"I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you much. Will you sit down there," she said, pointing to a seat at some distance from herself. "So you think it would be best that you and I should never see each other again?" She was very calm; but it seemed to him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it might be converted into violence. He thought that there was that in her eye which seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.

"I don't know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you much. Sit down. So you think it would be best that you and I should never see each other again?" She was very calm; but it seemed to him that the quietness might at any moment change to violence. He thought that her eye seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.


"I did think so certainly. What more can I say?"


"Oh, nothing; clearly nothing." Her voice was very low. "Why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more,--than that he has changed his mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or a woman's heart?" Then she paused. "And having come, in consequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace."

"Oh, clearly nothing." Her voice was very low. "Why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more than that he has changed his mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman's life, or a woman's heart?"


"But you did not promise to speak;--did you?"


"Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have you say? Suppose you were to say, 'I am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent me of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after it;--that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?" As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself in her seat, stretching herself towards him.

"Ah! Suppose you were to say, 'I am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent of my intended perfidy,' do you not think you might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should reply that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?" As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself in her seat.


"You might indeed," he replied, not well knowing what to say.


"But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you, Paul,--still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you to me by my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards you,--none to that woman who is I suppose younger than I, and gentler, and a maid." She still looked as though she expected a reply, but there was nothing to be said in answer to this. "Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home. Mrs. Pipkin's room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. I have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice. I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? If I could die and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to it." There was no answer possible to all this. The questions were asked because there was no answer possible. "You might at any rate advise me. Paul, you are in some degree responsible,--are you not,--for my loneliness?"

"But I at least will be true. I should still take you, Paul; with a confidence that I should yet win you by my devotion. I have still some kindness towards you - none to that woman who is I suppose younger and gentler than I." There was nothing to be said in answer to this. "Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home but this room. I have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice. I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? You might at any rate advise me. You are in some degree responsible, are you not, for my loneliness?"


"I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions."


"You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my future life. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any rate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I shall be desolate in this." Then she paused, and there was absolute silence for a minute. "You thought my letter very short; did you not?"

"As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any rate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her." She paused for a minute. "You thought my letter very short; did you not?"


"It said, I suppose, all you had to say."


"No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may see them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was writing it, I was determined that that should go." Then she handed him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.

"No, indeed. I had much more to say. That was the third letter I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. There is one. You may read that first." Then she handed him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.


"I am glad you did not send that," he said.


"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak out and tell me."

"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable?"


"Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to which I have been subjected does not justify?"


"You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip."


"It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse themselves,--that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word, I don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. But when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin? What is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? Have you asked yourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;--it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul, had thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment,--and then I wrote this other letter. You may as well see them all." And so she handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.

"Upon my word, I don't know what to say about that. When a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine to fight for her own skin? If she is treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no; it is so unfeminine! Paul, the charm of womanly weakness entered my mind in a soft moment, and then I wrote this other letter." She handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft.


He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. "I have not sent it, you know," she said. "I only show it you that you may see how my mind has been at work."

He could hardly finish it because of the tears which filled his eyes. Then he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing.
"I have not sent it, you know," she said.


"It hurts me more than the other," he replied.


"Nay, I would not hurt you,--not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so ungovernable my rage! Why,--why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?"

"Nay, I would not hurt you - not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment and my rage! Why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?"


"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind."


"But it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon." But though she spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. "I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go." She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. "Tell me one thing. When you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?"

"But it will be my feeling when you have left me - and was when you were with me at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me." She put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. "I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go." She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. "Tell me one thing. When you spoke of compensation, did you mean - money?"


"I hope not;--I hope not that. Well, there;--go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." She took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.

"I hope not. Well, go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." She took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.


"No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That also shall be destroyed." But she took it and restored it to her pocket-book.

"No. Why? To prove my weakness? That also shall be destroyed." But she took it and restored it to her pocket-book.


"Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no other word spoken." And so he went.

"No farewells. Go, and let there be no other word spoken." So he went.


As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and begged Ruby to ask Mrs. Pipkin to come to her. "Mrs. Pipkin," she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; "everything is over between me and Mr. Montague." She was standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.


"Lord a' mercy," said Mrs. Pipkin, holding up both her hands.


"As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him."


"And why not?--and he such a nice young man,--and quiet too."

"Why not? and he such a nice young man, and quiet too."


"As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about that. But it is so. I was engaged to him."


"And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all."


"Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all." Mrs. Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an interesting story.


"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back,--not together. And there's an end of it."

"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we came back - not together. And there's an end of it."


"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage is to be, and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault."

"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault."


"There's an end of it, Mrs. Pipkin. If you please, we won't say anything more about it."

"If you please, Mrs. Pipkin, we won't say anything more about it."


"And are you going to leave, ma'am?" said Mrs. Pipkin, prepared to have her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she get such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle,--a lady who not only did not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!

"Are you going to leave, ma'am?" said Mrs. Pipkin, alarmed. Where should she get such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle, who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!


"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin." Then Mrs. Pipkin gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.

"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin."
Then Mrs. Pipkin gave her so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she would guarantee her lodger another lover, in place of the one who was now dismissed.


Mr. Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth. He did really know it all,--if he could prove that which he knew. He had extended his enquiries in the city till he had convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have had twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to cover the liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star,--perhaps not giving sufficient credence to the recuperative powers of modern commerce. Squercum told a certain stockbroker in the City, who was his specially confidential friend, that Melmotte was a "gone coon." The stockbroker made also some few enquiries, and on that evening agreed with Squercum that Melmotte was a "gone coon." If such were the case it would positively be the making of Squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as the destroying angel of this offensive dragon. So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against him. They could not dare to bid defiance to Squercum,--feeling that they had themselves blundered, and feeling also that they must be careful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood. "I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client," said Squercum to the elder of the two younger Bideawhiles.

Dolly's lawyer Mr. Squercum was all this time in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. He had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth - he needed only to prove it. His enquiries in the city had convinced him that Melmotte did not have enough money to cover his liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star. If such were the case, it would be the making of Squercum if he could appear as Melmotte's destroying angel.
So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who did not dare defy him - feeling that they had themselves blundered.
"I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client," said Squercum to one of the Bideawhiles.


"I give up nothing and I assert nothing," said the superior attorney. "Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be like the last."

"I give up nothing and I assert nothing," said he. "Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as alike as any other."


"Would you let me look at it again, Mr. Bideawhile?" Then the letter which had been very often inspected during the last ten days was handed to Mr. Squercum. "It's a stiff resemblance;--such as he never could have written had he tried it ever so."

