Young Tallant was amongst those who made large sums of money. He was fortunate in all he undertook; and on that very morning when he was denounced at the great City meeting, his “bearing” speculations represented a profit to the tune of many thousands. It was in this wise: he was a director of the Mercantile Finance Bank. On the previous day the shares had been run down by false reports to ten shillings a share--scrip upon which twenty pounds had been paid. Young Tallant bought two thousand shares at the close of the market. The next day the _Times_ contradicted the rumours, the directors made a statement, confidence was restored in a few hours, and the director who knew that such would be the case, sold his two thousand at an average of more than seven pounds a share. Since the row at the Ashford Club he had acted more upon his own account, and had avoided Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs, who, left to his own machinations, had been a little too clever in his stock-jobbing operations; he had sold largely shares which had rallied, and were likely to stand all future assaults. But he still had schemes on hand which seemed likely to bear substantial monetary fruits. He was rich enough, as the readers of this history will no doubt have guessed, to encompass his revenge against Paul Somerton. The plot had been well and skilfully managed. Thomas Dibble had led a life of dreadful misery since his loss of the five hundred pounds, and Mr. Gibbs had aggravated his torture with a thumb-screwish perfection of cruelty. The shares which Thomas Dibble had bought carried a future responsibility of fifteen hundred pounds. So that his loss, instead of being five hundred, might really have been increased to two thousand. Mr. Gibbs, by degrees, explained this to the wretched Dibble, who had lain awake during long weary nights, beside the partner of his bosom, suffering all sorts of agonies, and without daring to explain his misery to Mrs. D., who said enough every day and night about the five hundred pounds to have broken down more sensitive minds than Dibble’s. “I do really think I shall go mad,” he said to Mr. Gibbs, on the day when that gentleman had tortured him up to the last pitch necessary for making Dibble his tool. “Then I must save you,” said Mr. Gibbs, at length. “Oh, Mr. Gibbs, dont ’e trifle with my feelings,” said Thomas. “Not I, my friend; I intended to have assisted you when I advised you to buy those shares, and I am sorry they have not turned out so well as we had a right to expect,” said Mr. Gibbs, tapping his tight little boots with a cane, and looking up at the lamp under which Dibble had accosted him in the street. “No, no--the best intentions sir; but dear, dear, bad be the best this time.” “Come to my chambers in an hour, Dibble, and I will see if I can put the thing right.” “Yes, sir,” said Dibble, touching his cap; the two parted, and in an hour Dibble was sitting on the edge of a chair in Mr. Gibbs’ private room.