Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney, was seated at a writing-table covered with papers, in his private office. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and his feet were thrust into large buff slippers. His grey hair was uncombed and his beard unshaven that morning; and his shirt was none of the cleanest. Indeed, his appearance denoted that, on awakening, he had risen hastily, thrown on a few clothes, and repaired straight to his office, where he immediately became absorbed in the study of certain documents in which he was deeply interested.

The countenance of this individual was by no means pleasing. A malignant light shone in his small, restless, dark eyes; and he had a habit, when vexed or irritated, of frowning—or rather contracting his brow to such a degree, that he brought them as it were to cover his very eye-lids: but, if pleased—especially when he had solved a difficult question or was struck by an idea that seemed particularly lucid or valuable—he would then elevate his brows to such a height that the movement displayed the whites all round his eyes, while the upper part of his forehead gathered into innumerable small wrinkles.

A superficial observer would have pronounced the expression of his pale features to be intellectual: but a more experienced phrenologist would be enabled to draw the proper distinction between an air of noble intelligence and one of profound cunning, shrewdness, and selfish watchfulness. These latter qualities were the real characteristics of James Heathcote: but with his clerks, and amongst the generality of his clients, he passed as a man of very fine intellect and great talents.

The room in which he was seated had what is usually called “a business-like air” about it. The grey drugget that covered the door would have sustained no harm from a vigorous application of a carpet-broom; and the window, which looked into a little yard at the back of the house, might have lost much of its dinginess if only cleaned once a week. But the panes appeared as if they had been purposely tinged a dirty yellow, so incrusted were they with the dust that had gathered upon them.

On one side of the room were rows of shelves containing a number of law-books, the relative ages of which were marked by the colour of the leather binding—there being a perfect ascending scale, from the bright buff, indicating the most recent purchase, to the deepest, dirtiest brown that characterised the long-standing and well-thumbed volume of remote date. Along the edges of these shelves were nailed long slips of dark-green serge—a meagre kind of drapery meant to protect the upper part of the volumes from the dust, and impart to the whole arrangement somewhat of the air of a regular book-case.

On another side of the room were rows of shelves much deeper and also much wider apart; and on these were huge japanned tin boxes, with names painted on them in yellow letters. To every box there was a little padlock; and the whole seemed to tell of title-deeds to vast estates—and mortgages—and bonds—and charges—and rent-rolls, contained in those sombre-looking repositories. But, alas! how few of the persons whose names were still recorded on the outside of those boxes, had any longer an interest in the deeds preserved within: how many had lodged their parchments in those usurious chests, never to recover them!

Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of Lord Eldon—a lawyer whom thousands and thousands were doomed to curse, but whom the “profession” still continues to cry up as the greatest of modern judges. Yes—for if clients complain of the law’s delays, the lawyers themselves rejoice; and he who is an execrable judge in respect to the former, is an admirable one in the eyes of the latter.

Stuck into the frame of that portrait was an infinite number of visitors’ cards, all covered with dust, as if that assemblage of bits of pasteboard were something sacred which the profane hand of a housemaid or charwoman dared not touch. On the mantel itself was an old time-piece, the mechanism of which was exposed; and how the wheels could move at all, clogged with dust as they were, must have appeared marvellous to any one who, entering that room, gave himself the trouble to devote a thought to the matter.

We have already stated that the table was covered with papers. Along that side opposite to the one at which the lawyer sate, were piles of those documents, all tied up in the usual fashion with tape that once was red, but which was now so faded that in many instances it was of a dirty white. They seemed to have been undisturbed for a long, long time; and perhaps were kept for show. Those papers that referred to matters actually pending, were placed more conveniently within the attorney’s reach, and were fresher in appearance, the tape also being of a livelier red. Three or four files, two feet long, and covered with letters densely packed one above another, lay upon the drugget; and near the lawyer’s feet was a waste-basket overflowing with letters crumpled up, and looking uncommonly like appeals for mercy and delay on the part of unfortunate debtors, but which had been tossed with cool contempt into that receptacle for all such useless applications!

It was now ten o’clock in the morning; and Mr. James Heathcote was, as we have represented, completely absorbed in the study of the documents that lay spread before him upon the table. A thin, yellow hand supported his head; and every now and then he ran his long fingers through his iron-grey hair, as if that action aided him in the solution of a difficult subject.

