Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned pla

into extemporised strongrooms made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family papers went upstairs into a Barm

Outside Tellson's - never by any means in it, unless called in - was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent during business h