such preposterous self-seeking? To solicit out of hand, for my private behoof, an hundred dollars from a perfect stranger? I am not mad, my dear sir."
"How, how?" still more bewildered, "do you, then, go about the world, gratis, seeking to invest people's money for them?"
"My humble profession, sir. I live not for myself; but the world will not have confidence in me, and yet confidence in me were great gain."
"But, but," in a kind of vertigo, "what do—do you do—do with people's money? Ugh, ugh! How is the gain made?"
"To tell that would ruin me. That known, every one would be going into the business, and it would be overdone. A secret, a mystery—all I have to do with you is to receive your confidence, and all you have to do with me is, in due time, to receive it back, thrice paid in trebling profits."
"What, what?" imbecility in the ascendant once more; "but the vouchers, the vouchers," suddenly hunkish again.
"Honesty's best voucher is honesty's face."
"Can't see yours, though," peering through the obscurity. From this last alternating flicker of rationality, the miser fell back, sputtering, into his previous gibberish, but it took now an arithmetical turn. Eyes closed, he lay muttering to himself—
"One hundred, one hundred—two hundred, two hundred—three hundred, three hundred."
