me special
occasions, on which it was thought expedient that the commercial
world should be made to understand that Mr. Augustus Musselboro had
an individual existence of his own, did that gentleman really seat
himself in the dark closet. Mr. Dobbs Broughton, had he been asked
what was his trade, would have said that he was a stockbroker; and he
would have answered truly, for he was a stockbroker. A man may be a
stockbroker though he never sells any stock; as he may be a barrister
though he has no practice at the bar. I do not say that Mr. Broughton
never sold any stock; but the buying and selling of stock for other
people was certainly not his chief business. And had Mr. Musselboro
been asked what was his trade, he would have probably given an
evasive answer. At any rate in the City, and among people who
understood City matters, he would not have said that he was a
stockbroker. Both Mr. Broughton and Mr. Musselboro bought and sold
a good deal, but it was chiefly on account. The shares which were
bought and sold very generally did not pass from hand to hand;
but the difference in the price of the shares did do so. And then
they had another little business between them. They lent money on
interest. And in this business there was a third partner, whose name
did not appear on the dirty door-post. That third partner was Mrs
Van Siever, the mother of Clara Van Siever whom Mr. Conway Dalrymple
intended to portray as Jael driving a nail into Sisera's head.

On a certain morning Mr. Broughton and Mr. Musselboro were sitting
together in the office which has been described. They were in Mr
Broughton's room, and occupied each arm-chair on the different sides
of the fire. Mr. Musselboro was sitting close to the table, on which a
ledger was open before him, and he had a pen and ink before him, as
though he had been at work. Dobbs Broughton had a small betting-book
in his hand, and was seated with his feet up against the side of the
fireplace. Both men wore their hats, and the aspect of the room was
not the aspect of a place of business. They had been silent for some
minutes when Broughton took his cigar-case out of his pocket, and
nibbled off the end of a cigar, preparatory to lighting it.

"You had better not smoke here this morning, Dobbs," said Musselboro.

"Why shouldn't I smoke in my own room?"

"Because she'll be here just now."

"What do I care? If you think I'm going to be afraid of Mother Van,
you're mistaken. Let com