Presently a low and timid knock at the door fell on the lawyer’s ears; and he said “Come in” without raising his head or desisting from his occupation.

Thereupon a middle-aged man, dressed in a suit of rusty black—his office garb—made his appearance, holding in his hand a long thin book which was the diary of the business-proceedings of the establishment. This individual had a pale, sinister countenance, with brown hair combed sleekly down over his low forehead. He was, however, an important personage in many respects—being Mr. Heathcote’s head clerk, and exercising despotic sway over half-a-dozen subordinates in the front office. With them and towards poor clients or unfortunate debtors he was cold—stern—harsh—and inexorable; but in the presence of his employer he was cringing—mean—sycophantic—and spaniel-like.

Advancing slowly and with noiseless steps—or rather creeping up towards the table, he stood in a respectful attitude—no, with a servile demeanour and in deep silence until it should please his master to take notice of him.

“Well, Green—what have you to say to me this morning?” at length demanded Mr. Heathcote, raising his head and throwing himself back in his capacious arm-chair.

“Gregson the upholsterer, sir, cannot meet the third instalment due this day on his warrant-of-attorney for eight hundred pounds,” said Mr. Green, referring to the diary; “but he called just now and told me that if you would give him till next Monday——”

“Not an hour, Green,” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, imperiously. “Let execution issue. He has enough property to satisfy the greater portion—and, as his brother-in-law is his security, we shall slap at him without delay for the residue. He is a toiling, striving man, and will beat up amongst his friends to raise the necessary amount by the time we have run him up some twenty pounds’ costs. What is the next?”

“Sir Thomas Skeffington’s bill for five hundred pounds comes due to-day, sir,” continued the head clerk; “and he proposes to renew it.”

“Let me see?” mused Mr. Heathcote. “It was originally two hundred pounds that I lent this young spendthrift baronet; and he has already renewed six times. Well—let him give another bill—for five hundred and fifty, mind—don’t forget to tack on the fifty, Green. His uncle will pay the debt eventually—it is all safe. Go on.”

“Thompson, sir, the defendant in Jones’s case, has let judgment go by default,” continued Mr. Green: “he says that he would do anything rather than run up expenses; and he has been here this morning to beg and implore that time may be granted. His wife has just been confined, and his eldest child is at the point of death. The debt is a hundred and eleven pounds with costs—and he proposes to pay it at five pounds a week.”

“No such thing!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, almost savagely. “Let him go to prison! He will be writing imploring letters, and his father-in-law will call to make terms. Those letters and visits, Green, will be another six or seven pounds in my pocket: and then we will let him out on his warrant-of-attorney to pay the five pounds a-week. It is always better to send a man in his case to prison first, although you mean all the time to accede to his proposal in the long run. He is an industrious, enterprising fellow—and his father-in-law is a highly respectable man. So he will not knock up for this little affair. Go on.”

“Beale’s wife called last evening, sir,” resumed Mr. Green, “and says that her husband is lying in a sad state in the infirmary at Whitecross-street prison. She and her children are starving—and she begs you for the love of God to let her husband out. It is their only chance; and he will pay you when he can.”

“When he can!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, in bitter contempt. “And that will be never. I am surprised, Mr. Green, that you should have bothered me with such a trifle, instead of telling the woman at once that her husband may rot in gaol until he pays me every farthing.”

“I should not have thought of troubling you, sir, in the matter,” observed the clerk, in a tone of servile contrition; “only the woman did seem so very, very miserable—and she cried so bitterly—and she had a young child that looked half-famished in her arms——”

“And you pitied her, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, in a tone of cool irony. “You have been in my service for twelve years to some purpose.”

“Pray forgive me, sir: but—but—I happen to know that Beale’s wife and family are really starving,” said the clerk, whose heart was a trifle less hardened than that of his master.

“Let them starve!” rejoined the latter, with an air of brutal indifference. “Now, what have you next upon your list?”

“William Fox, the ironmonger, sir, has called a meeting of his creditors,” resumed Mr. Green, now regretting that he should have allowed himself to be carried away by a scintillation of humane feeling so far as to merit a rebuke at Mr. Heathcote’s hands.

“Well—I know that,” observed the lawyer. “But I never attend meetings of creditors—I never accept compositions, Mr. Green. But has the fellow been here? and what does he say?”

“It appears, sir, that he laid a full and complete account of his affairs before his creditors,” continued the clerk; “and that they were well satisfied with the statement. He showed them that his embarrassments arose from no fault of his own, but simply from the failure of a large house in Birmingham.”

