When he was gone, Tomlinson paced his office in an agitated manner.
"The die is cast—I am now about to plunge into crime!" he said. "And yet how could I avoid—how could I long procrastinate this step? These mean tricks—these dishonourable dealings—these deceptive schemes in which we brokers are compelled to bear a part, only serve to prepare the way for more daring and more criminal pursuits. Five hundred pounds at one stroke! That is a little fortune to a man, struggling against the world, like me! Four hundred will I pay to Greenwood—the other hundred will swell my little account at the bankers'; for who can hope to do any extent of business in this city without a good name at his bankers'?"
Tomlinson ceased, and sate down calm and collected. Alas! how easy is it to reason oneself into a belief of the existence of a necessity for pursuits of dishonesty or crime!
The clerk entered the private office, and said, "Sir, there is a person, who refuses to give his name, waiting to speak to you."
"Let him come in," replied Tomlinson.
The clerk ushered in a man of cadaverous countenance, bushy brows, and large whiskers, and who was dressed in a suit of black.
"Your business, sir?" said the stock-broker, who did not much like the appearance of his visitor.
"Your name's Tomlinson?" remarked the man, coolly taking a chair.
"Yes. What would you with me?"