re the Mayfair pet was confined. A sickly smile played
over his countenance as he beheld me when I was ushered to his private
room. The reverent gentleman was not shaved; he had partaken of
breakfast. I saw a glass which had once contained brandy on the dirty
tray whereon his meal was placed: a greasy novel from a Chancery Lane
library lay on the table: but he was at present occupied in writing one
or more of those great long letters, those laborious, ornate, eloquent
statements, those documents so profusely underlined, in which the
machinations of villains are laid bare with italic fervour; the
coldness, to use no harsher phrase, of friends on whom reliance might
have been placed; the outrageous conduct of Solomons; the astonishing
failure of Smith to pay a sum of money on which he had counted as on
the Bank of England; finally, the infallible certainty of repaying (with
what heartfelt thanks need not be said) the loan of so many pounds next
Saturday week at farthest. All this, which some readers in the course of
their experience have read no doubt in many handwritings, was duly set
forth by poor Honeyman. There was a wafer in a wine-glass on the table,
and the bearer no doubt below to carry the missive. They always sent
these letters by a messenger, who is introduced in the postscript; he is
always sitting in the hall when you get the letter, and is "a young man
waiting for an answer, please."

No one can suppose that Honeyman laid a complete statement of his
affairs before the negotiator who was charged to look into them. No
debtor does confess all his debts, but breaks them gradually to his
man of business, factor or benefactor, leading him on from surprise to
surprise; and when he is in possession of the tailor's little account,
introducing him to the bootmaker. Honeyman's schedule I felt perfectly
certain was not correct. The detainees against him were trifling. "Moss
of Wardour Street, one hundred and twenty--I believe I have paid him
thousands in this very transaction," ejaculates Honeyman. "A heartless
West End tradesman hearing of my misfortune--all these people a
linked together, my dear Pendennis, and rush like vultures upon their
prey!--Waddilove, the tailor, has another writ out for ninety-eight
pounds; a man whom I have made by my recommendations! Tobbins, the
bootmaker, his neighbour in Jermyn Street, forty-one pounds more, and
that is all--I give you my word, all. In a few months, when my pew-rents
will