As soon as we had once more found the means of keeping ourselves we went back to our former abode under the shadow of Lambeth Church on the Bank looking over the river on one side and over the meadows and orchards of Lambeth Marsh on the other. The air which sweeps up the river with every tide is fresh and strong and pure; good for the child, not to speak of the child's mother, while the people, few in number, are generally honest though humble: for the most part they are fishermen.

Here I should have been happy but for the thought, suggested by Jenny, that my cousin and his attorney Probus were perhaps devising some new means of persecution, and that the man Merridew, who had perjured himself concerning me already, whose sinister face I had gazed upon with terror, so visibly was the mark of Cain stamped upon it, was but a tool of the attorney.

Yet what could they devise? If they swore between them another debt, my patron Jenny promised to provide me with the help of a lawyer. What else could they do? It is a most miserable feeling that someone in the world is plotting your destruction, you know not how.

However, on Sunday afternoon—it was in November, when the days are already short, we had a visit from my father's old clerk, Ramage.

He was restless in his manner: he was evidently in some anxiety of mind. After a few words he began:

'Mr. Will,' he said, 'I have much to say. I have come, I fear, to tell you something that will make you uneasy.'

'I will leave you alone,' said Alice, taking up the child.

'No, Madam, no, I would rather that you heard. You may advise. Oh! Madam, I never thought the day would come that I should reveal my master's secrets. I eat his bread; I take his wages: and I am come here to betray his most private affairs.'

'Then do not betray them, Mr. Ramage,' said Alice. 'Follow your own conscience.'

'It ought to be your bread and your wages, Mr. Will, and would have been but for tales and inventions. Sir, in a word, there is villainy afloat——'

'What kind of villainy?'

'I know all they do. Sir, there is that sum of one hundred thousand pounds in the hands of trustees, payable to the survivor of you two. That is the bottom of the whole villainy. Well, they are mad to make you sell your chance.'

'I know that.'

'Mr. Matthew, more than a year ago, offered Mr. Probus a thousand pounds if he could persuade you to sell it for three thousand.'

'That is why he was so eager.' This was exactly how Jenny read the business.

'Yes, he reported that you would not sell, he said that if it was made worth his while, he would find a way to make you.'

'That is why he put me in the King's Bench, I suppose?'

'That was agreed upon between them. Sir, if ever there was an infamous conspiracy, this was one. Probus invented it. He said that he would keep you there till you rotted; he said that when you had been there four or five months you would be glad to get out on any terms. You were there for a year or more. Probus sent people to report how you were looking. He told Mr. Matthew with sorrow that you were looking strong and hearty. Then you were taken out. They were furious. They knew not who was the friend. An attorney named Dewberry had done it. That was all they could find out. I know not what this Mr. Dewberry said to Mr. Probus, but certain I am that they will not try that plan any more.'

'I am glad to hear so much.'

'Mr. Will, there is more behind. I know very well what goes on, I say. A little while after the death of your father, when the Alderman retired and Mr. Matthew was left sole active partner, he began to borrow money of Mr. Probus, who came often to see him. I could hear all they said from my desk in the corner of the outer counting-house.'

'Ay! Ay! I remember your desk.'

'Sitting there I heard every word. And I am glad, Mr. Will—I ought to be ashamed, but I am glad that I listened. Well. He began to borrow money of Mr. Probus at 15 per cent, on the security of the business. Anyone would lend money to such a house at 10 per cent. He said he wanted to put the money into the business; to buy new ships and to develop it. This made me suspicious. Why? Because our House, in your father's time, Sir, wanted no fresh capital; it developed and grew on its own capital. This I knew. The business wanted no new capital. What did he borrow the money for then?'

'I know not, indeed.'

