‘But I don’t understand this,’ said Morris.  ’What made you pay cent. per cent. for it today?’

Mr Moss had no idea; only his orders.

‘The whole thing is thoroughly irregular,’ said Morris.  ’It is not the custom of the trade to settle at this time of the year.  What are your instructions if I refuse?’

‘I am to see Mr Joseph Finsbury, the head of the firm,’ said Mr Moss.  ’I was directed to insist on that; it was implied you had no status here—­the expressions are not mine.’

‘You cannot see Mr Joseph; he is unwell,’ said Morris.

’In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer.  Let me see,’ said Mr Moss, opening a pocket-book with, perhaps, suspicious care, at the right place—­’Yes—­of Mr Michael Finsbury.  A relation, perhaps?  In that case, I presume, the matter will be pleasantly arranged.’

To pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris.  He struck his colours.  A cheque at two months was nothing, after all.  In two months he would probably be dead, or in a gaol at any rate.  He bade the manager give Mr Moss a chair and the paper.  ’I’m going over to get a cheque signed by Mr Finsbury,’ said he, ‘who is lying ill at John Street.’

A cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital!  He counted the cost; when he was done with Mr Moss he would be left with twelvepence-halfpenny in the world.  What was even worse, he had now been forced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury.  ’No use for poor Johnny in Hampshire now,’ he reflected.  ’And how the farce is to be kept up completely passes me.  At Browndean it was just possible; in Bloomsbury it seems beyond human ingenuity—­though I suppose it’s what Michael does.  But then he has accomplices—­that Scotsman and the whole gang.  Ah, if I had accomplices!’

Necessity is the mother of the arts.  Under a spur so immediate, Morris surprised himself by the neatness and dispatch of his new forgery, and within three-fourths of an hour had handed it to Mr Moss.

‘That is very satisfactory,’ observed that gentleman, rising.  ’I was to tell you it will not be presented, but you had better take care.’

The room swam round Morris.  ‘What—­what’s that?’ he cried, grasping the table.  He was miserably conscious the next moment of his shrill tongue and ashen face.  ’What do you mean—­it will not be presented?  Why am I to take care?  What is all this mummery?’

‘I have no idea, Mr Finsbury,’ replied the smiling Hebrew.  ’It was a message I was to deliver.  The expressions were put into my mouth.’

‘What is your client’s name?’ asked Morris.

‘That is a secret for the moment,’ answered Mr Moss.  Morris bent toward him.  ‘It’s not the bank?’ he asked hoarsely.

‘I have no authority to say more, Mr Finsbury,’ returned Mr Moss.  ’I will wish you a good morning, if you please.’

‘Wish me a good morning!’ thought Morris; and the next moment, seizing his hat, he fled from his place of business like a madman.  Three streets away he stopped and groaned.  ’Lord!  I should have borrowed from the manager!’ he cried.  ’But it’s too late now; it would look dicky to go back; I’m penniless—­simply penniless—­like the unemployed.’