“Mr. Quest?” said the old man in a high thin voice. “Ah, yes, I want to see Mr. Quest very much. Go away now, Anna, you can come back by-and-by, business before pleasure—most instructive, though, that sudden fall in American railways. But I thought it would come and I got Cossey’s clear of them,” and he sniffed with satisfaction and looked as though he would have rubbed his hands if he had not been physically incapacitated from so doing. Mr. Quest came forward to where the invalid lay. He was a gaunt old man with white hair and a pallid face, which looked almost ghastly in contrast to his black velvet skull cap. So far as Mr. Quest could see, he appeared to be almost totally paralysed, with the exception of his head, neck, and left arm, which he could still move a little. His black eyes, however, were full of life and intelligence, and roamed about the room without ceasing. “How do you do, Mr. Quest?” he said; “sorry that I can’t shake hands with you but you see I have been stricken down, though my brain is clear enough, clearer than ever it was, I think. And I ain’t going to die yet—don’t think that I am, because I ain’t. I may live two years more—the doctor says I am sure to live one at least. A lot of money can be made in a year if you keep your eyes open. Once I made a hundred and twenty thousand for Cossey’s in one year; and I may do it again before I die. I may make a lot of money yet, ah, a lot of money!” and his voice went off into a thin scream that was not pleasant to listen to. “I am sure I hope you will, sir,” said Mr. Quest politely. “Thank you; take that for good luck, you know. Well, well, Mr. Quest, things haven’t done so bad down in your part of the world; not at all bad considering the times. I thought we should have had to sell that old de la Molle up, but I hear that he is going to pay us off. Can’t imagine who has been fool enough to lend him the money. A client of yours, eh? Well, he’ll lose it I expect, and serve him right for his pains. But I am not sorry, for it is unpleasant for a house like ours to have to sell an old client up. Not that his account is worth much, nothing at all—more trouble than profit—or we should not have done it. He’s no better than a bankrupt and the insolvency court is the best place for him. The world is to the rich and the fulness thereof. There’s an insolvency court especially provided for de la Molle and his like—empty old windbags with long sounding names; let him go there and make room for the men who have made money—hee! hee! hee!” And once more his voice went off into a sort of scream.