“I don’t find it worth my while to cut things so fine as to go into the inquiry,” Fascination coolly answered.

“Not in justice?”

“Bother justice!” said Fledgeby.

“Not in generosity?”

“Jews and generosity!” said Fledgeby. “That’s a good connexion! Bring out your vouchers, and don’t talk Jerusalem palaver.”

The vouchers were produced, and for the next half-hour Mr. Fledgeby concentrated his sublime attention on them. They and the accounts were all found correct, and the books and the papers resumed their places in the bag.

“Next,” said Fledgeby, “concerning that bill-broking branch of the business; the branch I like best. What queer bills are to be bought, and at what prices? You have got your list of what’s in the market?”

“Sir, a long list,” replied Riah, taking out a pocket-book, and selecting from its contents a folded paper, which, being unfolded, became a sheet of foolscap covered with close writing.

“Whew!” whistled Fledgeby, as he took it in his hand. “Queer Street is full of lodgers just at present! These are to be disposed of in parcels; are they?”

“In parcels as set forth,” returned the old man, looking over his master’s shoulder; “or the lump.”

“Half the lump will be waste-paper, one knows beforehand,” said Fledgeby. “Can you get it at waste- paper price? That’s the question.”

Riah shook his head, and Fledgeby cast his small eyes down the list. They presently began to twinkle, and he no sooner became conscious of their twinkling, than he looked up over his shoulder at the grave face above him, and moved to the chimney-piece. Making a desk of it, he stood there with his back to the old man, warming his knees, perusing the list at his leisure, and often returning to some lines of it, as though they were particularly interesting. At those times he glanced in the chimney-glass to see what note the old man took of him. He took none that could be detected, but, aware of his employer’s suspicions, stood with his eyes on the ground.

Mr. Fledgeby was thus amiably engaged when a step was heard at the outer door, and the door was heard to open hastily. “Hark! That’s your doing, you Pump of Israel,” said Fledgeby; “you can’t have shut it.”’ Then the step was heard within, and the voice of Mr. Alfred Lammle called aloud, “Are you anywhere here, Fledgeby?” To which Fledgeby, after cautioning Riah in a low voice to take his cue as it should be given him, replied, “Here I am!” and opened his bed-room door.

“Come in!” said Fledgeby. “This gentleman is only Pubsey and Co. of Saint Mary Axe, that I am trying to make terms for an unfortunate friend with in a matter of some dishonoured bills. But really Pubsey and Co. are so strict with their debtors, and so hard to move, that I seem to be wasting my time. Can’t I make any terms with you on my friend’s part, Mr. Riah?”

“I am but the representative of another, sir,” returned the Jew in a low voice. “I do as I am bidden by my principal. It is not my capital that is invested in the business. It is not my profit that arises therefrom.”

“Ha ha!” laughed Fledgeby. “Lammle?”

“Ha ha!” laughed Lammle. “Yes. Of course. We know.”

“Devilish good, ain’t it, Lammle?” said Fledgeby, unspeakably amused by his hidden joke.