"Would you let me look at it again, Mr. Bideawhile?" The letter was handed over. "He never could have written it had he tried ever so."


"Perhaps not, Mr. Squercum. We are not generally on the lookout for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons."

"We are not generally on the lookout for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons."


"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But then Mr. Longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter."

"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But Mr. Longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter.


"How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will change his purpose?"


"Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But you see after such a declaration as that on the part of my client's father, the letter,--which is in itself a little irregular perhaps--"

And after such a declaration as that, the letter - which is in itself a little irregular-"


"I don't know that it's irregular at all."


"Well;--it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner. We'll just say that. What Mr. Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them--"

"Well, it didn't reach you direct from Mr. Longstaffe. And why he would wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them-"


"Excuse me, Mr. Squercum, but that's between Mr. Longestaffe and us."


"Just so;--but as Mr. Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client's property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I think you'd have made a few remarks yourself, Mr. Bideawhile, if the case had been reversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor, you know." To this Mr. Bideawhile said not a word. "And I think I understand you now that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being genuine."

"Just so; but as Mr. Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client's property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I understand that you now do not insist that the signature is genuine."


"I say nothing about it, Mr. Squercum. I think you'll find it very hard to prove that it's not genuine."

"I say nothing, Mr. Squercum. I think you'll find it very hard to prove that it's not genuine."


"I'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does."


"I don't know what you mean by that, Mr. Bideawhile. I fancy that if I were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry with me. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman say that he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if such a freak should have come into my client's head, he could have signed it and sent it off? If I understand, Mr. Longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won't, I suppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. Look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign it, Mr. Bideawhile."

And Mr. Longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the room which Melmotte occupied, and afterwards found the drawer open.


"I have never said he did. All I say is that we had fair ground for supposing that it was his letter. I really don't know that I can say anything more."


"Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in this matter."


"I won't admit even that, Mr. Squercum."


"The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised his own interests and those of my client, while my client has not been in fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the Lord Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an investigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you will be served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court."

I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor tomorrow, you know, and ask for an investigation into fraud."


"If so you may be sure that we shall produce it." Then Mr. Squercum took his leave and went straight away to Mr. Bumby, a barrister well known in the City. The game was too powerful to be hunted down by Mr. Squercum's unassisted hands. He had already seen Mr. Bumby on the matter more than once. Mr. Bumby was inclined to doubt whether it might not be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the money. Mr. Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly's share of the property it might be expedient to take it. Mr. Squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale having been made. Mr. Bumby shook his head. "Title-deeds give possession, Mr. Squercum. You don't suppose that the company which has lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds would have to lose it. Take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get out of the property. There must be assets."

Then Mr. Squercum left and went straight to Mr. Bumby, a barrister well known in the City. Mr. Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly's share of the property it might be better to take it. When Mr. Squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale having been made, Mr. Bumby shook his head.
"Title-deeds give possession, Mr. Squercum. The company which has lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds will not give them up. Take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get out of the property."


"Every rap will have been made over," said Mr. Squercum.


This took place on the Monday, the day on which Melmotte had offered his full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. On the following Wednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house in Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had been abstracted. There were Mr. Longestaffe, the father, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr. Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's possession, and Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms. Direct application for permission to have this meeting in this place had been formally made to Mr. Melmotte, and he had complied. The meeting took place at eleven o'clock--a terribly early hour. Dolly had at first hesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the fire of two enemies, and Mr. Squercum had told him that as the matter would probably soon be made public, he could not judiciously refuse to meet his father and the old family lawyer. Therefore Dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to himself. "By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it," Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with Nidderdale. Dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither Mr. Longestaffe nor Mr. Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table, in which the letter had been deposited.

Two days later, three gentlemen met together in the study of the house in Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had been taken. They were Mr. Longestaffe senior, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr. Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's possession, and although he and Mr. Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms, he had agreed to a formal request for this meeting. It took place at eleven o'clock - a terribly early hour for Dolly.
"By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it," Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough. He was the last to enter the room: neither Mr. Longestaffe nor Mr. Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table.


"Now, Mr. Longestaffe," said Mr. Bideawhile, "perhaps you will show us where you think you put the letter."

"Now, Mr. Longestaffe," said Mr. Bideawhile, "show us where you think you put the letter."


"I don't think at all," said he. "Since the matter has been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory."

"I don't think at all," said he. "I remember it."


"I never signed it," said Dolly, standing with his hands in his pockets and interrupting his father.


"Nobody says you did, sir," rejoined the father with an angry voice. "If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth."

"Nobody says you did, sir," rejoined the father angrily. "If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth."


"But somebody has said that I did. I've been told that Mr. Bideawhile says so."


"No, Mr. Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. We have never gone beyond that."


"Nothing on earth would have made me sign it," said Dolly. "Why should I have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard such a thing in my life."


The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as to the hopelessness of his son's obstinacy. "Now, Mr. Longestaffe," continued the lawyer, "let us see where you put the letter."


Then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment, opened the drawer,--the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed. "There," said he, "the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the bundle." He went on to say that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was very particular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered that about this time Mr. Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and,--as he was certain,--had locked it again. At that special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between him and Melmotte. It was then that Mr. Melmotte had offered him a seat at the Board of the Mexican railway.

The father very slowly opened the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of folded papers.
"There," said he, "the letter was on top of the envelope and they were the two first documents in the bundle." He added that he was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He also remembered that about this time Mr. Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and locked it again. It was at that time that Mr. Melmotte had offered him a seat on the Board of the Mexican railway.


"Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter," said Dolly. "It's as plain as a pike-staff. It's clear enough to hang any man."

"Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter," said Dolly. "It's as plain as a pike-staff."


"I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just may be the suspicion induced," said the lawyer. "Your father for a time was not quite certain about the letter."

"I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong the suspicion may be," said the lawyer.


"He thought that I had signed it," said Dolly.


"I am quite certain now," rejoined the father angrily. "A man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything."


"I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury."

"I am thinking how it would go before a jury."


"What I want to know is how we are to get the money," said Dolly. "I should like to see him hung,--of course; but I'd sooner have the money. Squercum says--"

"What I want to know is how we are to get the money," said Dolly. "Squercum says-"


"Adolphus, we don't want to know here what Mr. Squercum says."

"Adolphus, we don't want to know what Mr. Squercum says."


"I don't know why what Mr. Squercum says shouldn't be as good as what Mr. Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn't sound very aristocratic."


"Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt," said the lawyer laughing.


"No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lower than Lincoln's Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he's about. It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and if it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do at present." Squercum's name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He believed, probably without much reason, that all his family troubles came to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son would have left his affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would not have made this terrible blunder about the Pickering property. And the sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head and frowning. His son looked at him as though quite astonished at his displeasure. "There's nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose," said Dolly putting on his hat.

Squercum knows what he's about. If it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do."
Squercum's name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head.
"There's nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose," said Dolly, putting on his hat.


"Nothing more," said Mr. Bideawhile. "It may be that I shall have to instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so positively, Mr. Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?"

"Nothing more," said Mr. Bideawhile. "I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood.


"And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop a moment--I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used." So saying Mr. Bideawhile knelt down in front of the table and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully and satisfied himself that there was "no sign of violence." "Whoever has done it, did it very well," said Bideawhile.

I will see whether there is any sign of violence having been used." So saying he knelt down and carefully examined the lock. There was no "sign of violence."
"Whoever has done it, did it very well," said Bideawhile.


[Illustration: "I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used."]


"Of course Melmotte did it," said Dolly Longestaffe standing immediately over Bideawhile's shoulder.

"Of course Melmotte did it," said Dolly.


At that moment there was a knock at the door,--a very distinct, and, we may say, a formal knock. There are those who knock and immediately enter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked done so on this occasion Mr. Bideawhile would have been found still on his knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But the intruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his feet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause, during which Mr. Bideawhile moved away from the table,--as he might have done had he been picking a lock;--and then Mr. Longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a sepulchral voice. The door was opened, and Mr. Melmotte appeared.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. The lawyer jumped on to his feet and moved away from the table. Mr. Longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a sepulchral voice; and Mr. Melmotte appeared.


Now Mr. Melmotte's presence certainly had not been expected. It was known that it was his habit to be in the City at this hour. It was known also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held in this room at this special hour,--and he might well have surmised with what view. There was now declared hostility between both the Longestaffes and Mr. Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all the gentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the way to meet them on this occasion. "Gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you think that I am intruding at the present moment." No one said that he did not think so. The elder Longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. Mr. Bideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. That was his mode of expressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor. "I fear that you do think I am intruding," said Melmotte, "but I trust that what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir," he said, turning to Mr. Longestaffe, and glancing at the still open drawer, "that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before."

His presence had not been expected; he was usually in the City at this hour.
"Gentlemen," he said, "perhaps you think that I am intruding."
The elder Longestaffe bowed very coldly. Mr. Bideawhile thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Dolly whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel, as his way of expressing his surprise at the appearance of his debtor.
"I trust that what I have to say will excuse me. I see, sir," said Melmotte, glancing at the still open drawer, "that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before."


"The drawer was locked when I left it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "I make no deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked."


"Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it."


"No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions,--but I left it locked and I found it open."

"No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions - but I left it locked and I found it open."


"I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion," said Dolly; "and that would be that somebody else had opened it."


"This can answer no purpose at all," said Bideawhile.


"It was but a chance remark," said Melmotte. "I did not come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabble about the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you three gentlemen would be here together, I thought the opportunity a suitable one for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business." He paused a moment; but neither of the three spoke. It did occur to Dolly to ask them to wait while he should fetch Squercum; but on second thoughts he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to be taken, and probably for no good. "Mr. Bideawhile, I believe," suggested Melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head. "If I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients--"

"I did not come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to squabble about the lock," said Melmotte. "I thought this a good opportunity for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business." He paused a moment, but no one spoke. "Mr Bideawhile; if I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients-"


"It makes a deal of difference," said Dolly.


"I wrote," continued Melmotte, "offering my bills at three and six months' date."


"They couldn't be accepted, Mr. Melmotte."


"I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refused before."

"I would have allowed interest. I have never had my bills refused before."


"You must be aware, Mr. Melmotte," said the lawyer, "that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which bills are customarily given and taken. The understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became,--well, I think I may be justified in saying more than suspicious. It was a most,--most--unusual proceeding. You say you have another offer to make, Mr. Melmotte."

"You must be aware, Mr. Melmotte," said the lawyer, "that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction. The understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became - well, I think I may be justified in saying more than suspicious. It was a most unusual proceeding."


"Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose business it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and, with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been known that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truth openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of such a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the time came at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. Accusations are made, false as hell,"--Mr. Melmotte as he spoke raised his voice and looked round the room,--"but which at the present crisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds,--which is the amount due to these two gentlemen,--ready for payment on Friday at noon."

"Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose business it has been to run down my credit, and with my credit has fallen the value of stocks in which I have invested. I tell you the truth openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of such a sum could inconvenience me in the least. When the time came to pay, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. Hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. Accusations are made, false as hell," - Mr. Melmotte raised his voice - "which may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you will stop proceedings which have been commenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds ready for payment on Friday at noon."


"I have taken no proceedings as yet," said Bideawhile.


"Well, sir," continued Melmotte addressing Dolly, "let me assure you that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming;--but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago that I should ever have to make such a statement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But what Mr. Bideawhile says is true. I have no right to suppose that the purchase of this property should be looked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. The money should have been paid,--and, if you will now take my word, the money shall be paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor to-morrow. The accusations brought against me are damnably false. I do not know with whom they have originated. Whoever did originate them, they are damnably false. But unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer."

"Well, sir," continued Melmotte, addressing Dolly, "let me assure you that if these proceedings are stopped the money will be forthcoming; but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago that I should ever have to say that about such a small sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But the money shall be paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor tomorrow. The accusations against me are damnably false; but, false as they are, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer."


Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. Dolly was in truth the accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney Squercum. It was at Dolly's instance that these proceedings were being taken. "I, on behalf of my client," said Mr. Bideawhile, "will consent to wait till Friday at noon."

Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. "I, on behalf of my client," said Mr. Bideawhile, "will consent to wait till Friday at noon."


"I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much," said the elder Longestaffe.

"I presume, Adolphus, that you will agree," said the elder Longestaffe.


Dolly Longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person, but Melmotte's eloquence had moved even him. It was not that he was sorry for the man, but that at the present moment he believed him. Though he had been absolutely sure that Melmotte had forged his name or caused it to be forged,--and did not now go so far into the matter as to abandon that conviction,--he had been talked into crediting the reasons given for Melmotte's temporary distress, and also into a belief that the money would be paid on Friday. Something of the effect which Melmotte's false confessions had had upon Lord Nidderdale, they now also had on Dolly Longestaffe. "I'll ask Squercum, you know," he said.