“And what did he offer?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.

“He asked for two years to pay off all his liabilities,” was the answer. “He did not propose a composition, but will settle everything in full. His brother has offered to become security for him.”

“Well, he must pay me at once—within twenty-four hours—or I shall sign judgment, Green,” exclaimed the lawyer. “Or stop—it will be better to sign judgment at once, and issue execution. I shall then, get my money directly—and his other creditors may wait the two years. If he calls again to-day, tell him that I am out—and mind and have a seizure in his house by the evening.”

“It shall be done, sir,” said the head clerk: then, again referring to the diary, he proceeded thus:—“You remember that affair of Williamson, sir? He called and left seventy-two pounds the other evening to take up his bill, which had been sent back; and as you were out at the time, he could not have the bill delivered over to him. I offered him a receipt for the money: but he left it without taking any acknowledgment—saying, ‘Oh! I can trust to your honour,’—or words to that effect. Well, sir, he has called two or three times since for the bill——”

“Do the other clerks know that he paid the money?” demanded Mr. Heathcote, fixing his keen eyes significantly upon Green.

“No, sir,” was the answer, accompanied by a look of intelligence showing that the man comprehended his master’s meaning. “They were all gone—and I was just on the point of leaving likewise when Williamson called.”

“Then issue a writ this very day for the recovery of the amount,” said the lawyer. “Of course, Green, you will know nothing at all about having received the money from him?”

“Of course not, sir,” replied the clerk.

“And should he go to trial, you will swear that he never paid you?” continued the lawyer, speaking with the imperious authority of a man who knew that the other was in his power.

“It would not be the first time, sir, that I have perjured——”

“Well—well!” cried Mr. Heathcote, hastily; for though he did not mind suborning his clerk to commit a crime, yet he did not like to have the deed designated in plain terms and exhibited to his eyes in all its dreadful nakedness and reality. “Let this be done, Green: and take a guinea for yourself—charging it in the office-expenses of the week. You are a faithful servant—and I am pleased with you,” he added, in a patronising manner.

“I am truly grateful, sir, for your kindness and for your good opinion,” said the clerk, with a low bow: but at the same time he was compelled to stifle the sigh that rose to his very lips at the idea of being so dependent upon his master, and so enthralled by circumstances as to be compelled to submit to be made the tool—the base instrument—the despicable agent of that master’s hidden villany.

“Have you anything more in the diary?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.

“Nothing, sir,” responded the clerk: “unless it be that the two doctors are to call to-day for the second halves of the reward promised them for signing the certificate.”

“Good! pay them each immediately, the affair having been attended with complete success,” said the lawyer: “and indeed, you may give them each five guineas beyond the sum originally promised.”

“It shall be done, sir,” returned Mr. Green. “Have you any farther commands?”

“I am at a loss how to proceed with respect to that woman,” said Mr. Heathcote, his brows lowering in token of vexation, while at the same time he ran his skinny fingers through his wiry hair.

“You mean Mrs. Sefton, sir?” said the clerk.

“Mrs. Sefton—as she calls herself,” observed Mr. Heathcote, with a grim smile. “Ah! little thought Gilbert,” he continued in a musing, but also triumphant tone, “that for years past I have known all and everything connected with him! Little did he imagine that his liaison—his amour with that lady was no secret to me, secure and safe as he deemed it to be from all the world! But what am I do with regard to her, Green?” he demanded, as he abruptly turned towards the clerk, who stood like a menial in his presence.

“Your wisdom, sir, can doubtless suggest some plan,” was the sycophantic reply. “Do you imagine that she is likely to be dangerous?”

“She loves my brother, Green,” answered the lawyer: “she entertains for him that passion which never has warmed my breast—and never shall,” he continued, in a contemptuous tone. “Oh! how I hate the very name of love! It is a sickly sentimentalism—a maudlin feeling, which is derogatory to the character of a man of the world, but which makes a woman dangerous indeed, when the object of her passion is outraged or wronged. Yes, Green—I do fear this Mrs. Sefton, as we will call her—since thus she chooses to denominate herself: I do consider her to be dangerous—and I know that she is of an intrepid, resolute character. She will leave no stone unturned to have what she will call justice done towards my brother; and by some means must I take from her the power of doing me an injury.”

