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They don't belong to him, and they never did. You found that, and you placed them in my hands a legal friend of yours for security. If he forces us to it, they'll be producible, won't they?" "Ye-es," is Mr. Weevle's reluctant admission. "Why, Tony," remonstrates his friend, "how you look! You don't doubt William Guppy? You don't suspect any harm?"
Weevle? That's well, that's well. Ha! Ha! We should have been forced to sell you up, sir, to pay your warehouse room if you had left it here much longer. You feel quite at home here again, I dare say? Glad to see you, glad to see you!" Mr. Weevle, thanking him, casts an eye about. Mr. Guppy's eye follows Mr. Weevle's eye. Mr. Weevle's eye comes back without any new intelligence in it. Mr.
Weevle's eye, attended by Mr. Guppy's eye, has again gone round the room and come back. "Well, sir," says Mr. Weevle. "We won't intrude any longer if you'll allow us to go upstairs." "Anywhere, my dear sir, anywhere! You're at home. Make yourself so, pray!" As they go upstairs, Mr. Guppy lifts his eyebrows inquiringly and looks at Tony. Tony shakes his head.
But fashion is Mr. Weevle's, as it was Tony Jobling's, weakness. To borrow yesterday's paper from the Sol's Arms of an evening and read about the brilliant and distinguished meteors that are shooting across the fashionable sky in every direction is unspeakable consolation to him.
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