"Let me remember what I have to do," he said to himself; "and let me keep
my wits about me till that is done."
CHAPTER II.
PHOENICIANS ARE RISING.
While Mr. Hawkehurst arranged his affairs with the clerk of St.
Matthias-in-the-fields, in the parish of Marylebone, George Sheldon sat
in his brother's office writing a letter to that distinguished
stockbroker. The pretext of writing a letter was the simplest pretext for
being alone in his brother's room; and to be alone in Philip Sheldon's
room was the first step in the business which George had to do.
The room was distractingly neat, and as handsomely furnished as it is
possible for an office to be within the closest official limits. A
Spanish mahogany desk with a cylinder cover, and innumerable drawers
fitted with invisible Bramah locks, occupied the centre of the room; and
four ponderous Spanish mahogany chairs, with padded backs, and seats
covered with crimson morocco, were primly ranged against the wall. Upon
the mantelpiece ticked a skeleton clock; above which there hung the
sternest and grimmest of almanacks, on either whereof were fastened
divers lists and calendars of awful character, affected by gentlemen on
'Change.
Before penetrating to this innermost and sacred chamber, George Sheldon
wasted some little time in agreeable gossip with a gentleman whom he
found yawning over the _Times_ newspaper in an outer and less richly
furnished apartment.
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