Mr Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth. He did really know it all — if he could prove that which he knew. He had extended his inquiries¹ in the city till he had convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have had twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to cover the liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star — perhaps not giving sufficient credence² to the recuperative powers of modern commerce. Squercum told a certain stockbroker³ in the City, who was his specially⁴ confidential⁵ friend, that Melmotte was a ‘gone coon.’ The stockbroker made also some few inquiries, and on that evening agreed with Squercum that Melmotte was a ‘gone coon.’ If such were the case it would positively⁶ be the making of Squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as the destroying angel of this offensive dragon. So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against him. They could not dare to bid defiance⁷ to Squercum — feeling that they had themselves blundered, and feeling also that they must be careful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood. ‘I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client,’ said Squercum to the elder of the two younger Bideawhiles.

‘I give up nothing and I assert nothing,’ said the superior attorney. ‘Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman’s signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be like the last.’

‘Would you let me look at it again, Mr Bideawhile?’ Then the letter which had been very often inspected during the last ten days was handed to Mr Squercum. ‘It’s a stiff resemblance; — such as he never could have written had he tried it ever so.’

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