'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.'
A cab there and a cab back; here were inroads on his wretched capital!
He counted the cost; when he was done with Mr Moss he would be left with
twelvepence-halfpenny in the world. What was even worse, he had now been
forced to bring his uncle up to Bloomsbury. 'No use for poor Johnny
in Hampshire now,' he reflected.
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