“And those means, sir?” asked the clerk, timidly.

“I have thought of many plans, Green,” replied Mr. Heathcote: “but not one appears to be sufficiently decisive to meet the exigencies of the case. Could I only get her out of the country, or else have her locked up in some place of security, for a few weeks, I should in that interval have all my schemes so effectually carried out, as to be able to defy not only that woman, but likewise all the world.”

“And is it so very difficult, sir, to encompass one or the other of the two aims you have mentioned?” inquired Green.

“On what pretence can I imprison her?” demanded Mr. Heathcote, impatiently. “But I might be able to induce her to quit the country,” he added, in a more measured tone, and with a steadfast look at his clerk—a look which seemed to say, “Can I trust you?”

“Is there any way, sir, wherein my humble services will avail?” asked the man, thoroughly understanding the intent of that look.

“Yes—on you must I rely in this matter,” said the lawyer, after a few minutes’ deep cogitation. “Mr. Green,” continued Heathcote, again fixing on him his small, malignant, soul-reading eyes, “you will excuse me for a moment if I recall the past to your recollection——”

“But why, sir—why!” exclaimed the clerk, his pale face suddenly becoming paler still and his limbs trembling convulsively.

“Because I choose,” returned his master, brutally: “because it suits my present purpose to remind you how much you are in my power.”

The wretched clerk moaned audibly, but uttered not another word.

“Twelve years ago, Mr. Green,” resumed Heathcote, with deep emphasis and in a measured tone, as if he were determined that not a syllable which he intended to say should be lost on the unhappy man who was thus undergoing a painful—agonising infliction,—“twelve years ago, Mr. Green, you were an attorney in practice for yourself. An accident, the particulars of which it is not necessary for me to recite, made me acquainted with a fact which placed you entirely at my mercy. You and a gentleman named Clarence Villiers had been left the joint guardians of a boy then a little more than eight years old; and a thousand pounds were invested in the funds in the name of yourself and the said Clarence Villiers. It had been agreed that you should be the acting trustee. You wanted money—you forged the name of Clarence Villiers to the necessary deed—and you sold out the thousand pounds.”

The miserable clerk groaned again, more audibly than before: but his master heeded not the intense agony his words inflicted.

“Yes—you sold out the money, and appropriated it to your purposes,” continued the remorseless attorney. “The fact came to my knowledge,—and I offered to save you, on condition that you should serve me—that you should devote yourself to me, body and soul—that you should see only with my eyes, hear only with my ears, and use your hands and your intellectual powers as I directed. I required a person of this description: I was looking out for such an one at the moment when accident thus placed you in my power. We soon came to terms. You gave up a business that was not worth retaining—and you became my head clerk. I have paid you two guineas a week with the most scrupulous regularity—and I have often made you little presents, as even this very morning have I done. But what more have I been generous enough to do for you? Why—I have regularly paid the interest of the thousand pounds for you, as if it were still in the Bank of England; and your ward suspects not that his capital is gone. Neither does your co-trustee Clarence Villiers suspect it, Mr. Green,” added Heathcote, emphatically. “But in six weeks’ time, the youth will have completed his twenty-first year; and he will apply to Mr. Villiers and yourself for his thousand pounds. Mr. Villiers will ask to accompany you to the Bank to make over the money in due form—for Mr. Villiers is an honourable man. But the money will not be there—unless I replace it for you, and thus save you from transportation for life!”

“And you have promised that you will replace it, kind sir—you have undertaken to save me from exposure, degradation, and punishment!” exclaimed the clerk, his voice and manner becoming almost wild in the earnestness of their appeal.

“Yes—and I will keep my word, Green,” responded Heathcote. “If I have now recapitulated circumstances which are necessarily so indelibly stamped upon your memory, it was merely to convince you that I have it in my power to save you from a terrible fate—or to crush you as I would a viper beneath my heel. We shall not be the worse friends because we understand our relative positions; and mark me—never, never would I place myself in the power of a man unless he were ten thousand times more entangled in my meshes than I could possibly be in his.”

“Surely—surely, sir, you do not suspect my fidelity?” said the clerk, the workings of whose pale countenance were dreadful to behold; “surely you do not think that I should be ungrateful or mad enough to breathe a word to your prejudice? If you have done much for me, sir, I have served you faithfully; and this I can assert without fear of contradiction. I am ever at your disposal—ever in readiness to obey your commands, without questioning their propriety.”

