“This is all very amusing, gentlemen, most entertaining,” said Cavendish, tartly; “but who is he?—I don''t mean that,—but what is he?”
“Martin's banker, I fancy,” said Lord Claude.
“Does he lend any sum from five hundred to twenty thousand on equitable terms on approved personal security?” said Cavendish, imitating the terms of the advertisements.
“He 'll allow all he wins from you to remain in your hands at sixty per cent interest, if he doesn't want cash!” said Martin, angrily.
“Oh, then, I 'm right. It is my little Moses of St. James's Street. He was n't always as flourishing as we see him now. Oh dear, if any man, three years back, had told me that this fellow would have proposed seating himself in my phaeton for a drive round Paris, I don't believe—nay, I 'm sure—my head couldn't have stood it.”
“You know him, then?” said Willoughby.
“I should think every man about town a dozen years ago must know him. There was a kind of brood of these fellows; we used to call them Joseph and his brethren. One sold cigars, another vended maraschino; this discounted your bills, that took your plate or your horses—ay, or your wardrobe—on a bill of sale, and handed you over two hundred pounds to lose at his brother's hell in the evening. Most useful scoundrels they were,—equally expert on 'Change and in the Coulisses of the Opera!”
“I will say this for him,” said Martin, “he 's not a hard fellow to deal with; he does not drive a bargain ungenerously.”
“Your hangman is the tenderest fellow in the world,” said Cavendish, “till the final moment. It's only in adjusting the last turn under the ear that he shows himself 'ungenerous.'”
“Are you deep with him, Harry?” said Willoughby, who saw a sudden paleness come over Martin's face.