Dolly Longestaffe had been moved by Melmotte's eloquence. It was not that he was sorry for the man: he was still sure that Melmotte had forged his name or caused it to be forged - but he had been talked into a belief that the money would be paid on Friday.
"I'll ask Squercum, you know," he said.


"Of course Mr. Squercum will act as you instruct him," said Bideawhile.

"Mr. Squercum will act as you instruct him," said Bideawhile.


"I'll ask Squercum. I'll go to him at once. I can't do any more than that. And upon my word, Mr. Melmotte, you've given me a great deal of trouble."


Melmotte with a smile apologized. Then it was settled that they three should meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the payment should then be made,--Dolly stipulating that as his father would be attended by Bideawhile, so would he be attended by Squercum. To this Mr. Longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace.

Melmotte with a smile apologized. It was settled that they three should meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the payment should then be made - Dolly stipulating that Squercum should also attend. To this Mr. Longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace.


Ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last chapter,--ten days, during which Hetta's letter had been sent to her lover, but in which she had received no reply,--when two gentlemen met each other in a certain room in Liverpool, who were seen together in the same room in the early part of this chronicle. These were our young friend Paul Montague, and our not much older friend Hamilton K. Fisker. Melmotte had died on the 18th of July, and tidings of the event had been at once sent by telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks before this Montague had written to his partner, giving his account of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company,--describing its condition in England as he then believed it to be,--and urging Fisker to come over to London. On receipt of a message from his American correspondent he had gone down to Liverpool, and had there awaited Fisker's arrival, taking counsel with his friend Mr. Ramsbottom. In the mean time Hetta's letter was lying at the Beargarden, Paul having written from his club and having omitted to desire that the answer should be sent to his lodgings. Just at this moment things at the Beargarden were not well managed. They were indeed so ill managed that Paul never received that letter,--which would have had for him charms greater than those of any letter ever before written.

Ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last chapter - ten days, during which Hetta's letter had been sent to her lover, but to which she had received no reply - when two gentlemen met each other in Liverpool. These were our young friend Paul Montague, and our not much older friend Hamilton K. Fisker. News of Melmotte's death had been sent by telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks earlier, Montague had written to Fisker about the condition of the Railway Company in England, urging him to come to London.
On receiving a reply he had gone to Liverpool, taking counsel with his friend Mr. Ramsbottom, and had awaited Fisker's arrival. In the meantime Hetta's letter was lying at the Beargarden. Just at this moment things at the Beargarden were not well managed. They were indeed so ill managed that Paul never received that letter.


"This is a terrible business," said Fisker, immediately on entering the room in which Montague was waiting him. "He was the last man I'd have thought would be cut up in that way."

"This is a terrible business," said Fisker, immediately on entering the room. "He was the last man I'd have thought would be cut up in that way."


"He wouldn't have been ruined,--and couldn't have thought so if he'd known all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulled him through a'most anything if he'd have understood how to play it."

"The South Central would have pulled him through a'most anything if he'd understood how to play it."


"We don't think much of the South Central here now," said Paul.


"Ah;--that's because you've never above half spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole,--and then, of course, folks see that you're only nibbling. I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit."

"Ah; that's because you don't have spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole. I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit."


"There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was the dread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself."

"He had committed forgery. It was the dread of detection which drove him to kill himself."


"I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end;--dam clumsy. I took him to be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myself because I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off with a lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!"

"I call it damn clumsy from beginning to end. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!"


"I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco," suggested Paul.


"Bu'st up at Frisco! Not if I know it. Why should it be bu'st up? D'you think we're all going to smash there because a fool like Melmotte blows his brains out in London?"


"Or p'ison either. That's not just our way. I'll tell you what I'm going to do; and why I'm over here so uncommon sharp. These shares are at a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. I wired for as many as I dar'd, so as not to spoil our own game, and I'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu'st up! I'm sorry for him because I thought him a biggish man;--but what he's done 'll just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you come back to Frisco with me?"

I'll tell you what I'm going to do. These shares are at a'most nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. I'm sorry for him; but what he's done'll just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you come back to Frisco with me?"


In answer to this Paul asserted most strenuously that he would not return to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave his partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the great railway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to do with it. Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased at the proposed rupture. He was prepared to deal fairly,--nay, generously,--by his partner, having recognised the wisdom of that great commercial rule which teaches us that honour should prevail among associates of a certain class; but he had fully convinced himself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner for Hamilton K. Fisker. Fisker was not only unscrupulous himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples in others. According to his theory of life, nine hundred and ninety-nine men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth man predominated and cropped up into the splendour of commercial wealth because he was free from such bondage. He had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty. That which he had promised to do he would do, if it was within his power. He was anxious that his bond should be good, and his word equally so. But the work of robbing mankind in gross by magnificently false representations, was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life. How could a man so great endure a partnership with one so small as Paul Montague? "And now what about Winifrid Hurtle?" asked Fisker.

Paul asserted that he would not return to San Francisco, that he was altogether sick of the great railway, and would have nothing more to do with it.
Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased. He had convinced himself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner. Fisker had a thorough contempt for scruples in others. The work of robbing mankind was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life. "And what about Winifrid Hurtle?" he asked.


"Oh yes, I know she's in London, and Hurtle's at Frisco, swearing that he'll come after her. He would, only he hasn't got the dollars."

"Yes, I know; and Hurtle's at Frisco, swearing that he'll come after her, only he hasn't got the money."


"Dead!--no, nor likely to die. She'll have a bad time of it with him yet."

"Dead! no. She'll have a bad time of it with him yet."


"She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to say that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badly neither, for she's had the handling of her own money, and has put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. Even if it suited other ways, you know, I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of the wood."

"She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to say that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badly, for she's put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. But I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of the wood."


"I'm not thinking of marrying her,--if you mean that."


"There was a talk about it in Frisco;--that's all. And I have heard Hurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was here with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of these days." To this Paul made no answer, thinking that he had now both heard enough and said enough about Mrs. Hurtle.

"There was talk about it in Frisco; that's all. And I heard Hurtle say that he meant to drop in on you one of these days."