'He bought no new ships: he never meant to buy any. Mr. Will, to my certain knowledge'—here his voice deepened to a whisper, 'he wanted for some reason or other more ready money. I am certain that he has got through all the money that your father left him: I know that he has sold some of the ships: he has mortgaged the rest; the business of the House decays and sinks daily; he has got rid of all the money that Mr. Probus advanced him. It was £25,000, for which he is to pay 15 per cent. on £40,000. 'Tis a harpy—a shark—a common rogue!'

'How has he lost this money?' I pretended not to know: but, as you have heard, I knew, perfectly well.

'That, Sir, I cannot tell you. I have no knowledge how a man can, in three years, get through such an amazing amount of money and do so much mischief to an old established business. But the case is as I tell you.'

'This is very serious, Ramage. Does my uncle know?'

'He does not, Sir. That poor man will be a bankrupt in his old age. It will kill him. It will kill him. And I must not tell him. Remember that most of what I tell you is what I overheard.'

'I think that my uncle ought to know.' I remembered Jenny's advice. Here was another opportunity. I should have told him. But I neglected this chance as well.

'I cannot tell him, Sir. There is, however, more. This concerns you, Mr. Will. Yesterday in the afternoon Mr. Probus came to the counting-house. He came for the interest on his money. Mr. Matthew told him, shortly, that it was not convenient to pay him. Mr. Probus humbly explained that he had need of the money for his own occasions. Now Mr. Matthew had been drinking; he often goes to the tavern of a forenoon and returns with a red face and heavy shoulders. Perhaps yesterday he had been drinking more than was usual with him. Otherwise, he might not have been so plain-spoken with his creditor. "Mr. Probus," he said, "it is time to speak the truth with you. I cannot pay you the interest of your money—either to-day or at any other time."

'"Cannot ... cannot ... pay? Mr. Halliday, what do you mean?"

'"I say, Sir, that I cannot pay your interest ... and that your principal, the money you lent me—yes—your £25,000—is gone. You'll never get a penny of it," and then he laughed scornfully. I heard Mr. Probus's step as he sprang to his feet, I heard him strike the table with his open hand. His face I could not see.

'"Sir," he cried, "explain. Where is my money?"

'"Gone, I say. Everything is gone. Your money; my money; all that I could raise—my ships are sold; the business is gone: the creditors are gathering. Probus, I shall be a bankrupt in less than three months. I have worked it out; I can play one against the other, but only for three months. Then the House must be bankrupt."

'"The House—bankrupt?—this House—Halliday Brothers? You had a hundred thousand of your own when you succeeded. You had credit: you had a noble fleet: and a great business. And there's your father's money in the business as well. It can't be gone."

'"It is gone—I tell you—all gone—my money, Probus—integer vitae—that's gone: and your money, old Scelerisque Probus. That's gone too. All gone—all gone." To be sure he was three parts drunk. I heard Mr. Probus groan and sink back into his chair. Then he got up again. "Tell me," he said again, "tell me, you poor drivelling drunken devil—I'll kill you if you laugh. Tell me, where is the money gone?"

'"I don't know," his voice was thick with drink, "I don't know. It's all gone. Everything's gone."

'"I lent you the money to put into the business—it must be in the business still."

'"It never was in the business. I tell you, Probus—it's all gone."

'There was silence for a few minutes. Then Mr. Probus said softly, "Mr. Halliday, we are old friends—tell me that you have only been playing off a joke upon me. You are a little disguised in liquor. I can pass over this accident. The money is in the business, you know; in this fine old business, where you put it when you borrowed it."

'"It's all gone—all gone," he repeated. "Man, why won't you believe? I tell you that everything is gone. Make me a bankrupt at once, and you will share with the creditors: oh! yes, you will be very lucky: you will divide between you the furniture of the counting-house and the empty casks on the Quay."

'Then Mr. Probus began to curse and to swear, and to threaten. He would throw Mr. Matthew into prison and keep him there all his life: he would prosecute him at the Old Bailey: he called him thief, scoundrel, villain: Mr. Matthew laughed in his drunken mood. He would not explain how the money was lost: he only repeated that it was gone—all gone.

