"And _this_ is mine." The clerk took a sheet of paper from his pocket.

"_I_ don't want to know your pizz'ness."

"But you'd like to know C. and Co.'s."

"Qvite right. But _you_ know it--perhaps you know the Devil's pizz'ness, too."

Young Zahn laughed.

"I wish I did," he said.

"Vell, young mans, you're getting pretty near it; you're getting on that vay."

"That's why it would be wise to take me into _your_ business."

"I dare say; but all you vant is to marry my taughter Rachel."

"I want to marry her, that's true, but there are plenty of fish in the sea."

"And there are plenty other pizz'ness besides mine. You haf my answer."

The bank-clerk got up. "What I propose is for your good as well as mine.

_I_ don't want to ruin you; I want to see you prosper."

"_You_ ruin me? How do you do that? If I change my bank, how do _you_ affect me?"

"But you would have to pay off your overdraft first."

"That vill be ven the manager pleases--but as for his puppy clerk, dressed like a voman's tailor, get out of this!"

The young man 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 pa.s.s through the streets, a spectacle for t.i.ttering 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 pa.s.sed 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, part.i.tioned, 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 50 in advance--there's another 50 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'll turn dog? Complete your part of the bargain. Do you think I've put my head into a noose on your account for _nothing_? D'you think I went out last night because I loved you? No, sir, I want my money. I happen to need money. I've half a mind to make it two-hundred-and-fifty; and I would, if I hadn't that honour which is said to exist among thieves. We'll say one-hundred-and-fifty, and cry quits."

"Do you think you have me in your hands?"

"I don't _think_," replied the cunning goldsmith. "I _know_ I've got you. But I'll be magnanimous--I'll take 150. No, 160--I must pay the boatmen--and then I'll say no more about the affair. It shall be buried in the oblivion of my breast, it shall be forgotten with the sins of my youth. I must ask you to be quick."

"Quick?"

"Yes, as quick as you conveniently can."

"Would you order me about, sir?"

"Not exactly that, but I would urge you on a little faster. I would persuade you with the inevitable spur of fate."

The merchant put his hand on a bell which stood upon his table.

"That would be of no use," said Benjamin. "If you call fifty clerks and forcibly rob me of my correspondence, you gain nothing. Listen! Every clerk in this building would turn against you the moment he knew your true character; and before morning, every man, woman and child in Timber Town would know. And where would you be then? In gaol. D'you hear?--in gaol. Take up your pen. An insignificant difference of a paltry hundred pounds will solve the difficulty and give you all the comfort of a quiet mind."

"But what guarantee have I that after you have been paid you won't continue to blackmail me?"

"You cannot possibly have such a guarantee--it wouldn't be good for you. This business is going to chasten your soul, and make you mend your ways. It comes as a blessing in disguise. But so long as you don't refer to the matter, after you have paid me what you owe me, I shall bury the hatchet. I simply give you my word for that. If you don't care to take it, leave it: it makes no difference to me."

The fat little merchant fiddled nervously with the writing materials in front of him, and his hesitation seemed to have a most irritating effect upon the goldsmith, who rose from his chair, took his watch from his pocket, and walked to and fro.

"It's too much, too much," petulantly reiterated Mr. Crookenden. "It's not worth it, not the half of it."

"That's not _my_ affair," retorted Tresco. "The bargain was for 200. I want the balance due."

"But how do I know you have the letters?" whined the merchant.

"Tut, tut! I'm surprised to hear such foolishness from an educated man.