Few words passed between Mr. and Mrs. Wilkinson, but the manner of each was subdued, gentle, and even affectionate.  They parted, after the morning meal, in silence; Wilkinson to repair to his place of business, his wife to busy herself in household duties, and await with trembling anxiety the return of her husband at the regular dinner hour.

This time, Wilkinson did not, as usual, drop in at a certain drinking-house that was in his way, but kept on direct to his store.  The reason of this omission of his habitual glass of brandy was not, we are compelled to say, from a purpose in his mind to abandon the dangerous practice, but to avoid encountering the man Carlton, who might happen to be there.  But he was not to keep clear of him in this way.  Oh, no.  Carlton held his due-bills for “debts of honour,” calling for various sums, amounting in all, as we have before said, to about two thousand dollars, and he was not a person at all likely to forget this fact.  Of this Wilkinson was made sensible, about an hour after appearing at his store.  He was at his desk musing over certain results figured out on a sheet of paper that lay before him, and which had reference to payments to be made during the next three or four weeks, when he heard his name mentioned, and, turning, saw a stranger addressing one of his clerks, who had just pointed to where he was sitting.  The man, with his unpleasant eyes fixed upon Wilkinson, came, with firm yet deliberate steps, back to his desk.

“Mr. Wilkinson, I believe?” said he.

“That is my name.”  Wilkinson tried to feel self-possessed and indifferent.  But that was impossible, for he had an instinctive knowledge of the purport of the visit.

The man thrust his hand into a deep inside pocket, and abstracted therefrom a huge pocket-book.  He did not search long in the compartments of this for what he wanted, but drew directly therefrom sundry small, variously shaped pieces of paper, much blotted and scrawled over in a hurried hand.  Each of these bore the signature of Wilkinson, and words declaring himself indebted in a certain sum to Andrew Carlton.

“I am desired to collect these,” said the man coldly.

Much as Wilkinson had thought, in anticipation of this particular crisis, he was yet undecided as to what he should do.  He had been made the victim of a specious scoundrel—­a wolf who had come to him in sheep’s clothing.  Running back his thoughts, as distinctly as it was possible for him to do, to the occurrences of the previous night, he remembered much that fully satisfied him that Carlton had played against him most unfairly; he not only induced him to drink until his mind was confused, but had taken advantage of this confused state, to cheat in the grossest manner.  Some moments passed ere he replied to the application; then he said—­

“I’m not prepared to do any thing with this matter just now.”

“My directions are to collect these bills,” was the simple reply, made in a tone that expressed even more than the words.