On the following day the two men, who were still partners, went together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of Melmotte's affairs. He put himself into communication with Mr. Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane and the rooms which had belonged to the Railway Company, cross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, up to London. Lord Alfred, and Miles with him, had left London a day or two before Melmotte's death,--having probably perceived that there was no further occasion for their services. To Fisker's appeal Lord Alfred was proudly indifferent. Who was this American that he should call upon a director of the London Company to appear? Does not every one know that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases? Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even condescend to answer Fisker's letter;--but he advised his son to run up to town. "I should just go, because I'd taken a salary from the d---- Company," said the careful father, "but when there I wouldn't say a word." So Miles Grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene.

On the following day the two men went together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of Melmotte's affairs. He talked to Mr. Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane, cross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, up to London. Lord Alfred ignored the appeal, but advised his son to run up to town.
"You should go, because you took a salary from the Company," said the careful father, "but don't say a word." So Miles Grendall reappeared upon the scene.


But Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulously paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived no one had visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, the clerk. Mr. Brehgert had abstained, thinking that a widow, who had become a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to be alone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could do no more. It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much good taste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he had been domestically intimate with the poor woman, or that Sir Felix would not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit to the daughter. But Fisker had not been two days in London before he went out to Hampstead, and was admitted to Madame Melmotte's presence;--and he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the undoubted possessor of a large fortune.

But Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. No one had visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, the clerk. Mr. Brehgert had abstained, thinking that the widow would prefer to be alone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux. But Fisker had not been two days in London before he was admitted to Madame Melmotte's presence; and he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the possessor of a large fortune.


In regard to Melmotte's effects generally the Crown had been induced to abstain from interfering,--giving up the right to all the man's plate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the finding of the coroner's verdict,--not from tenderness to Madame Melmotte, for whom no great commiseration was felt, but on behalf of such creditors as poor Mr. Longestaffe and his son. But Marie's money was quite distinct from this. She had been right in her own belief as to this property, and had been right, too, in refusing to sign those papers,--unless it may be that that refusal led to her father's act. She herself was sure that it was not so, because she had withdrawn her refusal, and had offered to sign the papers before her father's death. What might have been the ultimate result had she done so when he first made the request, no one could now say. That the money would have gone there could be no doubt. The money was now hers,--a fact which Fisker soon learned with that peculiar cleverness which belonged to him.

Marie's money had been found to be quite distinct from Melmotte's. She had been right in refusing to sign those papers - unless that refusal led to her father's act. She was sure that it was not so, because she had offered to sign the papers before her father's death. But the money was now hers.


Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief to her in her misery. The world makes great mistakes as to that which is and is not beneficial to those whom Death has bereaved of a companion. It may be, no doubt sometimes it is the case, that grief shall be so heavy, so absolutely crushing, as to make any interference with it an additional trouble, and this is felt also in acute bodily pain, and in periods of terrible mental suffering. It may also be, and, no doubt, often is the case, that the bereaved one chooses to affect such overbearing sorrow, and that friends abstain, because even such affectation has its own rights and privileges. But Madame Melmotte was neither crushed by grief nor did she affect to be so crushed. She had been numbed by the suddenness and by the awe of the catastrophe. The man who had been her merciless tyrant for years, who had seemed to her to be a very incarnation of cruel power, had succumbed, and shown himself to be powerless against his own misfortunes. She was a woman of very few words, and had spoken almost none on this occasion even to her own daughter; but when Fisker came to her, and told her more than she had ever known before of her husband's affairs, and spoke to her of her future life, and mixed for her a small glass of brandy-and-water warm, and told her that Frisco would be the fittest place for her future residence, she certainly did not find him to be intrusive.

Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief in her misery. She was not crushed by grief, but numbed by the suddenness and awe of the catastrophe. The man who had been her merciless tyrant for years had proved powerless against his own misfortunes. She was a woman of very few words; but when Fisker spoke to her of her husband's affairs, and her future life, and mixed her a small glass of brandy-and-water, and told her that Frisco would be the fittest place for her future residence, she did not find him to be intrusive.


And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost won both by a lord and a baronet, and had understood, if not much, at least more than her mother, of the life to which she had been introduced. There was something of real sorrow in her heart for her father. She was prone to love,--though, perhaps, not prone to deep affection. Melmotte had certainly been often cruel to her, but he had also been very indulgent. And as she had never been specially grateful for the one, so neither had she ever specially resented the other. Tenderness, care, real solicitude for her well-being, she had never known, and had come to regard the unevenness of her life, vacillating between knocks and knick-knacks, with a blow one day and a jewel the next, as the condition of things which was natural to her. When her father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels and the knick-knacks, and forgot the knocks and blows. But she was not beyond consolation, and she also found consolation in Mr. Fisker's visits.

And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost won both by a lord and a baronet. There was real sorrow in her heart for her father. She was prone to love, though, perhaps, not prone to deep affection. Melmotte had been often cruel to her, but he had also been very indulgent. She had never known real tenderness and care, and had come to regard a blow one day and a jewel the next as the natural condition of things. When her father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels, and forgot the blows. But she also found consolation in Mr. Fisker's visits.


"I used to sign a paper every quarter," she said to Fisker, as they were walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead.


"You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to any one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself."

"You'll have to do the same now, only leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself."


"And can that be done over in California?"


"Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for you without the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I'll do it, if you'll trust me. There's only one thing against it all, Miss Melmotte."

"Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it for you without the slightest trouble. There's only one thing against it all, Miss Melmotte."


"After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess. Though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll make up in the flavour." This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, as though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco would not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss Melmotte had been used.

"After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess."


"I hate swells," said Marie, flashing round upon him.


"Like poison. What's the use of 'em? They never mean a word that they say,--and they don't say so many words either. They're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London."

"They never mean a word that they say. They're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London."


"I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place."

"I think it would be a jolly sort of place."


"Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate--me?"

"Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate - me?"


"Mr. Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?"


"But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you do come to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate me, you know." Then he took her gently by the arm;--but she, whisking herself away rapidly, bade him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings, and Mr. Fisker, before he went back to London, mixed a little warm brandy-and-water for Madame Melmotte. I think that upon the whole Madame Melmotte was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had been either in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street, although she was certainly not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds.

"But if you come to Frisco, I hope you won't hate me, you know." He took her gently by the arm; but she bade him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings.


"I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know," Fisker said to Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted Board-room of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his performances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were present. He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr. Longestaffe, who were all Directors;--but none of them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's letter. Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. "Dear Mr. Fisker,--I really don't know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale." Mr. Longestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages with his reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not be troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused to the end. "Upon my word," continued Fisker, "it's astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I suppose you understand something of business, Mr. Croll?"

