uld prove him to be insolvent. But he did not know what his
creditors would immediately have the power of doing. That the fact of
the bill having been dishonoured would reach the Board under which
he served,--and, therefore, also the fact that he had had recourse
to such bill transactions,--this alone was enough to fill him with
dismay. In early life he had carried his head so high, he had been so
much more than a mere Government clerk, that the idea of the coming
disgrace almost killed him. Would it not be well that he should put
an end to himself, and thus escape? What was there in the world now
for which it was worth his while to live? Lily, whom he had once
gained, and by that gain had placed himself high in all hopes of
happiness and riches,--whom he had thrown away from him, and who had
again seemed to be almost within his reach,--Lily had so refused him
that he knew not how to approach her with a further prayer. And, had
she not refused him, how could he have told her of his load of debt?
As he stood at the corner where the lane runs into Lombard Street, he
came for a while to think almost more of Lily than of his rejected
bill. Then, as he thought of both his misfortunes together, he asked
himself whether a pistol would not conveniently put an end to them
together.

At that moment a loud, harsh voice greeted his ear. "Hallo, Crosbie,
what brings you so far east? One does not often see you in the City."
It was the voice of Sir Raffle Buffle, which in former days had been
very odious to Crosbie's ears;--for Sir Raffle Buffle had once been
the presiding genius of the office to which Crosbie still belonged.

"No, indeed, not very often," said Crosbie, smiling. Who can tell,
who has not felt it, the pain that goes to the forcing of such
smiles? But Sir Raffle was not an acutely observant person, and did
not see that anything was wrong.

"I suppose you're doing a little business?" said Sir Raffle. "If a
man has kept a trifle of money by him, this certainly is the time for
turning it. You have always been wide awake about such things."

"No, indeed," said Crosbie. If he could only make up his mind that he
would shoot himself, would it not be a pleasant thing to inflict some
condign punishment on this odious man before he left the world? But
Crosbie knew that he was not going to shoot himself, and he knew also
that he had no power of inflicting condign punishment on Sir Raffle
Buffle. He could only hate the man, and