Dilemmas of Pride, (Vol 3 of 3)

We shall here pause for a few moments to give a slight sketch of the principal agent employed by Geoffery in this part of the business, and indeed in the conduct of the whole affair.
In Arden, the neighbouring county town, there lived a solicitor, who, unfortunately for the honour of humanity and his own especial calling, was without exception, the most thorough-paced villain unhanged; nay, many have been hanged who were not half as bad; for this man was not only without remorse of conscience, but also without remorse of heart. His only reason for committing more robberies than murders was, that the former crime was in general more profitable than the latter; but as to who died the lingering death of a broken heart, he cared not, so long as he gained a few pounds by the transaction.
He was known for a mean contemptible fellow, and consequently possessed but little of the confidence of the higher orders, so that when he could catch a gentleman to plunder, it was a sort of prize in the lottery to him; but unfortunate tradesmen in a little way, were his natural prey: to such, when perishing in the gulf of misery, he pretended to stretch a helping hand, but with that very hand assisted in the work of destruction, and finally possessed himself of the wreck of their fortunes. This fellow, by name Fips, had long been Geoffery Arden's right-hand man, and for all his services had invariably been one way or other payed out of Sir Willoughby's pocket. Such was the fitting coadjutor to whom Geoffery applied for that assistance which the present momentous occasion demanded, as the following interview will show without absolutely committing himself.
Fips, who had just dined, was seated in an old-fashioned black-bottomed mahogany arm-chair, which he filled, or rather over-filled, in much the same manner as a feather-bed tucked into the same piece of furniture would have done; and had there been a cord tied round the centre of the said bed as a convenient mode of carriage, it would have bisected its yielding rotundity, just as the single middle button of Mr. Fips's waistcoat did that of the wearer.