"Mr. Stone, from what I hear of his affairs, need not bother himself. He's so safely in the hands of Bulfinch and his handsome sons that he has no more chance of escape, Mr. Stroude, than the north star has of falling out of the sky." Mr. Stroude swore eloquently. "Bulfinch is a villain," announced he. "And I wish his sons were at the devil!" "There are a great many who are equally pious with regard to them," said Mr. Sparhawk, "but at the same time the stairs leading to their den are wearing thinner and thinner under the tread of these same gentlemen's feet." "I have merchandise to the value of eight thousand dollars," protested Mr. Stroude gloomily, "and with it I have a good name in business. But can I borrow two thousand dollars in a reputable way? I can't! Will any institution in the city take my note on any terms that correspond with my position as a merchant? They will not! And why?" demanded Mr. Stroude of the world, as he swept it with his eye. "Why not? It is because the law permits them but a fair interest, but if they can force me to go to their secret co-worker, Bulfinch, they can make me pay as many times that as my necessity compels." "Bulfinch is, I know, much favored among some financial people," admitted Mr. Sparhawk, with the perky manner of a small bird. "He has at command any sum that can be reasonably asked of him. And, for an accommodation like that, he feels bound to make his demands." "But my heart's blood!" said Mr. Stroude, his nose going a very deep blue, indeed. "Must he have that?" "Perhaps," soothed Mr. Sparhawk, "he will not go so far. At any rate, here we are, and you shall soon know." Off Dock, at Third Street, was a group of old buildings, none in very good repair; through these a brick-paved thoroughfare cut its way. This was Harmony Court, and here a second group of buildings crouched behind the first, as though to avoid the full glare of day. There were a number of shabby tin signs upon a shutter, and perhaps the shabbiest of all bore the inscription: "Amos Bulfinch, Broker." "So it's here our gentleman keeps himself," grumbled Mr. Stroude. "I knew it was in this neighborhood, but I didn't think it would give quite so dirty a promise." Mr. Sparhawk led the way into a dim passage which smelt musty, and the walls of which were greasy with the touch of generations. When the perky gentleman said the steps leading to the place of business of Amos Bulfinch had been thinned by the tread of his patrons, he spoke the truth; for thin they were, and very dirty as well. A dim oil lamp, on a landing, lighted the way; and at the top of the steps was a door upon which the money-lender's name occurred once more. They went in. "Good morning," said Mr. Sparhawk, to a gangling-looking man who sat at a table upon which was spread a quantity of much-handled papers. "This is Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch, son of Amos," to Stroude. "Yes, I know," said Stroude. "Glad to see you."