‘No they wouldn’t, ma’am,’ interrupted Ralph, hastily. ‘Don’t think it.’

A minute’s bustle, a banging of the coach doors, a swaying of the vehicle to one side, as the heavy coachman, and still heavier guard, climbed into their seats; a cry of all right, a few notes from the horn, a hasty glance of two sorrowful faces below, and the hard features of Mr Ralph Nickleby—and the coach was gone too, and rattling over the stones of Smithfield.