Abchurch Lane is not a grand site for the offices of a merchant prince. Here, at a small corner house, there was a small brass plate on a swing door, bearing the words "Melmotte & Co." Of whom the Co. was composed no one knew. In one sense Mr. Melmotte might be said to be in company with all the commercial world, for there was no business to which he would refuse his co-operation on certain terms. But he had never burthened himself with a partner in the usual sense of the term. Here Fisker found three or four clerks seated at desks, and was desired to walk up-stairs. The steps were narrow and crooked, and the rooms were small and irregular. Here he stayed for a while in a small dark apartment in which "The Daily Telegraph" was left for the amusement of its occupant till Miles Grendall announced to him that Mr. Melmotte would see him. The millionaire looked at him for a moment or two, just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand which Fisker had projected.
"I don't seem to remember," he said, "the gentleman who has done me the honour of writing to me about you."

 one would own that there was something in him. He had no shyness, no scruples, and no fears. His mind was not capacious, but he knew how to use it.
The millionaire looked at him for a moment or two, just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand which Fisker offered.
"I don't seem to remember," he said, "the gentleman who has done me the honour of writing to me about you."
