It was late now; so the place was closed up, and the children of Israel were gone home: After ringing in vain for some time, she had to give up her project until the morrow, and depart in peace.
“He’ll escape me yet,” she muttered, “but I will be here early, and make assurance doubly sure.”
And she turned on her heel and went away. Before she went home to her lodgings, however, she took the trouble to go round to the hotel where she had learnt that Markworth was staying, to ask whether he was there still. She was so afraid of his getting off before her vengeance could be felt. The porter told her that he was out, but that he had not left the hotel yet: he was expecting him in every minute, for a messenger had just brought a letter for him.
“A messenger to see him?”
She pondered a moment, and then she recollected that it must be the lawyers’ clerk, sent by Mr Trump to appoint the interview for the next day, when Markworth would hear the worst. She gave a sigh of satisfaction, and went to her lodgings contentedly.
Messrs Solomonson and Isaacs came to their offices the next day at their usual time, about half-past ten o’clock, and proceeded to set about their introductory business. Letters had to be opened, documents arranged, the list of bankrupts in the papers looked to and compared with another list of their own of the men indebted to them; in fact, all the minutiae of their daily routine had to be seen to before setting actually to work and “interviewing” their clients, or more properly speaking, customers or borrowers, for they did more in usury than law, although the appellation “solicitors” was on their door plate. The term indeed was better suited to the clients than the firm.
Mister Isaacs was at the moment engaged upon comparing the bankrupt lists, when a sudden exclamation from his partner Solomonson, who was opening the letters and glancing at their contents, startled him.
“Father Abrahamsh!” ejaculated that worthy. “Gott in Himmell! how about der monish?”
“Vat’s der matter, my tearsh?” enquired Isaacs, in anxious suspense. “Noting’s wrongsh mit der bank?”
“No, mine Isaacs, it is not ter banksh! Mein Gott, der monish! der monish! It is all oop wit Markevorts; der shoot is ruined!”