She did not speak; but he construed a very slight bow into a gesture of assent, and proceeded down the staircase. Arrived at the door he called the cabman, who was slumbering on his box; but the man's movements being slow, Streightley opened the cab-door himself, and bareheaded held it as Miss Guyon, with just the style of acknowledgment that she would have given to the shop-walker who handed her a chair at a linendraper's, passed in. Old Mr. Pommylow, chairman of the West India Plantation Company, who was crossing the street at the time, gave him a great nod and a sly wink; and made them all laugh at the Board five minutes afterwards, by telling them he'd seen Bob Streightley "doing the polite to a doosid fine gal." She was gone; but Robert Streightley still stood on the pavement, gazing after the cab that had carried her off. Then, after a minute, he turned slowly round and retraced his steps up the staircase, pondering over the interview. After remaining for about half-an-hour in a brown study, he touched the small handbell by which he was accustomed to summon Mr. Fowler, and, without raising his head, said to that worthy gentleman when he entered: "Give me that acceptance we were speaking of, please." "Guyon's acceptance do you men, sir?" "Mr. Guyon's, if you please," said Streightley rather sternly, the familiarity jarring on his ear. "Will you want the others, sir?" asked the old man. "Markwell's and Banks's are paid; but they haven't sent about the others yet." "Only Mr. Guyon's, thank you, Fowler. I--I want to make a few inquiries about it." "I don't expect you'll hear much good of the acceptor, sir," said old Fowler with twinkling eyes. "I suspect it's one of Davidson's private discounts, and we know what they are--he, he!" and the old gentleman laughed quietly. "Let me have the letters, if you please, Mr. Fowler, and any thing else there may be for signature. I shall be going soon." "Going, sir!" said old Fowler in the greatest astonishment. He had never known Mr. Robert leave before six o'clock since he had been in the business, and now it was only four. "Yes! I'm not very well. I think I want a little fresh air, so I shall go and get it. And I shall probably not be here till twelve to-morrow, Mr. Fowler." "Very well, sir." He said it most mechanically. If the equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington had descended from its pedestal and cantered up Threadneedle Street, Mr. Fowler would have been scarcely more astonished.