'Mr. Will—I know that he was speaking the truth. I had seen things done—you cannot hide things from an old accountant who keeps the books: cargoes sold at a sacrifice for ready money: ships sold: our splendid fleet thrown away: there were six tall vessels in the West India trade: one was cast away: the underwriters paid for her. Where is that money? Where are the other five ships? Sold. Where is that money? Our coffers are empty: there is no running cash at the Bank: the wharf is deserted: clerks are dismissed: creditors are put off. I know that what Mr. Matthew said was true: but for the life of me I cannot tell what he has done with the money unless he has thrown it into the river.

'Then I think that Mr. Matthew took more drink, for he made no more reply, and Mr. Probus, after calling him hog and beast and other names of like significance, left him.

'When he came out of the counting-house he was like one possessed of a devil: his face distorted: his eyes blood-shot: his lips moving: his hands trembling. Sir, although he is a villain I felt sorry for him. He has lost all that he cared for: all that he valued: and since he is now old, and can make no more money, he has lost perhaps his means of livelihood.'

Ramage paused. Alice brought him a glass of beer, her own home-brewed. Thus refreshed, he presently went on again.

'After two days Probus came again to the counting-house. Mr. Matthew was sober.

'"Probus," he said, "I told you the other day when I was drunk what I should have kept from you if I was sober. However, now you know what I told you was the truth."

'"Is it all true?"

'"It is all true. Everything is gone."

'"But how—how—how?" I heard his lamentable cry and I could imagine his arm waving about.

'"This way and that way. Enough that it is all gone."

'"Mr. Matthew," I think he sat down because he groaned—which a man cannot do properly—that is to say movingly, unless he is sitting—"I have been thinking—Good God! of what else could I think? You can keep yourself afloat for three months more, you say—Heavens! Halliday Brothers to go in three months! And my money! Where—where—where has it gone?"

'"In about three months—or may be sooner, the end must come."

'"Mr. Matthew," he lowered his voice, "there is one chance left—one chance—I may get back my money—by that one chance."

'"What chance? The money is all gone."

'"If we can make your cousin part with his chance of the succession, we can raise money on it before the bankruptcy—we can divide it between us."

'"Put it out of your thoughts. My cousin is the most obstinate self-willed brute that ever lived. You couldn't bend him with the King's Bench Prison. You cannot bend him now."

'"I will try again. He is still poor. He plays the fiddle at some wretched gardens I believe. He lives where he did before—I know where to find him. I will try again. If I succeed we could raise say £50,000 upon the succession, it should be more but you are both young. Let me see, that will be £40,000 for me; £6,000 interest due to me: that makes £46,000 for me and £4,000 for you."

'"No, friend Probus. You have lent me £25,000. That you shall take and no more. If you are not content with that you shall have none. Remember that the money must be raised by me for my own use, not by you. Get him to sign if you can—and you shall have back all your money, but without any interest. If you think you are going to get all this money for yourself, let me tell you that you are mistaken."

'Mr. Matthew can be as hard as—as your father, sometimes. He was hard now. Well, the pair wrangled over these terms for a long time. At last it was arranged that if Mr. Probus can persuade you to sign the paper which he is to bring you he is to take £25,000 and interest on that and not on the alleged £40,000, at 15 per cent. And Mr. Matthew is to pay you the sum required to buy out. When they had completed this arrangement Mr. Probus started another line of discourse. Now listen to this, Mr. Will, because it concerns you very closely.

'"If," he said, "your cousin were to die—actually to die——"

'"He won't die. I wish he would."

'"I said—If he were to die—you would then immediately take over £100,000 together with the interest at 5 per cent. already accumulated for three years, namely, about £115,000. That would put all square again. You could get back some of your ships and your credit."

'"What's the use? Man, I have told you—my cousin is a selfish, unfeeling, obstinate Brute. He won't die."

