But just as he was turning back the porter said to him, “Your carriage is here, sir,” and as he spoke a quiet brougham, drawn by a pair of handsome greys, pulled up at the door. This relieved him of all anxiety. He stepped in, saying “Home!” to the groom, just as if he knew where Home was.
He leant back on the soft cushions as the brougham drove off.
“Come,” thought he, “this is better—this is something like. A good berth—secretary or manager perhaps—in a substantial Bank—at least we'll hope it's substantial—and a brougham and pair to drive me home to some snug little villa in the Regent's Park; or perhaps a good house in Bedford Square, and Louisa and the children waiting for me at home. I wonder how Louisa's looking. Dear Louisa! I'm glad she wasn't on board the slaver!”
The brougham drove down Oxford Street.
“Ha!” thought he, “it isn't Bedford Square. Well, I am glad it isn't Bedford Square. I prefer the Regent's Park. By-the-bye, I wonder what my income is?”
He felt in his pocket, and found a pocket-book containing business appointments and important memoranda—all in his own writing, and many of them incomprehensible to him owing to their being written in a kind of cypher or shorthand with which he was not familiar.
“I hope,” thought he, “I shall find the key to these, or I shall get into a mess.”
He read through several legible memoranda, and eventually lit on the following:—
“Sept. 29th, Qr's. Sal. £375.
