LITMIR.BIZ

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to sell my reversion. How could he be interested? I could not understand. But he was. I remembered the persuasion of his manner: his anxiety to get my signature: his sudden manifestation of disappointment when I refused. Why? Matthew was now a partner with a large income and the fortune which my father left him. Matthew had no expensive tastes. Why should Mr. Probus be interested in his affairs?

      Next, asked the silent reasoner in my brain, what will happen when you declare that you cannot pay this debt? This man will show no mercy. You will be arrested – you will be taken to Prison. At this thought I shivered, and a cold trembling seized all my limbs. 'And you will stay in the Prison till you consent to sell your reversion.' At which I resumed my firmness. Never – never – would I yield whatever an accursed attorney might say or do to me.

      Mr. Probus wrote from a house in White Hart Street. It is a small street, mostly inhabited by poulterers, which leads from Warwick Lane to Newgate market: a confined place at best: with the rows of birds dangling on the hooks, not always of the sweetest, and the smell of the meat market close by and the proximity of the shambles, it is a dark and noisome place. The house, which had a silver Pen for its sign, was narrow, and of three stories: none of the windows had been cleaned for a long time, and the door and doorposts wanted paint.

      As I stood on the doorstep the words again came back to me, 'We will make him sell his reversionary interest.'

      The door was opened by an old man much bent and bowed with years: his thin legs, his thin arms, his body – all were bent: on his head he wore a small scratch wig: he covered his eyes with his hand on account of the blinding light, yet the court was darkened by the height of the houses above and the dangling birds below.

      He received my name and opened the door of the front room. I observed that he opened it a very little way and entered sliding, as if afraid that I should see something. He returned immediately and beckoned me to follow him. He led the way into a small room at the back, not much bigger than a cupboard, which had for furniture a high desk and a high stool placed at a window so begrimed with dirt that nothing could be seen through it.

      There was no other furniture. The old man climbed upon his stool with some difficulty and took up his pen. He looked very old and shrivelled: his brown coat was frayed: his worsted stockings were in holes: his shoes were tied with leather instead of buckles: there was no show of shirt either at the wrist or the throat. He looked, in fact, what he was, a decayed clerk of the kind with which, as a boy, I had been quite familiar. It is a miserable calling, only redeemed from despair – because the wages are never much above starvation-point – by the chance and the hope of winning a prize in the lottery. No clerk is ever so poor that he cannot afford at least a sixteenth share in this annual bid for fortune. I never heard that any clerk within my knowledge had ever won a prize: but the chance was theirs: once a year the chance returns – a chance of fortune without work or desert.

      Presently the old man turned round and whispered, 'I know your face. I have seen you before – but I forget where. Are you in trade? Have you got a shop?'

      'No. I have no shop,'

      'You come from the country? No? A bankrupt, perhaps? No? Going to make him your attorney?' He shook his head with some vehemence and pointed to the door with his pen. 'Fly,' he said. 'There is still time.'

      'I am not going to make him or anyone else my attorney,'

      'You come to borrow money? If so' – again he pointed to the door with the feathery end of the quill. 'Fly! There is still time.'

      'Then you owe him money. Young man – there is still time. Buy a stone at the pavior's – spend your last penny upon it; then tie it round your neck and drop into the river. Ah! It is too late – too late – ' For just then Mr. Probus rang a bell. 'Follow me, Sir. Follow me. Ah! That paving stone!'

      Mr. Probus sat at a table covered with papers. He did not rise when I appeared, but pointed to a chair.

      'You wish to see me, Mr. William,' he began. 'May I ask with what object?'

      'I come in reply to your letter, Mr. Probus,'

      'My letter? My letter?' He pretended to have forgotten the letter. 'I write so many, and sometimes – ay – ay – surely. The letter about the trifling debt due to the estate of David Camlet Deceased. Yes – yes, I am administering the worthy man's estate. One of many – very many – who have honoured me with their confidence.'

      'That letter, Mr. Probus, is the reason why I have called.'

      'You are come to discharge your obligation. It is what I expected. You are not looking well, Mr. William. I am sorry to observe marks – are they of privation? – on your face. Our worthy cousin, on the other hand, has a frame of iron. He will live, I verily believe, to ninety.'

      'Never mind my cousin, Mr. Probus. He will live as long as the Lord permits.'

      'When last I saw you Sir, you foolishly rejected a most liberal offer. Well: youth is ignorant. We live and learn. Some day, too late, you will be sorry. Now, Sir, for this debt. Fifty-five pounds. Ay. Fifty-five pounds. And my costs, which are trifling.'

      'I have come to tell you, Mr. Probus, that your letter was written under a misapprehension.'

      'Truly? Under a misapprehension? Of what kind, pray?'

      The harpsichord was a gift made by Mr. David Camlet. I did not buy it.'

      Mr. Probus lifted his eyebrows. 'A gift? Really? You have proof, no doubt, of this assertion?'

      'Certainly.'

      'Well, produce your proofs. If you have proofs, as you say, I shall be the first to withdraw my client's claim. But makers of musical instruments do not usually give away their wares. What are your proofs, Sir?'

      'My word, first.'

      'Ta – ta – ta. Your word. By such proof every debtor would clear himself. What next?'

      'The word of my wife who with me received the instrument from Mr. Camlet.'

      'Receiving the instrument does not clear you of liability – what else?'

      'The fact that Mr. Camlet never asked me for the money.'

      'An oversight. Had he, in a word, intended the instrument for a gift, he would have said so. Now, Sir, what other proofs have you?'

      I was silent. I had no other proof.

      He turned again to the book he had before consulted. It was the ledger, and there, in Mr. Camlet's own handwriting, firm and square, was an entry:

      'To Will Halliday – a Harpsichord, £55.

      In another book was an entry to the office that the instrument had been delivered.

      Of course, I understand now what the old man meant by the entry. He wanted to note the gift and the value: and unfortunately he entered it as if it was a business transaction.

      'Well, Sir?' asked Mr. Probus.

      I said nothing. My heart felt as heavy as lead. I was indeed in the power of this man.

      'There are such things as conspiracy,' he went on, severely. 'You have told me, for instance, that you and your wife are prepared to swear that the instrument was a gift. I might have indicted you both for a conspiracy, in which case Tyburn would have been your lot. For the sake of your excellent cousin and the worthy Mr. Peter, your uncle, Sir, I refrain from the indictment, though I fear I might be charged with compounding a felony. But mercy before all things: charity, mercy, and long suffering. These are the things that chiefly nourish the human soul, not guineas.'

      I remained still silent, not knowing what to do or to say, and seeing this abyss yawning before me.

      'Come Sir,' he said with changed voice, 'you owe fifty pounds and costs. If it were to myself I would give you time: I would treat you tenderly: but an Attorney must protect his clients. Therefore I must have that money at once.'

      'Give me time to consult my friends.' Alas! All my friends could not raise fifty pounds between them.

      'You have none. You have lost your friends. Pay me fifty pounds and costs.'

      'Let me see the executors. Perhaps they will hear reason.'

      'For

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