As for Werner, with dark impassive face and impenetrable, almost sullen manners, he had performed some feats of sailing remarkably close to the wind, which had drawn upon him animadversions from masters, and judges, and juries, and a few honest men in the City--a few of the typical ten who may yet save it, if indeed there are--almsgiving notwithstanding--ten left. He had kept up impending bankrupts till he was clear, and it seemed expedient to let them go; he had allowed people, to "refer to him," who saw him safe out and let other people in; he had, it was whispered, once or twice accepted for payment paper, some of the names on which were more than suspicious, taken in conjunction with other names appended to the document, and no harm had come to him in consequence; in a word, once upon a time, Henry Werner could not have been considered particular, and now, when he had become very particular, those matters were, by persons of a retentive turn of mind, remembered against him. Mr. Asherill remembered them, which was bad, seeing he had travelled an even worse road himself; but then it must be taken into account that a ticket-of-leave man who sincerely repents the error of his ways cannot afford exactly to be seen in company even with a very young pickpocket. "Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Asherill, looking across the table at his visitors, and digging the point of a steel pen into his blotting-paper as he spoke. "We have brought you one very good thing," said Mr. Kleinwort, speaking slowly, and painfully, English bad as the weather. "Much obliged, I am sure. What is it?" "Oh! one small thing; not big, but good. Must be done this very day; no fear of costs; lots of what you call peekings; no large bones but meaty;" and Mr. Kleinwort, who was all head and stomach, like a modern representation of Christmas, as popularly depicted, with a plum-pudding for paunch, laughed at his own wit. Mr. Werner did not laugh; he scowled at his companion. Mr. Asherill did not laugh either. He looked from one to the other, and then asked, in a tone an undertaker might have envied-- "Who has gone now?" "Archibald Mortomley," said Mr. Werner, glancing at him with dark eyes, from under darker brows. "You don't mean that?" exclaimed Mr. Asherill, with a briskness suggestive of the old Adam. "I mean that," answered Mr. Werner; and then ensued a pause. Mr. Asherill broke it. "If not an impertinent question, gentlemen, what have you to do with this?" "I am his friend," said Mr. Werner, with a hesitation natural, perhaps, to a man who looked so incapable of being a friend to any one. "And I a creditor," said Mr. Kleinwort, with a fluency which seemed to strike Mr. Asherill, who surveyed them both, and stared at them over and through. "What does he owe you?" he asked at last, addressing himself to Mr. Kleinwort. "Fifteen hundred pounds." "For what?" "Money advanced." "Through whom?" "Through nobody, except me, myself."