of his visitors.

For many reasons Mr. Asherill disliked gentlemen who had not been privileged to be born Britons. In his capacity as a Christian and a Dissenter he disapproved of people whom he classed roughly all round as "Papists," "Jesuits," and "Infidels." In his capacity as a citizen of the City of London, he regarded foreigners as interlopers, and had once actually written a letter to the then Chancellor of the Exchequer suggesting a tax upon Germans, Greeks, Frenchmen, and others, as a means at once of raising the revenue and of relieving Englishmen from an irritating and disastrous competition.

Further, Mr. Asherill not merely believed that foreign men and women were unbelievers, and that they crossed the Channel for no other object except to pick the pocket of John Bull, but he also fancied—not entirely without reason perhaps—that, polite manners and politer words nevertheless, all foreigners with whom he came in contact had taken his measure pretty accurately, and were laughing at him in their sleeve.

In a word, the very idea of such falseness and frivolity, when conjoined with the art of making money, was odious to Mr. Asherill; and he had made much good play amongst staid heads of families, and in the company of elders of churches, by giving utterance to opinions that had at least the merit of sincerity, on the subject of peaceful foreign invasion.

For these reasons, and for others which will explain themselves ere long, Mr. Asherill did not think it necessary to exhibit any effusion of feeling at sight of his visitors.

"Disagreeable day," he remarked in a deprecating sort of manner, as though he were mentally apologizing to a higher authority for even commenting on the state of the weather.

"Beastly," answered the taller man in a tone which clearly implied he at least entertained no fear of Providence being offended by any strictures on the English climate.

"Vairy bad," agreed his companion in an accent which indicated he was more of a foreigner than the previous speaker.

And this was the case.

Bertrand Kleinwort was a German pure as imported, whilst Henry Werner laboured under the (personal) disadvantages of having been born in England and of having been brought up under somewhat different social circumstances to those which usually tend to the triumph of the Teutonic over the Saxon race.

One accustomed to notice such matters might also have observed another distinction between the two men. While both were Germans, subject to the difference above mentioned, both had also Jewish blood in their veins, with the important difference that they certainly owed their origin to separate descendants of the lost tribes.

I should be sorry to insult the memory of any one of the ten sons of Jacob who failed to send down clear title-deeds with his posterity, by suggesting to which of the number Mr. Kleinwort might directly trace his existence, but it certainly was to another brother than he from whose loins sprang the progenitor of Henry Werner.

Most people would have preferred Kleinwort to Werner; preferred his soft pleading voice, his tone of ready sympathy, his pleasant, cheerful, plausible, confidential manners, till they felt his deathly grip, and understood, too late, the cold snake-like cruelty which underlay his smooth kindly exterior; the devilish deliberation with which he lay in ambush for his prey till the moment came, and with it, for ever, farewell to hope—aye, and it had been to things dearer than hope, or wealth, or life itself.

As for Werner, with dark impassive face and impenetrable, almost sullen manners, he had performed some feats of sailing remarkably close to the wind, which had drawn upon him animadversions from masters, and judges, and juries, and a few honest men in the City—a few of the typical ten who may yet save it, if indeed there are—almsgiving notwithstanding—ten left. He had kept up impending bankrupts till he was clear, and it seemed expedient to let them go; he had allowed people, to "refer to him," who saw him safe out and let other people in; he had, it was whispered, once or twice accepted for payment paper, some of the names on which were more than suspicious, taken in conjunction with other names appended to the document, and no harm had come to him in consequence; in a word, once upon a time, Henry Werner could not have been considered particular, and now, when he had become very particular, those matters were, by persons of a retentive turn of mind, remembered against him.

Mr. Asherill remembered them, which was bad, seeing he had travelled an even worse road himself; but then it must be taken into account that a ticket-of-leave man who sincerely repents the error of his ways cannot afford exactly to be seen in company even with a very young pickpocket.

"Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Asherill, looking across the table at his visitors, and digging the point of a steel pen into his blotting-paper as he spoke.

"We have brought you one very good thing," said Mr. Kleinwort, speaking slowly, and painfully, English bad as the weather.

"Much obliged, I am sure. What is it?"

"Oh! one small thing; not big, but good. Must be done this very day; no fear of costs; lots of what you call peekings; no large bones but meaty;" and Mr. Kleinwort, who was all head and stomach, like a modern representation of Christmas, as popularly depicted, with a plum-pudding for paunch, laughed at his own wit.

Mr. Werner did not laugh; he scowled at his companion. Mr. Asherill did not laugh either. He looked from one to the other, and then asked, in a tone an undertaker might have envied—

"Who has gone now?"

"Archibald Mortomley," said Mr. Werner, glancing at him with dark eyes, from under darker brows.

"You don't mean that?" exclaimed Mr. Asherill, with a briskness suggestive of the old Adam.

"I mean that," answered Mr. Werner; and then ensued a pause.

Mr. Asherill broke it.

"If not an impertinent question, gentlemen, what have you to do with this?"

"I am his friend," said Mr. Werner, with a hesitation natural, perhaps, to a man who looked so incapable of being a friend to any one.

"And I a creditor," said Mr. Kleinwort, with a fluency which seemed to strike Mr. Asherill, who surveyed them both, and stared at them over and through.

"What does he owe you?" he asked at last, addressing himself to Mr. Kleinwort.

"Fifteen hundred pounds."

"For what?"

"Money advanced."

"Through whom?"

"Through nobody, except me, myself."

"Nonsense; it is of no use talking in this way to me. You never had fifteen hundred pence, let alone fifteen hundred pounds to advance to any one."

"Upon mine sacred word of honour," Mr. Kleinwort was beginning, when Mr. Werner stopped him.

"It is all right, Mr. Asherill," he said, "Kleinwort has advanced fifteen hundred pounds; I know how and I know why."

"Is Mr. Kleinwort the petitioning creditor?" inquired Mr. Asherill of Mr. Werner.

"I," interposed Mr. Kleinwort; "I, mein Gott! No! It is a pity, ach, such a pity. Such a place, such a plant, such a business! Did not I myself go down with Forde to see what was possible? Did I not say to the little lady, Mortomley's wife, 'It is a pity, such a pity to let all everything go; think what you and your friends can do, and then come to me; you shall have what you want if Bertrand Kleinwort can procure it for you.'"

Mr. Asherill looked at the devoted foreigner curiously.

"And