“No. He’s in the old man’s room. Been in and out there the last half-hour, like a cat with the fidgets. And the old man isn’t there either.”

“Well, what of it? Would he be, on a Saturday morning?”

“Yes, he would—this morning. He’s got an appointment for eleven o’clock. I was here when Du Pine made it for him.”

“An appointment? Who with?”

“Robinson, the Southern Bank man. And he’s bringing Prufrock with him.”

“Prufrock? The solicitor?”

“That’s him.”

Johnson whistled softly. Then he said after a noticeable pause:

“Percy, old man, I suppose you don’t happen to know what it was they were coming to see him about, do you?”

“What are you getting at?”

“I mean, if it was the Redbury bond issue they were asking about, and if old Prufrock starts nosing round——”

“Well?” said Percy. “Suppose it was. You had the handling of that issue, hadn’t you? What about it?”

Johnson was looking straight in front of him. He looked right through the wall and saw a trim red-brick villa at Ealing, heavily mortgaged and utterly desirable, with two small children playing on its minute scrap of lawn, and his wife on the doorstep watching them.

“Well?” Percy repeated.

Johnson turned his head.

“I was just thinking,” he said. “A pal of mine in Garrisons’ told me there was a head clerk’s job going there. It would mean dropping fifty a year, but—I think I shall put in for it, Percy old man.”

An understanding glance passed between the two men, but before either could speak the telephone on the table between them rang. At the same moment the door of Ballantine’s private room opened and Du Pine, the secretary to the company, walked quickly out. He picked up the receiver, barked into it: “Send them up at once!” and had disappeared again in the space of a few seconds.

“You see what I mean?” murmured Percy. “Nervy, eh?”

“I suppose that was Robinson and Prufrock,” said Johnson, rising to his feet. “Well, I’m going round to Garrisons’, now.”

In the inner room, Du Pine took a deep breath and squared his thin shoulders, like a man preparing to face an assault. For a moment he stood thus, then relaxed. His hands, which he had kept still during that brief space by an effort of will, began to jump uneasily from the wrists. He paced the room twice in each direction, then came to a halt opposite a looking-glass. He saw in it a face which would have been handsome but for the unhealthy sallowness of the cheeks, black hair neatly brushed down, a pair of bright beady eyes with heavy lines beneath them. He was still staring at the reflection, as though at the portrait of a stranger, when the visitors were announced.

Du Pine spun round on his heel.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” he exclaimed.