'"I said. If he were to die. That is what I said. If he were to die."

'Then there was silence for a space.

'"Probus," said Mr. Matthew, "I believe you are a devil. Tell me what you mean. We can't make him die by wishing."

'"I was only supposing: If he were to die—strange things have happened—would you be disposed to let me take the half of that money—say £55,000?"

'"If he were to die," Mr. Matthew repeated. "Have you heard, by accident, that he is ill? Has he taken small-pox, or gaol fever? I did hear that was gaol fever in Newgate some time ago."

'"No: on the contrary, I believe that he is in perfect health at present. Still, he might die. Anybody may die, you know."

'"Why do you say that he may die?"

'"I only put the case. Anybody may die. What do you say about my proposal?"

'"You call it a proposal—Man—you look like a murderer—are you going to murder him?"

'"Certainly not. Well—what do you say?"

'"Well—if you are not going to murder him, what do you mean?"

'"Men die of many complaints, besides murder. Some men get themselves into the clutches of the law——"'

When Ramage said this, I became suddenly aware of a great gulf opening at my feet with a prospect of danger such as I had never before contemplated. I thought that the man might swear upon me some crime of which I was innocent and so bring it home to me by a diabolical artifice that I should be accused, found guilty, and executed. I reeled and turned pale.

Alice caught my hand. 'Have faith, my dear,' she said.

Yet the thought was like a knife piercing me through and through. I could not afterwards shake it off. And I made up my mind—I know not why—that the charge would take the form of an accusation of forgery.

'"Probus," said Mr. Matthew, "I will have nothing to do with this——"

'"Sir, you need not. Give me your word only, your simple word that if your cousin refuses to sign the paper I shall lay before him, so that you cannot raise money on that succession—and if within two months of this day your cousin dies, so that you will succeed before you are bankrupt, I am to take half that money in full discharge of all my claims. That is all. I will leave you now, to think the matter over."

'He went away. The next day he returned, bringing with him a man whom I had never seen before.

'"Mr. Matthew," he said, "I have brought you a gentleman whose acquaintance with our criminal law is vast—probably unequaled. His name, Sir, is Merridew."

'"His honour says no more than what is true," said Mr. Merridew. "I know more than most. I understand you want me to advise you on a little matter of prosecution. Well, Sir, I can only say that if you want a friend put out of the way, so to speak, nothing is easier, for them that knows how to work the job and can command the instruments. It is only a question of pay." Then they talked in whispers and I heard no more. When they were gone Mr. Matthew began to drink again.

'That is all, Mr. Will. But have a care. You now know what to expect, sir; there will be no pity from any of them. Have a care. Go away. Go to some place where they cannot find you. Sir, the man Probus is mad. He is mad with the misery of losing his money. There is nothing that he will not do. He is a money-lender: his money is all in all to him: his profession and his pride and everything. And he has lost his money. Go out of his way.'

'Is that all, Ramage?'

'Yes, Sir. That is all I had to say.'

'Then, my old friend, you have come just in time, for if I mistake not there is Mr. Probus himself walking across the meadow with the intention of calling here. You could not have chosen a better time.' Indeed, that was the case. The man was actually walking quickly across the Marsh. 'Now, Ramage,' I said, 'it would be well for you to hear what he has to say. Go into the kitchen and wait with the door ajar—go. Alice, my dear, stay here with me.'

'Remember, Will,' she said, 'it was your father's last command. To sell it would be to sell your father's forgiveness—a dreadful thing.'

The man stood at the open door. Ramage was right. He looked truly dreadful. Anxiety was proclaimed in his face, with eagerness and courage: he reminded me of a weasel, which for murderous resolution is said to surpass the whole of the animal creation. He came in blinking after the light and offered me his hand, but I refused it.

'Fie!' he said. 'Fie, Mr. Will! This is ill done. You confuse the attorney's zeal for his clients with an act of hostility to yourself. Put that out of your thoughts, I pray.'

