Again his limbs, in their weariness, mounted those well-remembered stairs. He passed the ante-chamber wherein his evil genius was wont to reside, but who, at this moment, all unconscious, was taking his way across the square. He tapped softly upon the door of the head of the firm. He entered silently, but without vacillation. Mr. Octavius Crumpett was reading, with an occasional chuckle of audible pleasure, the manuscript of the latest polite fiction of Sir Topman Murtle, K.C.B., “the Queen’s favourite novelist,” and his own cherished and familiar friend. “What an insight that man has into the human heart!” he kept exclaiming at intervals, as some uncommonly illuminating flash of intuition lighted his own sympathetic intelligence. At last this august gentleman chanced to pause in his labour of love. He looked up. And looking up he beheld the outline of a silent figure standing at the far end of the room with its hand still on the door it had closed so softly. “Good-morning, Mr.--er--er--er--dear me!” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett. How trying it was that he should actually fail to remember the name of one who rendered faithful service to that house! Really such an untoward incident had not occurred to the august gentleman for years. But in a sudden unmistakable ray of inspiration the name of the youthful clerk entered his mind. “Good-morning, Mr. _Jordan_,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, almost proudly, almost triumphantly. At the sound of that amiable and pleasant voice the strange-looking young man came forward to the table, and taking a handful of gold pieces from his pockets, placed them in a heap upon the table before Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s astonished gaze. “I wish to submit myself, sir, to the consequences of my action,” said the young man, in soft yet self-contained speech. At first Mr. Octavius Crumpett was powerless to give expression to his bewildered astonishment. But slowly, solemnly, mournfully the manuscript pages of the polite fiction of his distinguished friend fluttered from his grasp; and placing the palms of his beautifully-kept hands, with their delicately-trimmed nails, together, he murmured, “This is calamitous!” Minutes seemed to pass in which the head of the firm appeared to resign himself to the fervour of a moral trepidation, which was yet so chastened that its only outward manifestation was that of gentle sorrow. “This is ineffably calamitous!” murmured Mr. Octavius Crumpett. William Jordan stood placidly with his hands by his sides. “I would have hailed the opportunity,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, “of paying a _substantial_ sum of money to a charitable institution had it been possible by that means to prevent such a thing happening to this house. Mr. Jordan, I feel I must ask you to have the kindness to go down-stairs for a short time, while I--ah, I--ah, earnestly deliberate as to the right course to adopt.”