"We boast of our open trade and commercial candor," said Mr. Sparhawk. "We set ourselves up as superior to the Spaniards who hold every port and river they control under private tribute. But, if the truth were known, we have our share of mercantile malpractice here. There are places," said he warmly, "that are regarded as above reproach, but which are charnel-houses of business honor; there are men who sit in the full light of public confidence, weaving plots as shameless as any in the art of the spider."
"Where is the law?" asked Anthony.
"The law is inadequate, and I sometimes think, shrewdly kept so."
Mr. Sparhawk held to this strain until they reached Anthony's lodgings in Sassafras Street. The walk had done the young man no good, and his face was white as he said good-by to the little man at the door. Mr. Sparhawk noted this.
"No," said he, "I will help you to your room. These hurts of yours have taken a deal more of your vitality than you think."
Anthony was glad enough to put some of his weight upon Mr. Sparhawk in going up the steep stairs; and the little gentleman also aided him in getting off his clothes and into bed. And then he brewed him an excellent drink.
"And now sleep," said he. "It will help you more than anything else." He lifted the window so that the air might blow in and do its share of the healing; he nodded in a most friendly and obliging fashion as he was about to go, and then his eyes chanced upon one of the bulky old ledgers lying upon a table. "What?" said he, "a ledger? Do you still use your spare time of an evening, so?"
Said Anthony:
"Open the door there." Mr. Sparhawk did so; he saw in the inner room piles of books of a similar kind, and his face changed expression; his eyes met those of Anthony quickly. "They are those which have gone before, and come after, the one on the table," said the young man.
Mr. Sparhawk stroked his chin.