“I hope this evening,” said Mr. Emblem.  “Indeed I am sure that it will be finished this evening.”

“If the child had a mother, or a brother, or any protectors but ourselves, my friend, we might leave her to them.  But she has nobody except you and me.  I am glad that she is not ill.”

He left Mr. Emblem, and passing through the door of communication between house and shop, went noiselessly up the stairs.

One more visitor—­unusual for so many to call on a September afternoon.  This time it was a youngish man of thirty or so, who stepped into the shop with an air of business, and, taking no notice at all of the assistant, walked swiftly into the back shop and shut the door behind him.

“I thought so,” murmured Mr. James.  “After he’s been counting up his investments, his lawyer calls.  More investments.”

Mr. David Chalker was a solicitor and, according to his friends, who were proud of him, a sharp practitioner.  He was, in fact, one of those members of the profession who, starting with no connection, have to make business for themselves.  This, in London, they do by encouraging the county court, setting neighbors by the ears, lending money in small sums, fomenting quarrels, charging commissions, and generally making themselves a blessing and a boon to the district where they reside.  But chiefly Mr. Chalker occupied himself with lending money.

“Now, Mr. Emblem,” he said, not in a menacing tone, but as one who warns; “now, Mr. Emblem.”

“Now, Mr. Chalker,” the bookseller repeated mildly.

“What are you going to do for me?”

“I got your usual notice,” the old bookseller began, hesitating, “six months ago.”

“Of course you did.  Three fifty is the amount.  Three fifty, exactly.”

“Just so.  But I am afraid I am not prepared to pay off the bill of sale.  The interest, as usual, will be ready.”

“Of course it will.  But this time the principal must be ready too.”

“Can’t you get another client to find the money?”

“No, I can’t.  Money is tight, and your security, Mr. Emblem, isn’t so good as it was.”

“The furniture is there, and so is the stock.”

“Furniture wears out; as for the stock—­who knows what that is worth?  All your books together may not be worth fifty pounds, for what I know.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“Find the money yourself.  Come, Mr. Emblem, everybody knows—­your grandson himself told me—­all the world knows—­you’ve been for years saving up for your granddaughter.  You told Joe only six months ago—­you can’t deny it—­that whatever happened to you she would be well off.”

Mr. Emblem did not deny the charge.  But he ought not to have told this to his grandson, of all people in the world.

“As for Joe,” Mr. Chalker went on, “you are going to do nothing for him.  I know that.  But is it business like, Mr. Emblem, to waste good money which you might have invested for your granddaughter?”