the firm,' said Mr. Moss. 'I was directed to insist on that; it was implied you had no status here—the expressions are not mine.'

'You cannot see Mr. Joseph; he is unwell,' said Morris.

'In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer. Let me see,' said Mr. Moss, opening a pocket-book with, perhaps, suspicious care, at the right place—'Yes—of Mr. Michael Finsbury. A relation, perhaps? In that case, I presume, the matter will be pleasantly arranged.'

To pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris. He struck his colours. A cheque at two months was nothing, after all. In two months he would probably be dead, or in a jail at any rate. He bade the manager give Mr. Moss a chair and the paper. 'I'm going over to get a cheque signed by Mr. Finsbury,' said he, 'who is lying ill at John Street.'

A cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital! He counted the cost; when he was done with Mr. Moss he would be left with twelvepence-halfpenny in the world. What was even worse, he had now been forced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury. 'No use for poor Johnny in Hampshire now,' he reflected. 'And how the