“Wilton! Wilton!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, assuming an air of reflection, to hide his embarrassment. “Wilton! no, oh no! I know nothing of any such claim.” “You do not!” “No.” “Nor the man himself?” “No.” “A gold-worker, living in Clerkenwell?” “Certainly not. Where is Clerkenwell?” “Hem! ugh! ugh!” Nathan Gomer was seized with a cough. He rose up, took his hat and gloves, and put them on with slow precision. His glittering eye once more perused every feature in Mr. Grahame’s face. “Mr. Grahame,” he said, slowly, “you shall hear from me.” “Thank you, thank you, my dear sir,” replied Mr. Grahame, rubbing his hands. “Let me hope in a manner agreeable to my wishes and in accordance with your known liberality.” “It will be one of two things, Mr. Grahame: either to comply with your proposition, or to issue process for the recovery of the money now due by you to me. Good morning, Mr. Grahame!” He seemed to glide out of the room down the staircase, and presented himself at the elbow of Whelks, before that personage had any conception that his services were required to show out the “little yellow ob-jek, which,” he was just informing the hall-porter, “he had a few minutes before shown in to the libree.” In a sharp, shrill, tone, Nathan requested to be let out, and ‘Whelks, taking upon himself the duty of the inert porter, threw open the street-door wide, and closed it with a loud bang, thankful, he knew not wherefore, that the “yaller objek” was out of the house. Mr. Grahame looked after Nathan as he moved rapidly but noiselessly down the stairs, and returned into the library, feeling that the interview had been of a very unsatisfactory character. He experienced an uneasy impression with respect to the inquiries made by Nathan Gomer respecting Wilton. He cursed the name of the old gold-chaser; but for him he might be in secure possession of the wealth he coveted, and which--there was no disguising it--he imperatively needed. The man’s obstinacy, while it did not benefit himself, was very likely to send him, Grahame, headlong to ruin for want of--what? Only a signature--a simple signature. Ah! Chewkle’s suggestion flashed through his brain. It was but to attach a name to a bond: who would know that he had done it but Chewkle? and would not money buy any man’s tongue? With Chewkle’s aid it might be done. Who else could know it? Wilton, starving, dying, in prison, shattered by grief, want, and toil; his children outcasts in the streets, driven, perhaps, into dens of infamy, how could they prosecute a claim against him? If they did, should he not have the wealth to defeat every such attempt? could he not buy off or suborn all witnesses against him? The possessions and the money he should acquire by that single signature would enable him to cope with the most greedy demands for bearing false witness. Shallow reasoning enough, but conclusive in his eyes.