of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own

sister. Just as I am getting on!”

“The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross.

“Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I

have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate

word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged

between us, and I will detain you no longer.”

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had

come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it

for a fact years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious

brother had spent her money and left her!

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more

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grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown

if their relative merits and positions had been reversed (which is

invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher,

touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly

interposed with the following singular question:

“I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John

Solomon, or Solomon John?”

The official turned towards him with a sudden distrust. He had

not previously uttered a word.

“Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. “Speak out, you know.” (Which, by

the way, was more than he could do himself) “John Solomon, or

Solomon John? Sh