'Why do you come here, Mr. Probus?'

'I said to myself: It is not easy to catch a man of Mr. William's reputation at home, his society being eagerly sought after. I will therefore visit him on Sunday. Not in the morning, when he will be lifting the hymn in Church: but in the afternoon. I came here straight from St. George's, Borough, where I sometimes repair for morning service. A holy discourse, Mr. William, moving and convincing.' His eyes kept shifting to and fro as he spoke.

'Very likely. But we will not talk about sermons. Look ye, Mr. Probus, your presence here is not desired. Say what you have to say, and begone.'

'Hot youth! Ah! I envy that fine heat of the blood. Once I was just the same myself.'

He must have been a good deal changed, then, since that time.

He went on. 'I will not stay long. I am once more a peacemaker. It is a happy office. It is an office that can be discharged on the Sabbath. Sweetly the river flows beneath your feet. Ah! A peacemaker. I come from your cousin again.'

'To make another offer?'

'Yes, that is my object. I am again prepared to offer you terms which, I believe, no one else in the world would propose to you. Mr. William, I will give you the sum of four thousand pounds down—equivalent to an annual income of two hundred pounds a year if you will sell your reversion.'

'No.'

'Mr. Matthew can use the money to advantage: while it lies locked up it is of no use to anyone.'

'No.'

'Such obstinacy was never known before, I believe. Why, Sir, I offer you an annual income of two hundred pounds a year—two hundred pounds a year. You can leave this wretched little cottage overhanging a marsh: you can move into a fashionable quarter, and live like a person of Quality: you can abandon your present mode of life, which I take to be repellent to every person of virtue—that of musician to the Dog and Duck or some other resort of the profligate. Oh, we know where you are and what you do! Instead of servant you will be master. You, Madam, will no longer be a household drudge: you will have your cook, your maids, your page to carry your Prayer-Book to church.'

'No.'

He hesitated a little, the sham benevolence dying out of his face, and the angry look of baffled cunning taking its place. Mr. Probus was a bad actor.

He took out a parchment. 'Sign it, Mr. William—here.' He unrolled it and indicated the place. 'Let us have no more shilly shally, willy nilly talk. It is for your good and for my client's.'

'And yours, too, Mr. Probus.'

'My dear,' said Alice, 'do not exchange words any longer. You have said No already. It is my husband's last word, Sir.'

There I should have stopped. It is always foolish to reveal to an enemy what one has discovered. I think that up to that moment Mr. Probus was only anxious: that is to say, he was crazy with anxiety, but he could not believe that his money was all gone, because he had no knowledge or suspicion in what way it had gone. Things that appear impossible cannot be believed. I think that he would have assured himself of the fact in some other way before proceeding to the wickedness which he actually had in his mind. He would have waited: and I could have eluded him some way or other. As it was, the mere statement of Matthew drunk drove him half mad with fear: but there was still the chance that Matthew sober would have spoken differently.

'No,' according to Alice, was my last word.

'Not quite the last word,' I said. 'Hark ye, Mr. Probus. The sum waiting for me when Matthew dies, is one hundred thousand pounds with accumulations of interest, is it not? If he were to die to-morrow—to be sure it is not likely—but he may be murdered, or he may put himself within the power of the Law and so be executed——' Mr. Probus turned ghastly white and shook all over. 'Then I should come in for the whole of that money, which is much better than four thousand pounds, whereas if I were to die to-morrow—either by the operation of the law or by some other manner, Matthew would have the whole and you would get back the twenty-five thousand pounds you have lent my cousin with a noble addition. If you do get it, that is—Mr. Probus, I think that you will not get it. I think you will never get any more of your money back at all.'

'I don't know, Sir, what you mean: or what you know,' he stammered.

'I know more than you think. I know where your money has gone.'

'He jumped up. 'Where? Where? Where? Tell me.'

