“A gold-worker, living in Clerkenwell?”
“Certainly not. Where is Clerkenwell?”
“Hem! ugh! ugh!”
Nathan Gomer was seized with a cough. He rose up, took his hat and gloves, and put them on with slow precision.
His glittering eye once more perused every feature in Mr. Grahame’s face.
“Mr. Grahame,” he said, slowly, “you shall hear from me.”
“Thank you, thank you, my dear sir,” replied Mr. Grahame, rubbing his hands. “Let me hope in a manner agreeable to my wishes and in accordance with your known liberality.”
“It will be one of two things, Mr. Grahame: either to comply with your proposition, or to issue process for the recovery of the money now due by you to me. Good morning, Mr. Grahame!”
He seemed to glide out of the room down the staircase, and presented himself at the elbow of Whelks, before that personage had any conception that his services were required to show out the “little yellow ob-jek, which,” he was just informing the hall-porter, “he had a few minutes before shown in to the libree.”
In a sharp, shrill, tone, Nathan requested to be let out, and ‘Whelks, taking upon himself the duty of the inert porter, threw open the street-door wide, and closed it with a loud bang, thankful, he knew not wherefore, that the “yaller objek” was out of the house.