"I don't think much of your book-keeping," Fisker said to Miles Grendall in the deserted Board-room of the Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger.
Fisker had made three or four remarks before this, and had appealed to Paul Montague and Croll, who were present. He had also invited Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr. Longestaffe, as Directors; but none of them had come.
"Upon my word," continued Fisker, "it's astonishing that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I suppose you understand something of business, Mr. Croll?"


"It vas not my department, Mr. Fisker," said the German.


"Nor anybody else's either," said the domineering American. "Of course it's on the cards, Mr. Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at." Miles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, and that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very few days;--or perhaps hours might suffice.

"Nor anybody else's either," said the American. "Of course it's on the cards, Mr. Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at." Miles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, and that this retirement should begin within a very few days; or perhaps hours.


But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth the greater the confusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were the prospects of the Company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatory on this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had certainly revealed none of Melmotte's secrets. He did, however, go to Germany, finding that a temporary absence from England would be comfortable to him in more respects than one,--and need not be heard of again in these pages.

But Fisker was not in earnest. The greater the confusion in the London office, he thought, the better were the prospects of the Company at San Francisco.


When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities. Very many men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had been robbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had been robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others. Some, no doubt, as was the case with poor Mr. Brehgert, had speculated in dependence on Melmotte's sagacity, and had lost heavily without dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. Our excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day, and was able, under Mr. Squercum's guidance, to start himself on a new career. Having paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers', he assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirely new leaf. "I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and he will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I like Squercum."

When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough property to pay all his debts. It was hard to work out who had been robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others. Some, like poor Mr. Brehgert, had lost heavily without dishonesty. But those who, like the Longestaffes, were able to prove debts, were better off. Dolly got his money, and assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over a new leaf.
"I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the bills sent to him, and he will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I like Squercum."


"Won't he rob you, old fellow?" suggested Nidderdale.


"Of course he will;--but he won't let any one else do it. One has to be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. If he'll only let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign I think I can get along." Let us hope that Mr. Squercum was merciful, and that Dolly was enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous resolutions.

"Of course he will; but he won't let anyone else do it."


But these things did not arrange themselves till late in the winter,--long after Mr. Fisker's departure for California. That, however, was protracted till a day much later than he had anticipated before he had become intimate with Madame Melmotte and Marie. Madame Melmotte's affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. The furniture and plate were of course sold for the creditors, but Madame Melmotte was allowed to take whatever she declared to be specially her own property;--and, though much was said about the jewels, no attempt was made to recover them. Marie advised Madame Melmotte to give them up, assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for her maintenance. But it was not likely that Melmotte's widow would willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her jewels. It was agreed between her and Fisker that they were to be taken to New York. "You'll get as much there as in London, if you like to part with them; and nobody 'll say anything about it there. You couldn't sell a locket or a chain here without all the world talking about it."

But these things did not arrange themselves till long after Mr. Fisker's departure for California. That was delayed while Madame Melmotte's affairs occupied him. The furniture and plate were sold, but Madame Melmotte was allowed to take whatever she declared to be her own property; and no attempt was made to recover the jewels. It was agreed with Fisker that they were to be taken to New York. "You'll get as much for them there as in London, if you like to part with them," he told her.


In all these things Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's hands with the most absolute confidence,--and, indeed, with a confidence that was justified by its results. It was not by robbing an old woman that Fisker intended to make himself great. To Madame Melmotte's thinking, Fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met,--so infinitely pleasanter in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred had been most gracious, with so much more to say for himself than Miles Grendall, understanding her so much better than any man had ever done,--especially when he supplied her with those small warm beakers of sweet brandy-and-water. "I shall do whatever he tells me," she said to Marie. "I'm sure I've nothing to keep me here in this country."

In fact Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's hands with absolute confidence; and her confidence was justified. It was not by robbing an old woman that Fisker intended to make himself great. Madame Melmotte thought he was the finest gentleman she had ever met.
"I shall do whatever he tells me," she said to Marie. "I'm sure I've nothing to keep me in this country."


"I'm willing to go," said Marie. "I don't want to stay in London."


"I suppose you'll take him if he asks you?"

"I suppose you'll marry him if he asks you?"


"I don't know anything about that," said Marie. "A man may be very well without one's wanting to marry him. I don't think I'll marry anybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything else. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. Do you think Fisker'd ask me to marry him if I hadn't got anything? Not he! He ain't slow enough for that."

"I don't know about that," said Marie. "I don't think I'll marry anybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything else. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money."


"I think he's a very nice young man," said Madame Melmotte.


Mr. Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and there the battle was kept alive all the day. It had been decided, as the reader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken of that loud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the town on the previous afternoon. There had not been sufficient time for inquiry as to the truth of that blast. If there were just ground for the things that had been said, Mr. Melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol, or would be--wanted. Many had thought that he would escape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he had been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on the following morning. Others had been told that at the last moment his name would be withdrawn,--and a question arose as to whether he had the legal power to withdraw his name after a certain hour on the day before the ballot. An effort was made to convince a portion of the electors that he had withdrawn, or would have withdrawn, or should have withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place with the view of ascertaining the truth. He certainly had made no attempt at withdrawal. They who propagated this report certainly damaged Mr. Alf's cause. A second reaction set in, and there grew a feeling that Mr. Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said of him,--many at least so declared,--not from any true motive, but simply to secure Mr. Alf's return. Tidings of the speech in Covent Garden were spread about at the various polling places, and did good service to the so-called Conservative cause. Mr. Alf's friends, hearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech. Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead of having injured their enemy by false attacks. Whatever Mr. Alf might say, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter.

Mr. Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and there the battle was kept alive all day. It had been decided that no direct advantage should be taken of the rumour, for there had not been enough time to ascertain its truth. If it was true, Mr. Melmotte would no doubt soon be in jail.
Many had thought that he would escape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he had been seen walking towards his own committee-room on the following morning. An effort was made to convince some electors that he had withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place to inquire, and found that he had made no attempt at withdrawal.
They who propagated this report certainly damaged Mr. Alf's cause. A feeling grew that Mr. Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said - many declared - simply to secure Mr. Alf's success in the election. News of the speech in Covent Garden spread, and did good service to the Conservative cause.
Mr. Alf's friends, hearing this, urged him also to make a speech. Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers, to show that they had behaved generously to their enemy.


