are in our
private and personal capacities, of course."

"Of course."

"A score of years ago, that woman was tried
at the Old Bailey for murder, and was acquitted.
She was a very handsome young woman, and I
believe had some gipsy blood in her. Anyhow
it was hot enough when it was up, as you may
suppose."

"But she was acquitted."

"Mr. Jaggers was for her," pursued Wemmick,
with a look full of meaning, "and worked the
case in a way quite astonishing. It was a
desperate case, and it was comparatively early days
with him then, and he worked it to general
admiration; in fact, it may almost be said to have
made him. He worked it himself at the police-office,
day after day for many days, contending
against even a committal; and at the trial where
he couldn't work it himself, sat under Counsel,
and—every one knew—put in all the salt and
pepper. The murdered person was a woman; a
woman, a good ten years older, very much larger,
and very much stronger. It was a case of
jealousy. They both led tramping lives, and
this woman in Gerrard-street here had been
married very young, over the broomstick (as we
say), to a tramping man, and was a perfect fury
in point of jealousy. The murdered woman—more
a match for the man, certainly, in point of years—
was found dead in a barn near Hounslow Heath.
There had been a violent struggle, perhaps a
fight. She was bruised and scratched and
torn, and had been held by the throat at last
and choked. Now, there was no reasonable
evidence to implicate any person but this woman,
and, on the improbabilities of her having been
able to do it, Mr. Jaggers principally rested his
case. You may be sure," said Wemmick, touching
me on the sleeve, "that he never dwelt upon
the strength of her hands then, though he
sometimes does now."

I had told Wemmick of his showing us her
wrists, that day of the dinner party.

"Well, sir!" Wemmick went on; "it happened—
happened, don't you see?—that this woman
was so very artfully dressed from the time of
her apprehension, that she looked much slighter
than she really was; in particular, her sleeves
are always remembered to have been so skilfully
contrived, that her arms had quite a delicate
look. She had only a bruise or two about her
—nothing for a tramp—but the backs of her
hands were lacerated, and the question was,
was it with finger-nails? Now, Mr. Jaggers
showed that she had struggled through a great
lot of brambles which were not as high as
her face; but which she could not have got
through and kept her hands out of; and bits of
those brambles were actually found in her skin
and put in evidence, as well as the fact that the
brambles in question were found on examination
to have been broken through, and to have
little shreds of her dress and little spots of blood
upon them here and there. But the boldest point
he made, was this. It was attempted to be set
up in proof of her jealousy, that she was under
strong suspicion of having, at about the time of
the murder, frantically destroyed her child by this
man—some three years old—to revenge herself
upon him. Mr. Jaggers worked that, in this way.
'We say these are not marks of finger-nails,
but marks of brambles, and we show you the