"My dear Tomlinson," he said, "I am quite delighted to find you within. I have made a hit, and shall retrieve myself with ease. The ten thousand pounds which Holmesford lent me are now twenty thousand."
"You are a lucky fellow," observed Tomlinson, with a sigh. "Adversity has no effect upon you; whereas with me——"
"Why—what is the matter now?" interrupted Greenwood. "Always complaining?"
"I have good cause for annoyance," returned the stock-broker. "That precious acquaintance of yours——"
"Who?" demanded Greenwood, sharply.
"The lunatic-asylum keeper, as your friend Chichester supposed him to be—but the resurrectionist, thief, extortioner, villain, and perhaps murderer, as I take him to be," said Tomlinson,—"that scoundrel Tidkins, in a word, has discovered poor old Michael's address, and menaces me."
"Ah!" said Greenwood, coolly; "it is your own fault: you should have got Martin out of the way—even if you had painted him black, shipped him to the United States, and sold him as a slave."
"Ridiculous!" cried Tomlinson, sternly. "I never will cease to be a friend—a grateful friend—to that poor old man."
"Well," observed Greenwood, after a pause, "I can do you a service in this respect. I was at Rottenborough yesterday—amongst my intelligent and independent constituents; and I learnt that the situation of porter to the workhouse in that truly enlightened town is vacant. Now, if——"
"Enough of this, Greenwood!" exclaimed Tomlinson. "I was wrong to mention the old man's name to you.—What can I do for you this morning? Have you made up your mind to take the loan which my friend consented to advance to you about a month ago, and which you——"