"Then I really cannot see what can have to do with it. It would give him a degree of rest; yes, it would; and it would give him rank and position."
"But it would take from him half his income. Yes, just about half, I reckon," repeated Mr. Jones, attentively regarding the feather of the pen.
"What of that? He must be putting by heaps and heaps of money—and he has neither wife nor child to put by for."
"Ah!" said the clerk, "that is just how we all are apt to judge of a neighbour's business. Would it surprise you very much, sir, if I told you that the Serjeant is not putting by?"
"But he must be putting by. Or what becomes of his money?"
"He spends it, Mr. Charles."
"Spends it! Upon what?"
"Upon other people."
Mr. Jones looked at me from across the hearthrug, and I looked at him. The assertion puzzled me.
"It's true," he said with a nod. "You have not forgotten that great calamity which happened some ten or twelve years ago, Mr. Charles? That bank which went to pieces, and broke up homes and hearts? Your money went in it."