The Doctor sat down to write; and his strong, white fingers held the pen with unrelenting determination to be disagreeable.  His face was set like a mask, and ever and anon his blue eyes gleamed scornfully.  And this is what he said—­

“SIR—­Having enjoyed the advantage of your society, somewhat longer than I could have wished, during yesterday afternoon, I had certainly not hoped for so early a mark of your favour and interest as a letter from you of to-day’s date.  As for your formal notice to me that my drafts will not be honoured in future, I regard it as a deliberate repetition of the insulting insinuation conveyed to me by your remarks during your visit.  You are well aware that I have not drawn upon the estate in spite of your written authorisation to do so.  I consider your conduct in this matter unworthy of a person professing the law, and your impertinence is in my opinion only second to the phenomenal clumsiness you have displayed throughout.  As I fear that your ignorance of your profession may lead you into some act of folly disastrous to yourself, I will go so far as to inform you that on my return from Europe, two months hence, your proceedings as executor for the estate of the late Gustavus Lindstrand will be subjected to the severest scrutiny.  In the meantime, I desire no further communications from you.

     CLAUDIUS.”

This remarkable epistle was immediately despatched by messenger to Pine Street; and if Mr. Screw had felt himself injured before, he was on the verge of desperation when he read Claudius’s polemic.  He repeated to himself the several sentences, which seemed to breathe war and carnage in their trenchant brevity; and he thought that even if he had been guilty of any breach of trust, he could hardly have felt worse.  He ran his fingers through his thick yellow-gray hair, and hooked his legs in and out of each other as he sat, and bullied his clerks within an inch of their lives.  Then, to get consolation, he said to himself that Claudius was certainly an impostor, or he would not be so angry, or go to Europe, or refuse any more communications.  In the midst of his rage, Mr. Barker the younger opportunely appeared in the office of Messrs. Screw and Scratch, prepared to throw any amount of oil upon the flames.

“Well?” said Mr. Barker interrogatively, as he settled the flower in his gray coat, and let the paper ribband of the “ticker” run through his other hand, with its tale of the tide of stocks.  Yellow Mr. Screw shot a lurid glance from his brassy little eyes.

“You’re right, sir—­the man’s a humbug.”

“Who?” asked Barker, in well-feigned innocence.

“Claudius.  It’s my belief he’s a liar and a thief and a damned impostor, sir.  That’s my belief, sir.”  He waxed warm as he vented his anger.

“Well, I only suggested taking precautions.  I never said any of these things,” answered Barker, who had no idea of playing a prominent part in his own plot.  “Don’t give me any credit, Mr. Screw.”