There was no other furniture. The old man climbed upon his stool with some difficulty and took up his pen. He looked very old and shrivelled: his brown coat was frayed: his worsted stockings were in holes: his shoes were tied with leather instead of buckles: there was no show of shirt either at the wrist or the throat. He looked, in fact, what he was, a decayed clerk of the kind with which, as a boy, I had been quite familiar. It is a miserable calling, only redeemed from despair--because the wages are never much above starvation-point--by the chance and the hope of winning a prize in the lottery. No clerk is ever so poor that he cannot afford at least a sixteenth share in this annual bid for fortune. I never heard that any clerk within my knowledge had ever won a prize: but the chance was theirs: once a year the chance returns--a chance of fortune without work or desert. Presently the old man turned round and whispered, 'I know your face. I have seen you before--but I forget where. Are you in trade? Have you got a shop?' 'No. I have no shop,' 'You come from the country? No? A bankrupt, perhaps? No? Going to make him your attorney?' He shook his head with some vehemence and pointed to the door with his pen. 'Fly,' he said. 'There is still time.' 'I am not going to make him or anyone else my attorney,' 'You come to borrow money? If so'--again he pointed to the door with the feathery end of the quill. 'Fly! There is still time.' 'Then you owe him money. Young man--there is still time. Buy a stone at the pavior's--spend your last penny upon it; then tie it round your neck and drop into the river. Ah! It is too late--too late--' For just then Mr. Probus rang a bell. 'Follow me, Sir. Follow me. Ah! That paving stone!' Mr. Probus sat at a table covered with papers. He did not rise when I appeared, but pointed to a chair. 'You wish to see me, Mr. William,' he began. 'May I ask with what object?' 'I come in reply to your letter, Mr. Probus,' 'My letter? My letter?' He pretended to have forgotten the letter. 'I write so many, and sometimes--ay--ay--surely. The letter about the trifling debt due to the estate of David Camlet Deceased. Yes--yes, I am administering the worthy man's estate. One of many--very many--who have honoured me with their confidence.' 'That letter, Mr. Probus, is the reason why I have called.' 'You are come to discharge your obligation. It is what I expected. You are not looking well, Mr. William. I am sorry to observe marks--are they of privation?--on your face. Our worthy cousin, on the other hand, has a frame of iron. He will live, I verily believe, to ninety.' 'Never mind my cousin, Mr. Probus. He will live as long as the Lord permits.' 'When last I saw you Sir, you foolishly rejected a most liberal offer. Well: youth is ignorant. We live and learn. Some day, too late, you will be sorry. Now, Sir, for this debt. Fifty-five pounds. Ay. Fifty-five pounds. And my costs, which are trifling.'