It must be borne in mind that Mr. Jukes had been promised a handsome remuneration if he succeeded in obtaining old Wilton’s signature to a document confessed to be of great importance, and he knew that it was not exactly his best course to act in such a manner as to drive the man frenzied with rage by the harsh and heartless proceedings he was instructed to take. He was well aware that a strong pressure must be applied to bring the obstinate old gold-chaser to compliance with the demand now made upon him, but he was also shrewd enough to surmise that an overpressure would have the contrary effect to that desired, and, instead of disposing old Wilton to sign, would render him more firmly than ever fixed on his refusal.
The warrant was, therefore, with due ceremony, handed to Mr. Nutty, and he was instructed to remain until either the claim, under which possession was held, had been paid, or he was directed to quit. He received it with a grim smile of satisfaction, and prepared to go on with his inventory with an inflexible resolve that the most treasured article of affection should not after this escape being recorded in his list.
But even now things were not to remain as thus arranged. The door of the apartment, which had been closed, was once more unceremoniously thrown open.
An old man, with a shrivelled face of a deep turmeric hue, as if the yellow jaundice had been for years his favourite complaint, stalked rather than walked into the room. He was a singular-looking man, with a certain peculiarity in his mien which would prevent the possibility of his going anywhere in society without his being stared at. He wore a violet-coloured cloth frock coat, a buff waistcoat, as yellow as his own face, and chocolate trousers, almost tight enough to be pantaloons; upon his feet, which were small, were polished boots, and upon his head a bright, black, carefully brushed beaver hat, very much turned up at the brim.
He was followed by a small man, dressed all in black, save his cravat; his whiskers and his hair were
White with the whiteness of what is dead,
and formed a strange contrast to his garb.
The yellow-visaged old gentleman, on gaining the middle of the room, turned a pair of jet black, brilliant eyes upon Mr. Jukes and smiled, not auspiciously but cynically, and yet triumphantly.
“The wrong room?” ejaculated Mr. Jukes, suggestively.
“Not at all,” replied the old man, exhibiting a row of teeth, which appeared ghastly in that golden visage. “My name is Nathan Gomer; this house is mine; I am the landlord, and my claim upon the contents of these apartments takes precedence of yours. I think it does—I say I believe it does.”
“If you are the landlord?” said Mr. Jukes, eyeing him doubtfully.