“Ha ha!” laughed Lammle. “Yes. Of course. We know.”
“Devilish good, ain’t it, Lammle?” said Fledgeby, unspeakably amused by his hidden joke.
“Always the same, always the same!” said Lammle. “ Mr. —”
“Riah, Pubsey and Co. Saint Mary Axe,” Fledgeby put in, as he wiped away the tears that trickled from his eyes, so rare was his enjoyment of his secret joke.
“ Mr. Riah is bound to observe the invariable forms for such cases made and provided,” said Lammle.
“He is only the representative of another!” cried Fledgeby. “Does as he is told by his principal! Not his capital that’s invested in the business. Oh, that’s good! Ha ha ha ha!” Mr. Lammle joined in the laugh and looked knowing; and the more he did both, the more exquisite the secret joke became for Mr. Fledgeby.
“However,” said that fascinating gentleman, wiping his eyes again, “if we go on in this way, we shall seem to be almost making game of Mr. Riah, or of Pubsey and Co. , Saint Mary Axe, or of somebody: which is far from our intention. Mr. Riah, if you would have the kindness to step into the next room for a few moments while I speak with Mr. Lammle here, I should like to try to make terms with you once again before you go.”
The old man, who had never raised his eyes during the whole transaction of Mr. Fledgeby’s joke, silently bowed and passed out by the door which Fledgeby opened for him. Having closed it on him, Fledgeby returned to Lammle, standing with his back to the bedroom fire, with one hand under his coat-skirts, and all his whiskers in the other.
“Halloa!” said Fledgeby. “There’s something wrong!”