'It has gone into the bottomless gulf that they call the gaming table, Mr. Probus. It has been gambled away: the ships of my father's fleet: the cargoes: the accumulated treasures: the credit of the business: the private fortune of my cousin: your own money lent to Matthew: it has all gone: irrecoverably gone——'

'The gaming table!' he groaned. 'The gaming table! I never thought of that. Sir, do you know what you mean—the gaming table?'

No one but a money-lender knows all that may be meant by the gaming table.

'I know what I say. Matthew told you the truth. Everything has gone: ruin stares him in the face——Your money is gone with the rest.'

'The gaming table. And I never suspected it.... The gaming table!' He fell into a kind of trance or fit, with open mouth, white cheeks, and fixed eyes. This lasted only for a few moments.

'Mr. Probus,' I went on, 'I cannot say that I am sorry for your misfortunes; but I hope we shall never meet again.'

He got up, slowly. His face was full of despair. I confess that I pitied him. For he gave way altogether to a madness of grief.

'Gone?' he cried. 'No—no—no—not gone—it can't be gone.' He threw himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He sobbed: he moaned: when he lifted his head again his features were distorted. 'It is my all,' he cried. 'Oh! you don't know what it is to lose your all. I can never get any more—I am old: I have few clients left—I get no new ones: the old cannot get new clients: my character is not what it was: they cry out after me in the street: they say I lend money at cent. per cent.—why not? They call me old cent. per cent. If I lose this money I am indeed lost.'

'We cannot help you, Mr. Probus.'

'Oh! yes, do what I ask you. Sell your chance. You will never outlive your cousin. You will save my life. Think of saving a man's life. As for your cousin, let him go his own way. I hate him. It is you, you, Mr. William, I have always loved.'

'No.'

He turned to Alice and fell on his knees.

'Persuade him, Madam. You are all goodness. Oh! persuade him—think of your child. You can make him rich with a stroke of a pen—think of that. Oh! think of that!' The tears ran down his cheeks.

'Sir, I think only of my husband's father. And of his wishes, which are commands.'

'Enough said'—there was too much said already—'your money is gone, Mr. Probus.'

'Gone?' he repeated, but no longer in terms of entreaty. He was now fallen into the other extreme; he was blind and mad with rage and despair. 'No—no—it's not gone. I will get it out of you. Those who threw you into prison can do worse—worse. You have brought it on yourself. It is your ruin or mine. Once more——' With trembling fingers he held out the paper for me to sign.

'No.'

He stayed no longer: he threw out his arms again: it was as if his breath refused to come: and he turned away. He looked like a broken-down man, crawling, bent, with hanging head, along the road.

As soon as he was gone, Ramage opened the door and came out cautiously.

'Mr. Will,' he cried. 'For Heaven's sake, sir. For your dear lady's sake: for the child's sake: get out of the way. Nothing else will serve. He is desperate; and he is as cunning as the Devil himself. To get back his money he will shrink from nothing.'

'Indeed, Ramage,' I said, 'I think you are right. I will take a holiday for awhile.'

'When the bankruptcy comes,' he said, 'there will be no more danger, because all the money would be divided among the creditors. Better to run away than to be ruined.'

I promised to think of flight. Indeed, my mind was shaken. I was not afraid of open villainy, but of that which might be concealed and designed in secret. It would perhaps be best to go where the man could not find me.

So Ramage departed. When he saw me again, it was in a very different place.

The bell of Lambeth Church began to toll. It seemed to me like a funeral knell, though it was the bell for the afternoon service. The wind came up from the river chilled with the November air. My heart sank.

'My dear,' said Alice, 'let us go to Church. Oh! the mark of the Evil Spirit is stamped upon the unhappy man's forehead. Let us pray not for ourselves, but for God's mercy upon a wandering soul.'

I followed her as she led the way, carrying the child. Alas! How long before I could sit with her again to hear the prayers of the church among godly folk!