The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“I didn’t speak half-a-dozen words.”

“You shouldn’t have spoken those words. Your father then is quite clear that you did not sign the letter?”

“Oh, yes;⁠—the governor is pigheaded, you know, but he’s honest.”

“That’s a matter of course,” said the lawyer. “All men are honest; but they are generally specially honest to their own side. Bideawhile’s honest; but you’ve got to fight him deuced close to prevent his getting the better of you. Melmotte has promised to pay the money on Friday, has he?”

“He’s to bring it with him to Bruton Street.”

“I don’t believe a word of it;⁠—and I’m sure Bideawhile doesn’t. In what shape will he bring it? He’ll give you a cheque dated on Monday, and that’ll give him two days more, and then on Monday there’ll be a note to say the money can’t be lodged till Wednesday. There should be no compromising with such a man. You only get from one mess into another. I told you neither to do anything or to say anything.”

“I suppose we can’t help ourselves now. You’re to be there on Friday. I particularly bargained for that. If you’re there, there won’t be any more compromising.”

Squercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at all flattering to Dolly’s vanity⁠—which might have caused offence had not there been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney and the young man. As it was Dolly replied to everything that was said with increased flattery. “If I was a sharp fellow like you, you know,” said Dolly, “of course I should get along better; but I ain’t, you know.” It was then settled that they should meet each other, and also meet Mr. Longestaffe senior, Bideawhile, and Melmotte, at twelve o’clock on Friday morning in Bruton Street.

Squercum was by no means satisfied. He had busied himself in this matter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty nearly got to the bottom of that affair about the houses in the East, and had managed to induce the heirs of the old man who had died to employ him. As to the Pickering property he had not a doubt on the subject. Old Longestaffe had been induced by promises of wonderful aid and by the bribe of a seat at the Board of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to give up the title-deeds of the property⁠—as far as it was in his power to give them up; and had endeavoured to induce Dolly to do so also. As he had failed, Melmotte had supplemented his work by ingenuity, with which the reader is acquainted. All this was perfectly clear to Squercum, who thought that he saw before him a most attractive course of proceeding against the Great Financier. It was pure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him on. He regarded Melmotte as a grand swindler⁠—perhaps the grandest that the world had ever known⁠—and he could conceive no greater honour than the detection, successful prosecution, and ultimate destroying of so great a man. To have hunted down Melmotte would make Squercum as great almost as Melmotte himself. But he felt himself to have been unfairly hampered by his own client. He did not believe that the money would be paid; but delay might rob him of his Melmotte. He had heard a good many things in the City, and believed it to be quite out of the question that Melmotte should raise the money⁠—but there were various ways in which a man might escape.

It may be remembered that Croll, the German clerk, preceded Melmotte into the City on Wednesday after Marie’s refusal to sign the deeds. He, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived that things were not looking as well as they used to look. Croll had for many years been true to his patron, having been, upon the whole, very well paid for such truth. There had been times when things had gone badly with him, but he had believed in Melmotte, and, when Melmotte rose, had been rewarded for his faith. Mr. Croll at the present time had little investments of his own, not made under his employer’s auspices, which would leave him not absolutely without bread for his family should the Melmotte affairs at any time take an awkward turn. Melmotte had never required from him service that was actually fraudulent⁠—had at any rate never required it by spoken words. Mr. Croll had not been over-scrupulous, and had occasionally been very useful to Mr. Melmotte. But there must be a limit to all things; and why should any man sacrifice himself beneath the ruins of a falling house⁠—when convinced that nothing he can do can prevent the fall? Mr. Croll would have been of course happy to witness Miss Melmotte’s signature; but as for that other kind of witnessing⁠—this clearly to his thinking was not the time for such good-nature on his part.

“You know what’s up now;⁠—don’t you?” said one of the junior clerks to Mr. Croll when he entered the office in Abchurch Lane.

“A good deal will be up soon,” said the German.

“Cohenlupe has gone!”

“And to vere has Mr. Cohenlupe gone?”

“He hasn’t been civil enough to leave his address. I fancy he don’t want his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing to him. Nobody seems to know what’s become of him.”

“New York,” suggested Mr. Croll.

“They seem to think not. They’re too hospitable in New York for Mr. Cohenlupe just at present. He’s travelling private. He’s on the continent somewhere⁠—half across France by this time; but nobody knows what route he has taken. That’ll be a poke in the ribs for the old boy;⁠—eh, Croll?” Croll merely shook his head. “I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall,” continued the clerk.

“Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. I like de rats to stay.”

“There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican Railway scrip.”

“Our governor knew noding about dat,” said Croll.

“He