He knew exactly how the accident, which put him in possession of Mr. Black’s secret, had occurred; and he was well aware, in due time, the letter intended for him would be returned by Messrs. Shields and Montgomery to Dowgate Hill; but he resolved not to wait for that _dénouement_—instead of doing so, he started next morning, directly after breakfast, for the City, where Mr. Black received him with his usual easy flow of language. “Well, and how is the ‘Protector?’” was his greeting; “anything new? I think things were a shade better on the market yesterday, and I have some applications this morning from parsons about shares in the ‘Universal.’ Discount is down a half, too. By-the-bye, you got my letter, I suppose? There is no help for it, Dudley, we must renew those confounded bills again. You noticed what I said about knowing a fellow willing to do them?” “I did not,” answered Arthur, “for the simple reason that I suppose the letter you meant to send to me is now at Wolverhampton.” “What the devil do you mean?” There was no sham about Mr. Black’s tone or manner as he put this question. For the first time, perhaps, during all the years he had known him, Arthur beheld the actual man, and the actual man was not pleasant to behold. “Messrs. Shields and Montgomery’s letter came in my envelope,” the secretary explained. “Indeed! And what have you done with that letter?” “I took it last night to Mr. Raidsford.” For a moment Arthur thought his kinsman was going to strike him. Mr. Black made a step forward towards his visitor, and lifted his clenched hand, but next instant he let it drop heavily on the table while he asked— “Pray, Mister Squire Dudley, was that your idea of honour?” “Yes, Mr. Black, it was, strictly,” Arthur replied. “And how much did he give you for the information?—come now, be frank. I would have outbid him, had you played your cards well. What was the figure? Did you go cheap? I’ll be sworn you did. I’ll bet ten to one you sold yourself as well as me. Oh! you won’t answer—you are sulky. You are going to deprive me of the pleasure of your honourable, and gentlemanly, and intellectual society! Curse you!” added the promoter, suddenly changing his sneering tone for one of the intensest fury, “curse you, for a skulking, sneaking, timid fool, who has not even sense enough to enjoy seeing a man who ruined us ruined likewise! I’ll be even with you yet. I’ll make you rue the day you meddled in my concerns, and spoiled my game. Do you hear me, Dudley?” he shouted across the outer office; “look to yourself!” “I intend,” was Arthur Dudley’s reply, as he walked into the street, knowing he was a ruined man. He did not return to Lincoln’s Inn Fields for some hours—not, in fact, until after he had seen a solicitor, and laid the exact state of his affairs before that gentleman.