mean, to such a small trader as I was at that
period—showed itself to me, when I had been
some little time in business. In plain terms,
I had a chance of joining in a first-rate
transaction, which would give me profit and
position and everything I wanted, provided I
could qualify myself for engaging in it by
getting good security beforehand for a very
large amount.

In this emergency, I thought of my kind
friend, Mr. Fauntleroy, and went to the bank,
and saw him once more in his private room.

There he was at the same table, with the
same heaps of papers about him, and the same
hearty, easy way of speaking his mind to you
at once, in the fewest possible words. I
explained the business I came upon, with some
little hesitation and nervousness; for I was
afraid he might think that I was taking an
unfair advantage of his former kindness to
me. When I had done, he just nodded his
head, snatched up a blank sheet of paper,
scribbled a few lines on it, in his rapid way,
handed the writing to me, and pushed me
out of the room by the two shoulders before
I could say a single word. I looked at the
paper in the outer office. It was my security
from that great banking-house for the whole
amount, and for more, if more was wanted.

I could not express my gratitude then;
and I don't know that I can describe it now.
I can only say that it has outlived the crime,
the disgrace, and the awful death on the
scaffold. I am grieved to speak of that death
at all. But I have no other alternative.
The course of my story must now lead me
straight on to the later time, and to the
terrible discovery which exposed my
benefactor and my friend to all England as the
forger Fauntleroy.

I must ask you to suppose a lapse of some
time after the occurrence of the events that
I have just been relating. During this
interval, thanks to the kind assistance I had
received at the outset, my position as a man
of business had greatly improved. Imagine
me now, if you please, on the high road to
prosperity, with good large offices and a
respectable staff of clerks; and picture me
to yourselves sitting alone in my private
room, between four and five o'clock, on a
certain Saturday afternoon.

All my letters had been written, all the
people who had appointments with me had
been received—I was looking carelessly over
the newspaper, and thinking about going
home, when one of my clerks came in, and
said that a stranger wished to see me
immediately on very important business.

"Did he mention his name?" I inquired.

"No, sir."

"Did you not ask him for it?"

"Yes, sir. And he said you would be none
the wiser if he told me what it was."

"Does he look like a begging-letter
writer?"

"He looks a little shabby, sir; but he doesn't
talk at all like a begging-letter writer. He
spoke sharp and decided, sir,—and said that
it was in your interests that he came, and
that you would deeply regret it afterwards if
you refused to see him."

"He said that, did he? Show him in at
once, then."

He was shown in immediately. A middling-
sized man, with a sharp, unwholesome-
looking face, and with a flippant, reckless
manner; dressed in a style of shabby smartness;
eyeing me with a bold look; and not
so overburdened with politeness as to trouble
himself about taking off his hat when he
came in. I had never seen him before in my
life; and I could not form the slightest
conjecture from his appearance to guide me
towards guessing his position in the world.
He was not a gentleman, evidently; but as
to fixing his whereabouts in the infinite
downward gradations of vagabond existence
in London, that was a mystery which I was
totally incompetent to solve.

"Is your name Trowbridge?" he began.

"Yes," I answered, drily enough.

"Do you bank with Marsh, Stracey,
Fauntleroy, and Graham?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Answer my question, and you will
know!"

"Very well, I do bank with Marsh, Stracey,
Fauntleroy, and Graham—and what then?"

"Draw out every farthing of balance you
have got, before the bank closes at five
to-day."

I stared at him in speechless amazement.
The words, for the instant, absolutely
petrified me.

"Stare as much as you like," he proceeded
coolly, " I mean what I say. Look at your clock
there. In twenty minutes it will strike five,
and the bank will be shut. Draw out every
farthing, I tell you, again; and look sharp
about it."

"Draw out my money!" I exclaimed,
partially recovering myself. "Are you in
your right senses? Do you know that the firm
I bank with represents one of the first houses
in the world? What do you mean—you, who
are a total stranger to me,—by taking this
extraordinary interest in my affairs? If you
want me to act on your advice, why don't
you explain yourself?"

"I have explained myself. Act on my
advice, or not, just as you like. It don't
matter to me. I have done what I promised;
and there's an end of it."

He turned to the door. The minute hand
of the clock was getting on from the twenty
minutes to the quarter.

"Done what you promised?" I repeated,
getting up to stop him.

"Yes," he said, with his hand on the lock.
"I have given my message. Whatever
happens, remember that. Good
afternoon."

He was gone before I could speak again.