for cent.? The figure proved the loyalty of
Rodgerson--even Morris admitted that. But it proved unfortunately
something else--the eagerness of Moss. The claim must have been wanted
instantly, for that day, for that morning even. Why? The mystery of Moss
promised to be a fit pendant to the mystery of Pitman.

"And just when all was looking well too!" cried Morris, smiting his hand
upon the desk. And almost at the same moment Mr. Moss was announced.

Mr. Moss was a radiant Hebrew, brutally handsome, and offensively
polite. He was acting, it appeared, for a third party; he understood
nothing of the circumstances; his client desired to have his position
regularised; but he would accept an antedated cheque--antedated by two
months, if Mr. Finsbury chose.

"But I don't understand this," said Morris. "What made you pay cent. per
cent. for it to-day?"

Mr. Moss had no idea; only his orders.

"The whole thing is thoroughly irregular," said Morris. "It is not the
custom of the trade to settle at this time of the year. What are your
instructions if I refuse?"

"I am to see Mr. Joseph Finsbury, the head of the firm," said Mr. Moss.
"I was directed to insist on that; it was implied you had no status
here--the expressions are not mine."

"You cannot see Mr. Joseph; he is unwell," said Morris.

"In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer. Let me
see," said Mr. Moss, opening a pocket-book with, perhaps, suspicious
care, at the right place--"Yes--of Mr. Michael Finsbury. A relation,
perhaps? In that case, I presume, the matter will be pleasantly
arranged."

To pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris. He struck his
colours. A cheque at two months was nothing, after all. In two months he
would probably be dead, or in a gaol at any rate. He bade the manager
give Mr. Moss a chair and the paper. "I'm going over to get a cheque
signed by Mr. Finsbury," said he, "who is lying ill at John Street."

A cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital!
He counted the cost; when he was done with Mr. Moss he would be left
with twelvepence-halfpenny in the world. What was even worse, he had now
been forced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury. "No use for poor Johnny
in Hampshire now," he reflected. "And how the farce is to be kept up
completely passes me. At Browndean it was just possible; in Bloomsbury
it seems beyond human ingenuity--though I suppose it's what Michael
does. But the