'You are a little chafed, but I can make allowance for that, and am,
fortunately, myself in the very best of tempers. Now, let us see how
circumstances stand. A day or two ago, I mentioned to you, my dear
fellow, that I thought I had discovered--'

'Will you hold your tongue?' said Jonas, looking fiercely round, and
glancing at the door.

'Well, well!' said Montague. 'Judicious! Quite correct! My discoveries
being published, would be like many other men's discoveries in this
honest world; of no further use to me. You see, Chuzzlewit, how
ingenuous and frank I am in showing you the weakness of my own position!
To return. I make, or think I make, a certain discovery which I take
an early opportunity of mentioning in your ear, in that spirit of
confidence which I really hoped did prevail between us, and was
reciprocated by you. Perhaps there is something in it; perhaps there is
nothing. I have my knowledge and opinion on the subject. You have yours.
We will not discuss the question. But, my good fellow, you have been
weak; what I wish to point out to you is, that you have been weak. I may
desire to turn this little incident to my account (indeed, I do--I'll
not deny it), but my account does not lie in probing it, or using it
against you.'

'What do you call using it against me?' asked Jonas, who had not yet
changed his attitude.

'Oh!' said Montague, with a laugh. 'We'll not enter into that.'

'Using it to make a beggar of me. Is that the use you mean?'

'No.'

'Ecod,' muttered Jonas, bitterly. 'That's the use in which your account
DOES lie. You speak the truth there.'

'I wish you to venture (it's a very safe venture) a little more with
us, certainly, and to keep quiet,' said Montague. 'You promised me you
would; and you must. I say it plainly, Chuzzlewit, you MUST. Reason the
matter. If you don't, my secret is worthless to me: and being so, it
may as well become the public property as mine; better, for I shall
gain some credit, bringing it to light. I want you, besides, to act as a
decoy in a case I have already told you of. You don't mind that, I know.
You care nothing for the man (you care nothing for any man; you are
too sharp; so am I, I hope); and could bear any loss of his with
pious fortitude. Ha, ha, ha! You have tried to escape from the first
consequence. You cannot escape it, I assure you. I have shown you that
to-day. Now, I am not a moral man, you know. I am not the least in the
world affected by an