The most remarkable circumstance in that meeting of the partners, which ended in Brammel’s first visit to London, was the behaviour of our very dear friend and ally—­the volatile Planner—­volatile, alas! no longer.  His best friend would not have recognized him on that deeply interesting occasion.  He was a subdued, a shaken man.  Every drop of his brave spirit had been squeezed out of him, and he stood the mere pulp and rind of his former self.  He who, for years, had been accustomed to look at men, not only in the face, but very impertinently over their heads, could not drag his shambling vision now higher than men’s shoe-strings.  His eye, his heart, his soul was on the ground.  He was disappointed, crushed.  Not a syllable did he utter; not a single word of remonstrance and advice did he presume to offer in the presence of his associates.  He had a sense of guilt, and men so situated are sometimes tongue-tied.  He had, in truth, a great deal to answer for, and enough to make a livelier man than he dissatisfied and wretched.  Every farthing which had passed from the bank to the Pantamorphica Association was irrecoverably gone.  The Association itself was in the same condition—­gone irrecoverably likewise.  Nothing remained of that once beautiful and promising vision, but some hundred acres of valueless land, a half-finished and straggling brick wall, falling rapidly to decay, the foundations of a theatre, and the rudiments of a temple dedicated to Apollo.  Planner had gazed upon the scene once, when dismal rain was pouring down upon the ruins, and he burst into bitter tears, and sobbed like a child at the annihilation of his hopes.  He had not courage to look a second time upon that desolation, and yet he found courage to turn away from it, and to do a thing more desperate.  Ashamed to be beaten, afraid to meet the just rebuke of Allcraft, he flung himself recklessly into the hands of a small band of needy speculators, and secretly engaged in schemes that promised restitution of the wealth he had expended, or make his ruin perfect and complete.  One adventure after another failed, cutting the thread of his career shorter every instant, and rendering him more hot-brained and impatient.  He doubled and trebled his risks, and did the like, as may be guessed, to his anxieties and failures.  He lived in a perpetual fear and danger of discovery; and discovery now was but another name, for poison—­prison—­death.  Here was enough, and more than enough, to extinguish every spark of joy in the bosom of Mr Planner, and to account for his despondency and settled gloom.  And yet Planner, in this, his darkest hour, was nearer to deliverance and perfect peace, than at any previous period of his history.  Planner was essentially “a lucky dog.”  Had he fallen from a house-top, he would have reached terra firma on his feet.  Had he been conducted to the gallows, according to his desserts, the noose would have slipped, and his life would certainly have been spared.