“And just when all was looking well too!” cried Morris, smiting his hand upon the desk. And almost at the same moment Mr. Moss was announced.
Mr. Moss was a radiant Hebrew, brutally handsome, and offensively polite. He was acting, it appeared, for a third party; he understood nothing of the circumstances; his client desired to have his position regularised; but he would accept an antedated cheque—antedated by two months, if Mr. Finsbury chose.
“But I don’t understand this,” said Morris. “What made you pay cent. per cent. for it to-day?”
Mr. Moss had no idea; only his orders.
“The whole thing is thoroughly irregular,” said Morris. “It is not the custom of the trade to settle at this time of the year. What are your instructions if I refuse?”
“I am to see Mr. Joseph Finsbury, the head of the firm,” said Mr. Moss. “I was directed to insist on that; it was implied you had no status here—the expressions are not mine.”
“You cannot see Mr. Joseph; he is unwell,” said Morris.
“In that case I was to place the matter in the hands of a lawyer. Let me see,” said Mr. Moss, opening a pocket-book with, perhaps, suspicious care, at the right place—“Yes—of Mr. Michael Finsbury. A relation, perhaps? In that case, I presume, the matter will be pleasantly arranged.”
To pass into the hands of Michael was too much for Morris. He struck his colours. A cheque at two months was nothing, after all. In two months he would probably be dead, or in a gaol at any rate. He bade the manager give Mr. Moss a chair and the paper. “I’m going over to get a cheque signed by Mr. Finsbury,” said he, “who is lying ill at John Street.”