“Where?” asked Twemlow, faintly.
“To prison,” returned Fledgeby. Whereat Mr Twemlow leaned his innocent head upon his hand, and moaned a little moan of distress and disgrace.
“However,” said Fledgeby, appearing to pluck up his spirits, “we’ll hope it’s not so bad as that comes to. If you’ll allow me, I’ll mention to Mr Riah when he comes in, who you are, and I’ll tell him you’re my friend, and I’ll say my say for you, instead of your saying it for yourself; I may be able to do it in a more business-like way. You won’t consider it a liberty?”
“I thank you again and again, sir,” said Twemlow. “I am strong, strongly, disinclined to avail myself of your generosity, though my helplessness yields. For I cannot but feel that I — to put it in the mildest form of speech — that I have done nothing to deserve it.”
“Where can he be?” muttered Fledgeby, referring to his watch again. “What can he have gone out for? Did you ever see him, Mr Twemlow?”
“Never.”
“He is a thorough Jew to look at, but he is a more thorough Jew to deal with. He’s worst when he’s quiet. If he’s quiet, I shall take it as a very bad sign. Keep your eye upon him when he comes in, and, if he’s quiet, don’t be hopeful. Here he is! — He looks quiet.”
With these words, which had the effect of causing the harmless Twemlow painful agitation, Mr Fledgeby withdrew to his former post, and the old man entered the counting-house.
“Why, Mr Riah,” said Fledgeby, “I thought you were lost!”
The old man, glancing at the stranger, stood stock-still. He perceived that his master was leading up to the orders he was to take, and he waited to understand them.
“I really thought,” repeated Fledgeby slowly, “that you were lost, Mr Riah. Why, now I look at you — but no, you can’t have done it; no, you can’t have done it!”
Hat in hand, the old man lifted his head, and looked distressfully at Fledgeby as seeking to know what new moral burden he was to bear.
“You can’t have rushed out to get the start of everybody else, and put in that bill of sale at Lammle’s?” said Fledgeby. “Say you haven’t, Mr Riah.”
“Sir, I have,” replied the old man in a low voice.
“Oh my eye!” cried Fledgeby. “Tut, tut, tut! Dear, dear, dear! Well! I knew you were a hard customer, Mr Riah, but I never thought you were as hard as that.”
“Sir,” said the old man, with great uneasiness, “I do as I am directed. I am not the principal here. I am but the agent of a superior, and I have no choice, no power.”
“Don’t say so,” retorted Fledgeby, secretly exultant as the old man stretched out his hands, with a shrinking action of defending himself against the sharp construction of the two observers. “Don’t play the tune of the trade, Mr Riah. You’ve a right to get in your debts, if you’re determined to do it, but don’t pretend what every one in your line regularly pretends. At least, don’t do it to me. Why should you, Mr Riah? You know I know all about you.”
The old man clasped the skirt of his long coat with his disengaged hand, and directed a wistful look at Fledgeby.