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.'

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. 'And how the farce is to be kept up

completely passes me. At Browndean it was just possible; in Bloomsbury

it seems beyond human ingenuity--though I suppose it's what Michael

does. But then he has accomplices--that Scotsman and the whole gang. Ah,

220

The Wrong Box