About two o'clock in the day, Mr. Alf did make a speech,--and a very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the "Evening Pulpit." Mr. Alf was a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers immediately at command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech. But in this speech, in which we may presume that it would be his intention to convince the electors that they ought to return him to Parliament, because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to represent their views, he did not say a word as to his own political ideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting his own fitness for the place which it was his ambition to fill. He contented himself with endeavouring to show that the other man was not fit;--and that he and his friends, though solicitous of proving to the electors that Mr. Melmotte was about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty of nothing shabby in their manner of doing so. "Mr. Melmotte," he said, "comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths of his friends,--for he has not favoured us with many words of his own,--that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. That party is not my party, but I respect it. Where, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr. Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of those whom he calls his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. It is equally notorious that the leading merchants of the City refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince. I say that the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found their candidate out, have repudiated him;--and are seeking now to free themselves from the individual shame of having supported the candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead of clustering round the polling booths. Go to Mr. Melmotte's committee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be there. Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him in the parks. I respect the leaders of the Conservative party; but they have made a mistake in this matter, and they know it." Then he ended by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. "I scorn," said he, "to say anything against the personal character of a political opponent, which I am not in a position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made no allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and which I believe were originated in the City. They may be false or they may be true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard them as false, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to you long before these reports were in men's mouths, that Mr. Melmotte was not entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and I repeat that assertion. A great British merchant, indeed! How long, do you think, should a man be known in this city before that title be accorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since,--unless, indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with him in some continental city? Ask the character of this great British merchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;--ask those whose business here has connected them with the assurance companies of foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!" There was much more yet; but such was the tone of the speech which Mr. Alf made with the object of inducing the electors to vote for himself.

At about two o'clock, Mr. Alf did make a speech - and a very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the Evening Pulpit. But in this speech he did not say a word about his own political ideas, nor even about his own fitness to be a Member of Parliament. Instead, he tried to show that the other man was not fit; and that he and his friends, in wishing to prove Mr. Melmotte's unfitness, had been guilty of nothing shabby.
"Mr. Melmotte," he said, "comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. Where, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr. Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. The leading merchants of the City refused to grace his table. I say that the leaders of the Conservative party are ashamed of this candidate. Where are they? Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places. They have made a mistake, and they know it."
He ended by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. "I make no allusion to reports which circulated yesterday, and which I believe originated in the City. They may be false or they may be true. But I declared to you long ago that Melmotte was not fit to represent you in parliament. A great British merchant, indeed! Who knew anything of this man two years ago? Ask about him in Hamburg or Vienna or Paris; and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!" This was the tone of Mr. Alf's speech.


At two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter was going. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used,--partly, no doubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the crime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men will almost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted on their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuade themselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, because the crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pull down the mighty from their seats. Some few years since, the basest calumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one of the basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the most part, at men of whose characters and services the country was proud, were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselves dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so many good things from Fortune, that a few evil things were thought to be due to them. There had not as yet been time for the formation of such a feeling generally, in respect of Mr. Melmotte. But there was a commencement of it. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a public robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man in London who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr. Melmotte.

At two or three o'clock, nobody knew how the ballot was going. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used by the upper classes. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a public robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man in London who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr. Melmotte.


About three o'clock, the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" called on Lady Carbury. "What is it all about?" she asked, as soon as her friend was seated. There had been no time for him to explain anything at Madame Melmotte's reception, and Lady Carbury had as yet failed in learning any certain news of what was going on.

About three o'clock, the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table called on Lady Carbury.
"What is it all about?" she asked.


"I don't know what to make of it," said Mr. Broune. "There is a story abroad that Mr. Melmotte has forged some document with reference to a purchase he made,--and hanging on to that story are other stories as to moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an electioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it."

"I don't know what to make of it," said Mr. Broune. "There is a story abroad that Mr. Melmotte has forged some document - and there are other stories about money that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an unfair electioneering trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it."


"Ah,--I could answer almost any question sooner than that."


"Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of immense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills."


"From what we hear, we think not. I shall know more about it in an hour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish an opinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody is doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal to him at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matter so much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed on the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as they had put in their voting papers."

"At present I would bet against him. Nobody is doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him."


"I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool," said Lady Carbury.


"It would not have made much difference. She would have been brought back all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her."


"There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at 15 premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out of that." But Mr. Broune's eloquence on this occasion was chiefly displayed in regard to the presumption of Mr. Alf. "I shouldn't think him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time."

There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and the Mexican Railway shares were at 15 premium yesterday morning, though they have fallen since. He must have made an enormous amount out of that."
But Mr. Broune was more scathing about Mr. Alf. "A man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time.


"Never, I think;--that is, by the editor of such a paper as the 'Pulpit.' How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'll come to the ground. Where's Felix now?"

A man who sits in parliament cannot pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality. Where is Felix now?"


"He lies in bed all day, and is out all night."


"But that wants money." She only shook her head. "You do not give him any?"


"I should simply take the key of the house from him,--or bolt the door if he will not give it up."

"I should simply take the key of the house from him, or bolt the door if he will not give it up."


"And be in bed, and listen while he knocks,--knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr. Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry out the sentence." Mr. Broune never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and she, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed.

"Knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr. Broune. A child has a hold upon his mother."
Mr. Broune never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand. She pressed it with no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed.


Melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of his wife and daughter. Latterly one of the Grendalls had almost always joined their party when they did not dine out. Indeed, it was an understood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine there always, unless he explained his absence by some engagement,--so that his presence there had come to be considered as a part of his duty. Not unfrequently "Alfred" and Miles would both come, as Melmotte's dinners and wines were good, and occasionally the father would take the son's place,--but on this day they were both absent. Madame Melmotte had not as yet said a word to any one indicating her own apprehension of any evil. But not a person had called to-day,--the day after the great party,--and even she, though she was naturally callous in such matters, had begun to think that she was deserted. She had, too, become so used to the presence of the Grendalls, that she now missed their company. She thought that on this day, of all days, when the world was balloting for her husband at Westminster, they would both have been with him to discuss the work of the day. "Is not Mr. Grendall coming?" she asked, as she took her seat at the table.

Melmotte dined at home that evening with only his wife and daughter. Madame Melmotte had not as yet said a word to anyone about her own fears. But not a single person had called today - the day after the great party; and she thought that the Grendalls would have been with her husband today of all days, during the ballot.
"Is not Mr. Grendall coming?" she asked, as she took her seat at the table.


