“He is a thorough Jew to look at, but he is a more thorough Jew to deal with. He’s worst when he’s quiet. If he’s quiet, I shall take it as a very bad sign. Keep your eye upon him when he comes in, and, if he’s quiet, don’t be hopeful. Here he is!—He looks quiet.”
With these words, which had the effect of causing the harmless Twemlow painful agitation, Mr. Fledgeby withdrew to his former post, and the old man entered the countinghouse.
“Why, Mr. Riah,” said Fledgeby, “I thought you were lost!”
The old man, glancing at the stranger, stood stock-still. He perceived that his master was leading up to the orders he was to take, and he waited to understand them.
“I really thought,” repeated Fledgeby slowly, “that you were lost, Mr. Riah. Why, now I look at you—but no, you can’t have done it; no, you can’t have done it!”
Hat in hand, the old man lifted his head, and looked distressfully at Fledgeby as seeking to know what new moral burden he was to bear.
“You can’t have rushed out to get the start of everybody else, and put in that bill of sale at Lammle’s?” said Fledgeby. “Say you haven’t, Mr. Riah.”
“Sir, I have,” replied the old man in a low voice.
“Oh my eye!” cried Fledgeby. “Tut, tut, tut! Dear, dear, dear! Well! I knew you were a hard customer, Mr. Riah, but I never thought you were as hard as that.”
“Sir,” said the old man, with great uneasiness, “I do as I am directed. I am not the principal here. I am but the agent of a superior, and I have no choice, no power.”