“You don’t mean—­” Mr. Jobling begins.

“I mean,” returns Mr. Guppy, shrugging his shoulders with becoming modesty, “that I can’t make him out.  I appeal to our mutual friend Smallweed whether he has or has not heard me remark that I can’t make him out.”

Mr. Smallweed bears the concise testimony, “A few!”

“I have seen something of the profession and something of life, Tony,” says Mr. Guppy, “and it’s seldom I can’t make a man out, more or less.  But such an old card as this, so deep, so sly, and secret (though I don’t believe he is ever sober), I never came across.  Now, he must be precious old, you know, and he has not a soul about him, and he is reported to be immensely rich; and whether he is a smuggler, or a receiver, or an unlicensed pawnbroker, or a money-lender—­all of which I have thought likely at different times—­it might pay you to knock up a sort of knowledge of him.  I don’t see why you shouldn’t go in for it, when everything else suits.”

Mr. Jobling, Mr. Guppy, and Mr. Smallweed all lean their elbows on the table and their chins upon their hands, and look at the ceiling.  After a time, they all drink, slowly lean back, put their hands in their pockets, and look at one another.

“If I had the energy I once possessed, Tony!” says Mr. Guppy with a sigh.  “But there are chords in the human mind—­”

Expressing the remainder of the desolate sentiment in rum-and-water, Mr. Guppy concludes by resigning the adventure to Tony Jobling and informing him that during the vacation and while things are slack, his purse, “as far as three or four or even five pound goes,” will be at his disposal.  “For never shall it be said,” Mr. Guppy adds with emphasis, “that William Guppy turned his back upon his friend!”

The latter part of the proposal is so directly to the purpose that Mr. Jobling says with emotion, “Guppy, my trump, your fist!” Mr. Guppy presents it, saying, “Jobling, my boy, there it is!” Mr. Jobling returns, “Guppy, we have been pals now for some years!” Mr. Guppy replies, “Jobling, we have.”

They then shake hands, and Mr. Jobling adds in a feeling manner, “Thank you, Guppy, I don’t know but what I will take another glass for old acquaintance sake.”

“Krook’s last lodger died there,” observes Mr. Guppy in an incidental way.

“Did he though!” says Mr. Jobling.

“There was a verdict.  Accidental death.  You don’t mind that?”

“No,” says Mr. Jobling, “I don’t mind it; but he might as well have died somewhere else.  It’s devilish odd that he need go and die at my place!” Mr. Jobling quite resents this liberty, several times returning to it with such remarks as, “There are places enough to die in, I should think!” or, “He wouldn’t have liked my dying at his place, I dare say!”

However, the compact being virtually made, Mr. Guppy proposes to dispatch the trusty Smallweed to ascertain if Mr. Krook is at home, as in that case they may complete the negotiation without delay.  Mr. Jobling approving, Smallweed puts himself under the tall hat and conveys it out of the dining-rooms in the Guppy manner.  He soon returns with the intelligence that Mr. Krook is at home and that he has seen him through the shop-door, sitting in the back premises, sleeping “like one o’clock.”