CHAPTER XXIV.
Mr.Pole was closeted in his City counting-house with Mr.Pericles, before a heap of papers and newly-opened foreign letters; to one of which, bearing a Russian stamp, he referred fretfully at times, as if to verify a monstrous fact.

Any one could have seen that he was not in a condition to transact business.

His face was unnaturally patched with colour, and his grey-tinged hair hung tumbled over his forehead like waves blown by a changeing wind.

Still, he maintained his habitual effort to look collected, and defeat the scrutiny of the sallow-eyed fellow opposite; who quietly glanced, now and then, from the nervous feet to the nervous fingers, and nodded to himself a sardonic outlandish nod.
"Now, listen to me," said Mr.Pericles.

"We shall not burst out about zis Riga man.