Neither did Helen, who was sketching fancy portraits of the Honourable Lester Vane; nor Margaret, who was not even troubled by an effort of imagination, observe him; but Evangeline perceived his inward perturbation, and not daring to offer a word, or breathe a hope that she might aid in alleviating it, sat sadly at her needlework, filled with a foreboding that something foreshadowed trial and affliction to the House. Mr. Grahame descended to his library. In one corner of it, upon the edge of a chair, under which his hat was placed, sat, with his knees close together, and his toes poised on the floor, a strange looking personage, a sort of hybrid between a fast banker’s clerk, and an undertaker. It was Mr. Chewkle. Mr. Chewkle was an agent; a commission agent. He undertook any description of business, no matter what. He sold coals and coffee, he introduced distracted tradesmen to usurious bill-discounters. He offered two shillings and sixpence in the pound to indignant creditors for unhappy insolvents. He would supply you with a good article in tea, at two and eight. He raised money on mortgage and _post obit_, having a friend who did that sort of thing for spendthrifts who needed it. He laid out money on fancy horses for fast individuals, with imaginary betting-men, though the horses he backed for them were rarely landed winners at the post. He knew all the good investments in mines, and would obtain shares for anybody, at a comparatively low price, though some day they “might” be at fabulous premiums. He--but he would undertake anything whatever, clean or dirty, if paid his commission, and “ask no questions,” when the remunerator was liberal. He rose up as Mr. Grahame entered, and made him a bow. “Good morning, Chewkle,” said Mr. Grahame, loftily; “well, what success?” “We’ve got our man, safe, sir,” he replied, with a feeble grin. “Where?” “Spunging-house, sir.” “And the family?” “At the apartments, sir, but we shall move the goods to-morrow, for sale by the sheriff, and then they must go out you know, sir.” “Into the streets.” “Into the streets, sir, or the work’us. They’ve no resources, as I sees.” “Well, then, of course he has signed the undertaking?” “A--a--not yet, sir.” “But he will?” “I’m afraid not, sir.” Mr. Grahame had seated himself with the air of a Mogul emperor giving audience to a Hindoo slave. He rose to his feet as if a pistol-shot had been discharged at him. “Not! Nonsense!” he cried with fierce astonishment; “under such pressure, the man cannot possibly refuse.” “But he does, sir, and swears he will not sign if he has to starve and rot in prison.” Mr. Grahame passed his hand over his mouth, and gulped as if he would choke. “What is to be done?” he asked. “Do without it, sir,” suggested Chewkle, mildly. “Ridiculous! His signature must be to the deed.”