“A forgery,” I repeated as distinctly as possible.

Mr. Jones hastily, and with broken ejaculations, called for the cash-box.  With trembling hands he took out the bill, and followed my finger with eager, watchful eyes, as I pointed out the proofs of my assertion.  A long pause was broken by my mocking laugh; for, at the moment, my sense of politeness could not restrain my satisfaction at the signal defeat which had attended the first experiment of these highly respectable gentlemen in the science of usury.

The partners did not have recourse to the police.  They did not propose a consultation with either Mr. Forrester or Mr. Field; but they took certain steps, under my recommendation; the result of which was that at an early day, an aunt of the Honorable Miss Snape was driven, to save so near a connection from transportation, to sell out some fourteen hundred pounds of stock, and all the forgeries were taken up.

One would have thought that the lady who had thus so narrowly escaped, had had enough—­but forgery, like opium-eating, is one of those charming vices which is never abandoned, when once adopted.  The forger enjoys not only the pleasure of obtaining money so easily, but the triumph of befooling sharp men of the world.  Dexterous penmanship is a source of the same sort of pride as that which animates the skillful rifleman, the practiced duellist, or well-trained billiard-player.  With a clean Gillott he fetches down a capitalist, at three or six months, for a cool hundred or a round thousand; just as a Scrope drops over a stag at ten, or a Gordon Cumming a monstrous male elephant at a hundred paces.

As I before observed, my connection especially lies among the improvident—­among those who will be ruined—­who are being ruined—­and who have been ruined.  To the last class belongs Francis Fisherton, once a gentleman, now without a shilling or a principle; but rich in mother-wit—­in fact, a farceur, after Paul de Kock’s own heart.  Having in by-gone days been one of my willing victims, he occasionally finds pleasure and profit in guiding others through the gate he frequented, as long as able to pay the tolls.  In truth, he is what is called a “discount agent.”

One day I received a note from him, to say that he would call on me at three o’clock the next day to introduce a lady of family, who wanted a bill “done” for one hundred pounds.  So ordinary a transaction merely needed a memorandum in my diary, “Tuesday, 3 p.m.; F.F., L100 Bill.”  The hour came and passed; but no Frank, which was strange—­because every one must have observed, that, however dilatory people are in paying, they are wonderfully punctual when they expect to receive money.

At five o’clock, in rushed my Jackall.  His story, disentangled from oaths and ejaculations, amounted to this:—­In answer to one of the advertisements he occasionally addresses “To the Embarrassed,” in the columns of the “Times,” he received a note from a lady, who said she was anxious to get a “bill done”—­the acceptance of a well-known man of rank and fashion.  A correspondence was opened, and an appointment made.  At the hour fixed, neatly shaved, brushed, gloved, booted—­the revival, in short, of that high-bred Frank Fisherton who was so famous