when they sat together in consultation at night.

Not alone; but, with a man of about thirty, or that time of life,
negligently dressed, and somewhat haggard in the face, but well-
made, well-attired, and well-looking, who sat in the armchair of
state, with one hand in his breast, and the other in his
dishevelled hair, pondering moodily. Messrs. Snitchey and Craggs
sat opposite each other at a neighbouring desk. One of the
fireproof boxes, unpadlocked and opened, was upon it; a part of its
contents lay strewn upon the table, and the rest was then in course
of passing through the hands of Mr. Snitchey; who brought it to the
candle, document by document; looked at every paper singly, as he
produced it; shook his head, and handed it to Mr. Craggs; who
looked it over also, shook his head, and laid it down. Sometimes,
they would stop, and shaking their heads in concert, look towards
the abstracted client. And the name on the box being Michael
Warden, Esquire, we may conclude from these premises that the name
and the box were both his, and that the affairs of Michael Warden,
Esquire, were in a bad way.

'That's all,' said Mr. Snitchey, turning up the last paper.
'Really there's no other resource. No other resource.'

'All lost, spent, wasted, pawned, borrowed, and sold, eh?' said the
client, looking up.

'All,' returned Mr. Snitchey.

'Nothing else to be done, you say?'