abstained from any intrusion, any unlicensed
correspondence. Surely, surely he could not send
for me merely to say that a rejected suitor was
ineligible even as a servant, and that our
connexion must cease? In the larger of the two
adjacent rooms, a room hung in Spanish fashion
with stamped and gilded leather, and heavily
furnished with dark mahogany from Honduras,
I found the firm. Mr. Spalding, a tall thin
grey-headed gentleman, was pacing up and down
the apartment in great agitation. Mr. Hausermann,
a German, as his name implies, sat before
a table covered with papers, ejaculating guttural
exclamations of wonder from time to time, and
with a look of hopeless perplexity in his fat pink
face. The cashier entered along with me, and
closed the door.

"Ach, mein Himmel!" muttered the junior
partner: a hale, portly man, but of a flabby
nature, morally and physically, compared with the
energetic chief of the house: "ach! we were
petter to have never peen porn, than live to see
this!"

Job Wiginton gave a groan of sincere sympathy.
I quickly perceived that something had gone
wrong, and as quickly did I see that this mysterious
something had no direct reference to my audacity
in winning the heart of Emma Spalding.
What was amiss? There is one grisly ghost that
always haunts the imagination of the more
intelligent subordinates of a commercial firm—
Bankruptcy. But the house had been such a
prudent house, so steady and well ballasted, had
glided so demurely along in safe old-world
groove, that it was rather ridiculed in
consequence by the mushroom firms that daily arose
or collapsed around us. But I had little time
to think, for Mr. Spalding stopped in his walk,
came abruptly up to me, and took me by both
hands. "George Walford," said the old
merchant, with more emotion in his voice and
features than he had ever shown before, "I have
not been kind to you lately. You were a good
friend to me—before—before—" and here he
reddened somewhat, and ceased speaking.

I glanced towards Mr. Hausermann, but
he looked so fat and helpless as he sat in
his arm-chair, murmuring phrases in his
native tongue, that I saw no explanation was to
be looked for in that quarter. So I told Mr.
Spalding, in as firm a tone as possible, that
our mutual esteem had, I hoped, survived our
intimacy, and that I still felt myself a faithful
friend to him and his, and would gladly prove
myself one.

"I thought so—I thought so," said the
merchant, looking pleased for a moment; "you
are a good lad, George, and that's why I come
to you for help in my sore need, hard and harsh
as you may have thought me the other day—
when—Never mind!"

"I was first to say it," exclaimed Mr.
Hausermann. "'Let us call Shorge Walford,'
say I. 'He has got ver goot prains; ver goot
young man.'"

A quarter of a century spent among Anglo-
Saxons had never taught Mr. Hausermann the
English language in its purity. Indeed, his life,
out of office hours, was spent entirely with
Teutons like himself, who swarm all over
America, and with whom he could enjoy German
conversation, Rhine wine, and the black coffee
of the fatherland. I should never get to the
end of the interview if I described it verbatim,
chronicling the broken sentences and vague talk
of the junior partner, and the comments of Job
Wiginton. The confidential cashier
sympathised with the distress of his employers as a
faithful dog might have done, and was about
as likely to suggest a practical remedy. Mr.
Wiginton was worthy of all trust; he was as
close as wax and as honest as the day, but he was
a mere machine for the casting up of sums, the
balancing of books, and locking of safes. Mr.
Hausermann was not much cleverer than the cashier;
he was an admirable arithmetician, could detect
an error of a halfpenny in a problem involving
billions, and his penmanship was magnificent.
But, with these attainments, he owed his
present position in commerce, not to his abilities,
but to the florins he had inherited, and to the
talent and keenness of his English partner. It
was from the chief of the house himself that
I heard the following tale:—Mr. Spalding, as I
have said, had but two children, Emma, and
her brother Adolphus; his wife had died on
the voyage from Philadelphia, and his affection
centred in his boy and girl. Unluckily,
Adolphus did not turn out well, was wild
and extravagant, and squandered his liberal
allowance among horse jockeys and gamblers.
Mr. Spalding, strict with all the world besides,
was rather lax and indulgent where his son
was concerned. The young man was very
good-looking and of pleasing address; he had
been the darling of his dead mother; and the
father was very patient and forbearing with
him, for her sake. The youth went from bad to
worse, got deeper into debt and evil company,
seldom came home, and seriously impaired his
health by a long course of excesses. All this I
knew, for Adolphus was a clerk in the house,
nominally at least, though he hardly ever
occupied his stool in the office. But what I did
not know was, that Adolphus Spalding, in his
eagerness to settle a number of so-called debts
of honour, had been led to rob his father. He
had forged the signatures of Spalding and
Hausermann to a cheque for thirty thousand
dollars, payable at sight, and purporting to be
drawn by the merchants on their bankers in New
York. More than this: he had abstracted from
his father's desk a Russia-leather pocket-book,
containing bills and securities to a great amount,
and this he had placed in the hands of the
same vile associate who had undertaken to
present the cheque at the counter of the New York
bank.

"The scoundrel is gone northward already.
He started last Tuesday, by the way of Panama,
along with the mail," said Mr. Spalding. "You
know the man, I dare say, for he was very
notorious in the town—Joram Heckler."

"Dr. Joram Heckler!" I exclaimed, as I