Mr. Nathaniel Bulfinch smiled; his teeth were large, and there were wide spaces between them; his hands were enormous and covered with freckles; he had outstanding ears, an unruly thatch of coarse hair, and pale, watchful eyes. "What name?" asked Mr. Nathaniel, as he shuffled eagerly among the dirty documents. "Is something due? Eh?" "Not yet," said Stroude. "No, not yet." "But," insinuated Mr. Sparhawk, "Mr. Stroude is hopeful." Mr. Nathaniel laughed. "They are always that," said he. "It's surprising how much hope is brought into this place." "And very little is ever taken out again, I'll venture," mumbled Stroude, to himself. He looked about at the dirty walls, the worn furniture, the dusty files of papers hanging from hooks; the air of mean sordidness chilled him. "No," he thought, "no one ever took anything out of this place, unless it was a curse." "I do not see your brother," said Mr. Sparhawk, of Nathaniel. "Where is Rehoboam?" "He is going his rounds," said Nathaniel. "No one pays unless they're made to, and Rehoboam is apt at explaining the law. He knows its regulations very well," admiringly. "There are few solicitors who have a defter turn for it. He can tell to the breadth of a hair how much a man may delay in the matter of a debt before the prison keepers may put their hands upon him." "A pretty talent!" said Stroude. Then, in his thoughts, he added, "I wonder what length of time a man must serve as the devil's acolyte before he reaches so much wisdom as that." Sparhawk and Stroude sat down, and Nathaniel began thumbing his dirty papers with much the same enjoyment a gourmand shows in eating a dainty dish. There was a soothing voice lifted in an inner room, dimly heard, yet full of assuring sweetness. "That," whispered Sparhawk to Stroude, "is old Amos." "I know," nodded Stroude. "I've heard him before, though he's never had occasion to use his honey on me." Answering the money-lender was a quavering voice, decidedly French in accent, and pitched to a note of anxiety. "I am not known here," said the quavering voice, "except by Rufus Stevens' Sons. With them I have moneys invested. But there are reasons why I should ask no favors of them." "To get a name upon the back of a note is no favor," explained the sweet voice. "No favor at all. It is a matter of business." "There is no one but them; and to them I will not go," said the quavering voice, with a deal of native decision. "I am sorry to have intruded upon you, monsieur, and taken your time." There was a scraping of chair-legs upon the floor; then the money-lender was heard to say: "Wait! do not be in haste, Monsieur Lafargue. Let us consider. Mr. Tarrant sent you here, and Mr. Tarrant is my very good friend. I would go greatly out of my way to oblige him. Of course, to have Rufus Stevens' Sons upon your note would be desirable; but as this is an exceptional case we'll say no more about it. What sum did you say you required?"