"Not yet," said Stroude. "No, not yet."
"But," insinuated Mr. Sparhawk, "Mr. Stroude is hopeful."
Mr. Nathaniel laughed.
"They are always that," said he. "It's surprising how much hope is brought into this place."
"And very little is ever taken out again, I'll venture," mumbled Stroude, to himself. He looked about at the dirty walls, the worn furniture, the dusty files of papers hanging from hooks; the air of mean sordidness chilled him. "No," he thought, "no one ever took anything out of this place, unless it was a curse."
"I do not see your brother," said Mr. Sparhawk, of Nathaniel. "Where is Rehoboam?"
"He is going his rounds," said Nathaniel. "No one pays unless they're made to, and Rehoboam is apt at explaining the law. He knows its regulations very well," admiringly. "There are few solicitors who have a defter turn for it. He can tell to the breadth of a hair how much a man may delay in the matter of a debt before the prison keepers may put their hands upon him."
"A pretty talent!" said Stroude. Then, in his thoughts, he added, "I wonder what length of time a man must serve as the devil's acolyte before he reaches so much wisdom as that."
Sparhawk and Stroude sat down, and Nathaniel began thumbing his dirty papers with much the same enjoyment a gourmand shows in eating a dainty dish. There was a soothing voice lifted in an inner room, dimly heard, yet full of assuring sweetness.
"That," whispered Sparhawk to Stroude, "is old Amos."