stood, smiling, by the door; but old Varnhagen, enacting
again the little drama of Luther and the Devil, hurled the big office
ink-pot at the scheming Isaac with full force.

The clerk ducked his head and ran, but the missile had struck him under
the chin, and his immaculate person was bespattered from shirt-collar to
mouse-coloured spats with violet copying-ink. In this deplorable state
he was forced to pass through the streets, a spectacle for tittering
shop-girls and laughing tradesmen, that he might gain the seclusion of
his single room, which lay somewhere in the back premises of the
Kangaroo Bank.

CHAPTER XVI.

The Wages of Sin.

As Pilot Summerhayes turned up the street, after having deposited his
money, he might well have passed the goldsmith, hurrying towards the
warehouse of Crookenden and Co. to receive the wages of his sin.

In Tresco's pocket was the intercepted correspondence, upon his face was
a look of happiness and self-contentment. He walked boldly into the
warehouse where, in a big office, glazed, partitioned, and ramparted
with a mighty counter, was a small army of clerks, who, loyal to their
master, stood ready to pillage the goldsmith of every halfpenny he
possessed.

But, with his blandest smile, Benjamin asked one of these formidable
mercenaries whether Mr. Crookenden was within. He was ushered
immediately into the presence of that great personage, before whom
the conducting clerk was but as a crushed worm; and there, with a
self-possession truly remarkable, the goldsmith seated himself in a
comfortable chair and beamed cherubically at the merchant, though in his
sinful heart he felt much as if he were a cross between a pirate and a
forger.

"Ah! you have brought my papers?" said the merchant.

"I've brought _my_ papers," said the goldsmith, still smiling.

Crookenden chuckled. "Yes, yes," he said, "quite right, quite right.
They are yours till you are paid for them. Let me see: I gave you L50 in
advance--there's another L50 to follow, and then we are quits."

"Another hundred-and-fifty," said Tresco.

"Eh? What? How's that? We said a hundred, all told."

"Two hundred," said Tresco.

"No, no, sir. I tell you it was a hundred."

"All right," said Tresco, "I shall retain possession of the letters,
which I can post by the next mail or return to Mr. Varnhagen, just as I
think fit."

The merchant rose in his chair, and glared at the goldsmith.

"What!" cried Tresco. "You