"Fudge; you thought too well of the fellow. Do you believe in heaven for suicides?"
"Sir—no, sir—his death came by accident."
"It did not; he couldn't go through with the sacrifice, so he ended his life, and he haunts me, curse him!"
"Mr. Paget, I hope God will forgive you."
"He won't, so you needn't waste your hopes. A man has cast his blood upon my soul. Nothing can wash the blood away. Helps, I'm the most miserable being on earth. I walk through hell fire every day."
"Have your quieting mixture, sir; you know the doctor said you must not excite yourself. There, now you are better. Shall I help you to open your letters, sir?"
"Yes, Helps, do; you're a good soul, Helps. Don't leave me this morning; he'll come in at the door if you do."
There came a tap at the outer office. Some one wanted to speak to the chief. A great name was announced.
In a moment Mr. Paget, from being the limp, abject wretch whom Helps had daily to comfort and sustain, became erect and rigid. From head to foot he clothed himself as in a mask. Erect as in his younger days he walked into the outer room, and for two hours discussed a matter which involved the loss or gain of thousands.
When his visitor left him he did so with the inward remark:—