"Nor Lord Alfred." Melmotte had returned home much comforted by the day's proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. Nothing further had reached his ears. After leaving the bank he had gone back to his office, and had written letters,--just as if nothing had happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked up courage. One of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news from the west, and with second editions of the evening papers. The clerk expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr. Melmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be on his side and the other of course against him, thought that his affairs altogether were looking well. The Westminster election had not the foremost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on that subject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. He read Alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr. Alf had not dared to make new accusations against him. All that about Hamburgh and Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills, and availed nothing. His whole candidature had been carried in the face of that. "I think we shall do pretty well," he said to the clerk. His very presence in Abchurch Lane of course gave confidence. And thus, when he came home, something of the old arrogance had come back upon him, and he could swagger at any rate before his wife and servants. "Nor Lord Alfred," he said with scorn. Then he added more. "The father and son are two d---- curs." This of course frightened Madame Melmotte, and she joined this desertion of the Grendalls to her own solitude all the day.

"Nor Lord Alfred." Melmotte had returned home much comforted by the day's proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. After leaving the bank he had gone back to his office, and had written letters, just as if nothing had happened. A clerk brought him the evening papers, and expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr. Melmotte read Alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr. Alf had not dared to make new accusations against him. All that about Hamburg and Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills.
"I think we shall do pretty well," he said to the clerk. His very presence in Abchurch Lane gave confidence. And thus when he came home, something of the old arrogance had returned, and he could swagger before his wife and servants.
"The Grendall's are two d___ curs," he said.


"Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?" she said afterwards, creeping up to him in the back parlour, and speaking in French.

His wife afterwards crept up to him in the back parlour. "Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?"


"I don't know;--but I seem to be afraid of something."

"I don't know; but I seem to be afraid of something."


"I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by this time."

"I should have thought you were used to that by this time."


"Don't be a fool. There is always something. There is always much. You don't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly as the life of an old maid with 400 a year paid quarterly in advance."

"Don't be a fool. There is always something."


"Shall we have to--move again?" she asked.

"Shall we have to move again?" she asked.


"How am I to tell? You haven't much to do when we move, and may get plenty to eat and drink wherever you go. Does that girl mean to marry Lord Nidderdale?" Madame Melmotte shook her head. "What a poor creature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such a reprobate as young Carbury. If she throws me over, I'll throw her over. I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. You tell her that I say so."

"How am I to tell? Does that girl mean to marry Lord Nidderdale?" Madame Melmotte shook her head. "I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. You tell her that I say so."


"Then he may flog me," said Marie, when so much of the conversation was repeated to her that evening. "Papa does not know me if he thinks that I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging." No such attempt was at any rate made that night, for the father and husband did not again see his wife or daughter.

"Then he may flog me," said Marie, when so much of the conversation was repeated to her that evening. "Papa does not know me if he thinks that I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging." No such attempt was at any rate made that night.


Early the next day a report was current that Mr. Alf had been returned. The numbers had not as yet been counted, or the books made up;--but that was the opinion expressed. All the morning newspapers, including the "Breakfast Table," repeated this report,--but each gave it as the general opinion on the matter. The truth would not be known till seven or eight o'clock in the evening. The Conservative papers did not scruple to say that the presumed election of Mr. Alf was owing to a sudden declension in the confidence originally felt in Mr. Melmotte. The "Breakfast Table," which had supported Mr. Melmotte's candidature, gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on the result than the other papers. "We know not how such an opinion forms itself," the writer said;--"but it seems to have been formed. As nothing as yet is really known, or can be known, we express no opinion of our own upon the matter."

Early the next day a report was current that Mr. Alf had been elected, although the numbers had not yet been counted, and the truth would not be known till seven or eight o'clock in the evening.


Mr. Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed to have returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican Railway shares were low, and Mr. Cohenlupe was depressed in spirits and unhappy;--but nothing dreadful had occurred or seemed to be threatened. If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probably recover, or nearly recover, their position. In the course of the day, Melmotte received a letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, which, of itself, certainly contained no comfort;--but there was comfort to be drawn even from that letter, by reason of what it did not contain. The letter was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory. It had come evidently from a hostile party. It had none of the feeling which had hitherto prevailed in the intercourse between these two well-known Conservative gentlemen, Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe and Mr. Augustus Melmotte. But there was no allusion in it to forgery; no question of criminal proceedings; no hint at aught beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr. Longestaffe and Mr. Longestaffe's son to be paid for the property at Pickering which Mr. Melmotte had purchased.

Mr. Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed to have returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican Railway shares were low, and Mr. Cohenlupe was unhappy; but nothing dreadful had occurred. If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probably recover.
In the course of the day, Melmotte received a letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, which, of itself, contained no comfort - yet there was comfort to be drawn from it, because of what it did not contain. The letter was unfriendly in its tone, but there was no allusion in it to forgery or criminal proceedings; no hint at anything beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr. Longestaffe and his son to be paid for the property at Pickering.


"We have to remind you," said the letter, in continuation of paragraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, "that the title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority to that effect from the Messrs. Longestaffe, father and son, on the understanding that the purchase-money was to be at once paid to us by you. We are informed that the property has been since mortgaged by you. We do not state this as a fact. But the information, whether true or untrue, forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the purchase-money,--80,000,--or else return to us the title-deeds of the estate."

"We have to remind you," said the letter, after demands for the money, "that the title-deeds were delivered to you on our receipt of authority from the Messrs. Longestaffe, on the understanding that the purchase-money was to be at once paid by you. We are informed that the property has since been mortgaged by you. This information forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the purchase-money, 80,000; or else return to us the title-deeds of the estate."


This letter, which was signed Slow and Bideawhile, declared positively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by them from both the Longestaffes,--father and son. Now the accusation brought against Melmotte, as far as he could as yet understand it, was that he had forged the signature to the young Mr. Longestaffe's letter. Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile were therefore on his side. As to the simple debt, he cared little comparatively about that. Many fine men were walking about London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay.

This letter declared positively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by the lawyers from both the Longestaffes - father and son. Now the accusation brought against Melmotte was that he had forged the signature to the young Mr. Longestaffe's letter. Slow and Bideawhile were therefore on his side. As to the simple debt, he cared little about that. Many fine men were walking about London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay.


As he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening,--for both his wife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they had dined early,--news was brought to him that he had been elected for Westminster. He had beaten Mr. Alf by something not much less than a thousand votes.

As Melmotte was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening - for both his wife and daughter had dined early - news was brought to him that he had been elected for Westminster. He had beaten Mr. Alf by almost a thousand votes.