There was a sardonic smile upon the hard face of the senior partner as he closed the door behind his visitor.  “It’s a legitimate investment,” he muttered to himself as he resumed his seat.  “What with his Parliamentary interest and his financial power, it’s a very legitimate investment.  It looks well on the list, too, and inspires confidence.  I think the money is well spent.”

Ezra had bowed politely as the great man passed through the office, and Gilray, the wizened senior clerk, opened the outer door.  Jefferson Edwards turned as he passed him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Lucky fellow,” he said in his jerky way.  “Good employer—­model to follow—­great man.  Watch him, mark him, imitate him—­that’s the way to get on.  Can’t go wrong,” and he trotted down the street in search of fresh contributions towards his latest fad.

CHAPTER III.

THOMAS GILRAY MAKES AN INVESTMENT.

The shambling little clerk was still standing at the door watching the retreating figure of the millionaire, and mentally splicing together his fragmentary remarks into a symmetrical piece of advice which might be carried home and digested at leisure, when his attention was attracted to a pale-faced woman, with a child in her arms, who was hanging about the entrance.  She looked up at the clerk in a wistful way, as if anxious to address him and yet afraid to do so.  Then noting, perhaps, some gleam of kindness in his yellow wrinkled face, she came across to him.

“D’ye think I could see Muster Girdlestone, sir,” she asked, with a curtsey; “or, maybe, you’re Mr. Girdlestone yourself?” The woman was wretchedly dressed, and her eyelids were swollen and red as from long crying.

“Mr. Girdlestone is in his room,” said the head clerk kindly.  “I have no doubt that he will see you if you will wait for a moment.”  Had he been speaking to the grandest of the be-silked and be-feathered dames who occasionally frequented the office; he could not have spoken with greater courtesy.  Verily in these days the spirit of true chivalry has filtered down from the surface and has found a lodgment in strange places.

The merchant looked with a surprised and suspicious eye at his visitor when she was ushered in.  “Take a seat, my good woman,” he said.  “What can I do for you?”

“Please, Mr. Girdlestone, I’m Mrs. Hudson,” she answered, seating herself in a timid way upon the extreme edge of a chair.  She was weary and footsore, for she had carried the baby up from Stepney that morning.

“Hudson—­Hudson—­can’t remember the name,” said Girdlestone, shaking his head reflectively.

“Jim Hudson as was, sir, he was my husband, the bo’sun for many a year o’ your ship the Black Eagle.  He went out to try and earn a bit for me and the child, sir, but he’s dead o’ fever, poor dear, and lying in Bonny river, wi’ a cannon ball at his feet, as the carpenter himself told me who sewed him up, and I wish I was dead and with him, so I do.”  She began sobbing in her shawl and moaning, while the child, suddenly awakened by the sound, rubbed its eyes with its wrinkled mottled hands, and then proceeded to take stock of Mr. Girdlestone and his office with the critical philosophy of infancy.