“All this I know, my friend,” said Heathcote, his brows now elevating themselves with triumph; for he saw that the trembling wretch before him was docile, pliant, and obedient as a deaf and dumb slave following the signals made by an oriental despot: “all this I know,” repeated the lawyer;—“but there is no harm in occasionally setting forth the grounds on which our connexion is based. This being accomplished in the present instance, we may at once revert to the business that we have now in hand.”

“Relative to Mrs. Sefton, sir?” remarked Green, anxious to convince his master that he was mindful of the grave and important interests now involved in connexion with that lady’s name.

“Yes—relative to Mrs. Sefton,” said Heathcote. “I have already observed that there are only two ways of dealing with her: either to lock her up in a place of security for a time, or to get her out of the country. The latter alternative must be adopted; and it is for you to play a part which, if ingeniously enacted, cannot fail of success.”

Mr. Green placed himself in an attitude of deep attention—for all this while, as the reader will observe, he had remained standing, his master never desiring him to be seated, however long their conference might last.

“The impatience of this Mrs. Sefton is doubtless growing intolerable,” continued the lawyer: “a week has now passed since Sir Gilbert disappeared—and she will speedily initiate active measures to discover what has become of him. There is not therefore another moment to lose;—and her own affection shall be made the means of which we will avail ourselves in order to baffle and defeat her. Do you repair at once to Kentish Town and seek an interview with her. She does not know you—she never saw you: she will suspect nothing—but believe everything. You will tell her that you have just arrived from Liverpool—that you are an intimate friend of Sir Gilbert—and that he has embarked for America, in consequence of serious pecuniary embarrassments. You must assure her that those embarrassments came on him so suddenly, menacing his person with arrest—and that he was so bewildered and excited by the danger and disgrace which thus threatened him, that he fled without having time to communicate even with her. You will then go on to say that he sent you up to London to break these news to her—to supply her with money—and to implore her to hasten after Sir Gilbert, whom she will join at New York. All this must you tell her;—and if you play your part properly, it is, as I have already observed, certain to experience success.”

“You may rely upon me, sir,” said the clerk.

“All your presence of mind—all your readiness of invention—all your impudence, will be requisite in the matter,” continued Heathcote: “for Mrs. Sefton is an intelligent woman—and the least hesitation in giving a reply to any of her questions, will assuredly awaken her suspicions, and spoil all. But if you be wary and cautious, you must come off triumphant. Believing that her connexion with Sir Gilbert is a profound secret, she will at once receive you as a friend of her lover’s, from the mere fact of your knowledge of their liaison: because she will suppose that you could not have become aware of it, unless he had in reality made you his confident. Then, again, the circumstance of your being the bearer of fifty guineas—which I will presently give you—as the means to defray the expenses of her voyage to New York, will confirm all you have stated and give a complete colouring to all your representations. Do you thoroughly understand me, Green?—and do you consider yourself competent to undertake this mission?—for I can assure you that it is of the highest importance for me to remove that dangerous woman from England for a few weeks.”

“I do not hesitate to charge myself with the enterprise, sir,” said Green, meekly,—“delicate though its management may be;—and, should it fail, it will be through no fault on my part.”

“Then it will not fail, sir!” cried Mr. Heathcote, emphatically. “And now I will give you the money necessary for your purpose—and you must accompany the lady to Liverpool, remember. If a packet be not about to start immediately, then lodge her at an hotel, alleging that you are an unmarried man as an apology for not inviting her to stay at your own house until her departure. You can put up at another hotel. But all these minor details I leave to your judgment and discretion.”

Mr. Heathcote now placed a quantity of notes and some gold in the hands of his clerk, who forthwith took leave of his wily master: ere he departed, however, he stopped in the outer office to issue instructions relative to the various matters entered in the diary. At length he was ready to issue forth on the mission entrusted to him; but at that moment a cab stopped at the door, and a tall, handsome, well-dressed gentleman alighted.

Entering the clerk’s office, the visitor inquired if Mr. Heathcote was at home.

“What name shall I say, sir?” asked Green.

“That is of no consequence,” was the hasty reply: “my business is of great importance.”

“Walk in, then, if you please, sir,” said Green: and, having shown the visitor into the lawyer’s private apartment, the head clerk was at length enabled to hurry away to his own lodgings, in order to make some change in his toilette ere he proceeded to Kentish Town.