d man patted Mrs Lupin's hand between his own,
as if he would have added 'think of this, my good woman!' and walked
away in a sort of ecstasy or rapture, with his hat under his arm.

Jonas sat in the attitude in which Mr Pecksniff had left him, gazing
moodily at his friend; who, surrounded by a heap of documents, was
writing something on an oblong slip of paper.

'You mean to wait at Salisbury over the day after to-morrow, do you,
then?' said Jonas.

'You heard our appointment,' returned Montague, without raising his
eyes. 'In any case I should have waited to see after the boy.'

They appeared to have changed places again; Montague being in high
spirits; Jonas gloomy and lowering.

'You don't want me, I suppose?' said Jonas.

'I want you to put your name here,' he returned, glancing at him with a
smile, 'as soon as I have filled up the stamp. I may as well have your
note of hand for that extra capital. That's all I want. If you wish
to go home, I can manage Mr Pecksniff now, alone. There is a perfect
understanding between us.'

Jonas sat scowling at him as he wrote, in silence. When he had
finished his writing, and had dried it on the blotting paper in his
travelling-desk; he looked up, and tossed the pen towards him.

'What, not a day's grace, not a day's trust, eh?' said Jonas bitterly.
'Not after the pains I have taken with to-night's work?'

'To night's work was a part of our bargain,' replied Montague; 'and so
was this.'

'You drive a hard bargain,' said Jonas, advancing to the table. 'You
know best. Give it here!'

Montague gave him the paper. After pausing as if he could not make up
his mind to put his name to it, Jonas dipped his pen hastily in the
nearest inkstand, and began to write. But he had scarcely marked the
paper when he started back, in a panic.

'Why, what the devil's this?' he said. 'It's bloody!'

He had dipped the pen, as another moment showed, into red ink. But he
attached a strange degree of importance to the mistake. He asked how it
had come there, who had brought it, why it had been brought; and looked
at Montague, at first, as if he thought he had put a trick upon him.
Even when he used a different pen, and the right ink, he made some
scratches on another paper first, as half believing they would turn red
also.

'Black enough, this time,' he said, handing the note to Montague.
'Good-bye.'

'Going now! how do you mean to get away from here?'

'I shall cross early in the mor