day and an
hour, Mr Fisker will call upon you.

I have to thank you and Madame Melmotte for a very pleasant
evening spent at your house last week.

Mr Fisker proposes returning to New York. I shall remain here,
superintending the British interests which may be involved.

I have the honour to be,

Dear Sir,

Most faithfully yours.

'But I have never said that I would superintend the interests,' said
Montague.

'You can say so now. It binds you to nothing. You regular John Bull
Englishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as much of life as
should serve to make an additional fortune.'

After some further conversation Paul Montague recopied the letter and
signed it. He did it with doubt,--almost with dismay. But he told
himself that he could do no good by refusing. If this wretched
American, with his hat on one side and rings on his fingers, had so
far got the upper hand of Paul's uncle as to have been allowed to do
what he liked with the funds of the partnership, Paul could not stop
it. On the following morning they went up to London together, and in
the course of the afternoon Mr Fisker presented himself in Abchurch
Lane. The letter written at Liverpool, but dated from the Langham
Hotel, had been posted at the Euston Square Railway Station at the
moment of Fisker's arrival. Fisker sent in his card, and was asked to
wait. In the course of twenty minutes he was ushered into the great
man's presence by no less a person than Miles Grendall.

It has been already said that Mr Melmotte was a big man with large
whiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on a
harsh vulgar face. He was certainly a man to repel you by his presence
unless attracted to him by some internal consideration. He was
magnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings, successful in
his business, and the world around him therefore was not repelled.
Fisker, on the other hand, was a shining little man,--perhaps about
forty years of age, with a well-twisted moustache, greasy brown hair,
which was becoming bald at the top, good-looking if his features were
analysed, but insignificant in appearance. He was gorgeously dressed,
with a silk waistcoat, and chains, and he carried a little stick. One
would at first be inclined to say that Fisker was not much of a man;
but after a little conversation most men would own that there was
something in Fisker. He was troubled by no shyness, by no scruples,
and