fifty-nine thousand is better than the loss of a quarter
of a million. There, put that in your purse, and
see that your devoted friend signs it down there
at the bottom."

"What is it?"

"A promissory note for the money. He will,
perhaps, offer you a receipt on the part of the
firm; but this will answer the purpose much
better. What—going already?"

Saxon explained that Greatorex wanted the
cash before one o'clock.

"You have removed the 'stop' from Drummonds',
I suppose?"

"Not yet. I will call there as I go home."

"And Mr. Greatorex has given you back your
first cheque?"

"I don't know. I think we left it on the
breakfast-table."

Mr. Trefalden bit his lip.

"Upon my soul, Saxon," he said, "you deserve
to be fleeced by every sharper who can get
his hand within reach of a feather of you! Go
home and find that cheque before you dream of
removing your injunction; and if you can't find
it, give them a note of the number and amount,
in case of its being presented for payment."

Saxon laughed, and promised obedience; but
declared there was no danger.

"You will still keep your promise of signing
away no more money without consulting me?"

"Implicitly."

"Then good-bye till Thursday."

Saxon sprang down the stairs whistling a
Shrill Swiss air, and was gone in a moment. Mr.
Trefalden's face, as he listened, grew dark, and
hard, and cold, as if it were changing into granite.

"Fool!" he muttered, fiercely. "As eager to
ruin himself as are others to ruin him! I should
be mad to hold back now. I have waited, and
watched, and let him go his own way long
enough; but my turn has come at last."

"If you please, sir," said Mr. Keckwitch,
putting his head suddenly in at the door, "Mr.
Behrens called about ten minutes ago, and said
he'd come again at two."

"Very well," replied the lawyer, wearily.
"Bring me Mr. Behrens's deed box."

He sat for a long time with the box unopened
before him, and his head resting on his hands.

CHAPTER XXIII. A THOROUGHLY RESPECTABLE
    MAN.

THE man who has a purpose to achieve, or a
secret to hide, should never make an enemy.
It is his obvious policy to shun that disaster as
sedulously as an expectant bridegroom shuns
the conscription, a débutante the small-pox, or
a railway director the possible horrors of an
excursion train. But the wisest cannot always
be wise; and the wariest are apt now and then
to omit some little precaution whereby the dread
catastrophe against which they have so long
been building up their defences, might have been
averted after all. Thetis, when she dipped
Achilles in the sevenfold river, forgot the heel by
which she held him, and left it vulnerable for the
fatal arrow. Imperial Cæsar put aside for future
reading the paper that would have saved him
from assassination. Henri Quatre—he of the
valiant heart, to whom nothing seemed impossible
—neglected alike his own presentiments, and
the prayers of those who loved him, when he
went forth to his doom in the Rue de la
Ferronnière. These things are common. We
read of them in the records of almost every
famous crime, or sudden catastrophe. The
"complete steel" has some weak point of
junction which the foeman's blade finds out;
the conspirator drops a paper, and the plot
which was to subvert a dynasty recoils on the
heads of the plotters; the cleverest alibi breaks
down in some minute particular, which no one
had the wit to foresee. A little more prudence
was alone needed to ensure quite opposite
results—a little better closing of the rivets of
the gorget, or the seams of the pocket, or the
incidents of the story; but the precaution that
would have made all safe, was precisely that
precaution which happened to be neglected.

William Trefalden had both a purpose to
achieve, and a secret to hide, and he was not
insensible to the inconveniences that might arise
from the ill will of his fellow-men; but he had
made two enemies, and those two enemies were
the two greatest errors of his life. He had never
attempted to be what is called "a popular man."
He had none of that apparent frankness and
buoyancy of manner necessary to the part; but
he especially desired to be well spoken of.
He was well spoken of, and had acquired
that sort of reputation which is, above all
others, the most valuable to a professional man
—a reputation for sagacity, and prosperity;
and prosperity, be it remembered, is the seal
of merit. But, having achieved so much, and
being on the high road to certain other achieve-
ments, the nature of which were as yet known
only to himself, he ought to have abstained at
any cost from awaking the enmity of two such
men as Abel Keckwitch and Laurence Greatorex.
It would have been better for him if
he had denied himself the satisfaction of
punishing his head clerk that memorable
evening in March, and been content only to
dodge him in the shade of the doorway. It
would have been better if, knowing himself to
be the destined Jason, he had even suffered
Laurence Greatorex to carry off that noble slice
from the Golden Fleece, which was represented
by Saxon's first cheque. But he had followed
neither of these prudent courses. He despised
the clerk; he was irritated against the banker;
and he never even asked himself how they were
disposed towards him in return. They both
hated him; but had he known this, it is
probable that he would have been equally indifferent
to the fact. Not to know it—not even to have
given it a thought, one way or the other—was
a great oversight; and that oversight was the
one hole in William Trefalden's armour.