T. B. Smith drew a card from his case. He also produced a tiny envelope, in which he inserted the card.
A few minutes later the messenger returned.
"Sir George will see you," he said, and ushered them into an anteroom. "Just a moment, gentlemen; Sir George is engaged."
Ten minutes passed before he came again. Then he reappeared, and they followed him along a marble-tiled corridor to the sanctum of the great man.
It was a large room, solidly and comfortably furnished and thickly carpeted. The only ornamentation was the beautifully carved mantel, over which hung the portrait of Septimus Bronte, who, in 1743, had founded the institution which bore his name.
He was a tall young man with sandy hair and a high, bald forehead. From his square-toed boots to his black satin cravat, he was commercial solidity personified. T. B. noted the black ribbon watchguard, the heavy dull gold signet-ring, the immaculately manicured nails, the dangling black-rimmed monocle, and catalogued his observations for future reference.
Van Ingen, who saw with another eye and from a different point of view, mentally recorded a rosebud on the carpet and a handkerchief.
"Now, what can I do for you?" asked Sir George; he picked up the card from the desk and refreshed his memory.
"We're very sorry to trouble you," began T. B. conventionally, but the baronet waved the apology aside.
"I gather you have not come to see me out of office hours without cause," he said, and his tone rather suggested that it would be unpleasant even for an Assistant-Commissioner, if he had.
"No, but I've come to make myself a nuisance--I want to ask you questions," said T. B. coolly.
"So long as they are pertinent to the business in hand, I shall have every pleasure in answering," replied Sir George.
"First and foremost, is there the slightest danger of Bronte's Bank failing?" asked T. B. Smith calmly.
The audacity of the question struck the baronet dumb.
"Failing?" he repeated. "Bronte's fail--Mr. Smith, are you jesting?"
"I was never more in earnest," said T. B. "Think what you like of my impertinence, but humour me, please."
The banker looked hard at the man before him, as though to detect some evidence of ill-timed humour.
"It is no more possible for Bronte's to fail than the Bank of England," he said brusquely.