giving a view of the extensive warehouse beyond. It was here that Mr. Bultiwell’s ghosts were gathered together,—ghosts of buyers from every town in the United Kingdom, casting occasional longing glances towards where the enthroned magnate sat, hoping that he might presently issue forth and vouchsafe them a word or two of greeting; ghosts of sellers, too, sellers of hides and skins from India and South America, Mexico and China, all anxious to do business with the world-famed House of Bultiwell. Every now and then the great man would condescend to exchange amenities with one of these emissaries [Pg 38]from distant parts. Everywhere was stir and bustle. Every few minutes a salesman would present himself, with a record of his achievements. All the time the hum of voices, the clattering of chains, the dust and turmoil of moving merchandise, the coming and going of human beings, all helping to drive the wheel of prosperity for the House of Bultiwell!...

[Pg 38]

The ghosts faded away. Two old men were outside, dusting stacks of leather. There was no one else, no sound of movement or life. Bultiwell glanced at his watch, as he sat there and waited. Presently he struck the bell in front of him, and a grey-haired bookkeeper shuffled in.

“What time did Pedlar say Mr. Pratt would be round?” he asked harshly.

“Between eleven and twelve, sir.”

Mr. Bultiwell glanced at his watch and grunted.

“Where’s Mr. Haskall?”

“Gone round to the sale, sir.”

“He got my message?” Mr. Bultiwell asked anxiously.

“I told him that he was on no account to buy, sir,” the cashier assented. “He was somewhat disappointed. There is a probability of a rise in hides, and most of the pits down at the tannery are empty.”

Mr. Bultiwell groaned under his breath. His eyes met the eyes of his old employé.

“You know why we can’t buy—at the sales, Jenkins,” he muttered.

[Pg 39]

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