"Then prove it," cried Richard; "but now--there--there--there!" thrusting one hand into his breast, "you had better go." "I am going, Richard," said Jared, meekly, as he gazed round at the luxurious office--at everything, in fact, but his brother--till the sharp "ting-ting" of a table-gong aroused him. "God forgive you, Dick!" he murmured; "we may never meet again." "Show this person out," said Richard, harshly, as the clerk appeared; and then, throwing himself back in his chair, he made a violent rustle as he took up the _Times_. This was the last cruel stab--one that brought forth a mild reproachful, even sorrowful look, from Jared--a look that made Richard wince more than would the most bitter scowl. Then the broken man walked slowly, and with bent head, till his hand could be laid upon the door-post, when turning to look upon his prosperous brother for the last time in his life, he took in the sleek portly form, the heavy insolent countenance; and then, in spite of the clerk's impatient, "This way, sir!" he said, in a low clear voice-- "God above, who knows my innocence, forgive you, Dick, even as I do!" The heavy door closed, and crossing the office, Jared stood once more in the fog--mental and real--till, crossing the road, he turned for Duplex Street; while, though glad at heart to have rid himself of so troublesome an incubus as a poor relative accused of theft, there was a strange chill fell upon Richard Pellet. It might only have been the dread of another visitor whom he might receive, but he blamed the fog and denounced it heartily, but without effect, for it still hung gloomily over Austin Friars. Volume 2, Chapter XXII. FRIENDS ON FAILINGS. "I'm getting soft and stupid and blue-moulded," said Mr Timson, as he stood warming himself with his hands under his coat, and twitching them tail-fashion before the fire; "but I've got it this time, and no mistake." "Got what?" said the vicar, as he sat looking at the golden caverns amongst the coals. "Got what! Why, the right man--down upon him regularly." "Do not, pray, say any more, Timson?" said the vicar, sadly. "But I will," said Timson; "and how it was that we never thought of him before's a wonder to me. 'Tain't Pellet, but that little French fiddler that's so often with him. My word, sir, if ever there was `thief' written in any man's countenance, it's there. What business has he in our church? Why, the scoundrel is a follower of the scarlet woman, and sits on seven hills when he's at home, I'll be bound; and that's why he chose Decadia to live in." "Tut, tut, tut!" ejaculated the vicar. "I don't care; it's a fact," said Timson. "That fellow would light the fires in Smithfield again, as soon as look at you; he ought never to have been admitted into our church. Why, sir, he's one of those scoundrels who would think it a meritorious act to rob our poor-boxes, and go and get absolution for _it_ directly."