"Time!" echoed Mr. Peter Castlemaine. "What, with this yelling crowd clamouring at the doors!--and with Fosbrook in the place!--and with a lien on all the forthcoming remittances! And," he added, the shrunken grey look on his countenance becoming more perceptible, as his voice dropped to a whisper--"and with the discovery at hand of the use I made of the Armannon bonds! The last closing hour has come, Thomas, and nothing can save me!" Thomas Hill took off his spectacles to wipe the mist away. The failure of the bank, and the disgrace attaching to these pecuniary misfortunes, seemed as nothing, compared with the guilty shame that must fall on his master. "They may prosecute me criminally," breathed Mr. Peter Castlemaine, from between his dry and ashy lips. "No, no," burst forth Thomas Hill. "They'll never do that, sir. Think how you have been respected! And besides--so far as I can understand the complication--there will be money to pay everybody." "Every man will be paid in full to the uttermost farthing," spoke the banker emphatically. "But that's another thing. I sat up over my books nearly all last night, making my calculations, and I find that there will be funds to meet all claims. Only there's the waiting! Not any over perhaps; but there will be so much as that." "And to think that this miserable trouble should intervene!" cried Thomas Hill, wringing his hands. "There will be my six thousand pounds to help you, sir, with the expenses, and that." Peter Castlemaine shook his head to the last sentence, but he made no denial in words. He seemed to have neither words nor spirit left, and sat leaning his brow upon his hand. The once fine fresh colour that was natural to his cheeks had faded away, though its traces might be seen still. One might have fancied that a thin veil of grey had been flung over the healthy bloom. In all his long experience Thomas Hill had never, to his recollection, seen a man change like this. "You look ill, sir," he said. "Let me get you something to take." "I feel ill," was the answer. "I ought to have confronted those people just now in the other room, and should have done so, but that I felt physically incapable. While I was reading the letter brought by the London messenger, a sharp, curious pain seized me here," touching his left side. "For some minutes I could not move." "Is the heart all right?" hesitated the clerk--as if he were afraid to breathe the question. "I do not know. During the past twelve months, since these troubles set in, I have had a good deal of fluttering there: pain, too, at times." "You should consult a doctor, sir. Don't, pray, delay it." "Ay," sighed the unfortunate man. "I suppose I should. When I get a little out of this fret and turmoil--if I ever do get out of it--I'll see one. Lock the desk for me, will you, Hill? There's nothing to keep it open for: no use to pore over ledgers now."