“In that case I think you had better let me send in a message of some kind,” persisted his questioner.
Alistair flushed up.
“Does Mr. Mendes know I am here?” he demanded.
The other shook his head slightly.
“Mr. Mendes’ orders are very strict, and I am obliged to respect them. I am not authorized to send in a visitor’s card without some intimation of the business on which he has come.”
Alistair sat dismayed. A sense of impotence stole over him, at the same time that the figure of the man with whom he had been familiar for so long began to grow larger and more formidable of outline before his awakened eyes. All these precautions interposed between him and the millionaire taught him a new estimate of their respective positions in the world. He, Alistair Stuart, might be called a lord, but which of the two really was lord? His courtesy title, his historic lineage, his royal friendships—all these things might give him a sentimental prestige in the eyes of women struggling on the fringe of society, and still cherishing the delusions of the snob. But in this grim City office, where only realities counted, what was he but a needy insolvent, regarded with suspicion as a probable would-be borrower? The feudal age was past, and the trappings of feudalism stood revealed for the worthless, threadbare frippery they were, as if a strong beam of daylight had suddenly fallen on the painted canvas of a theatrical scene. The feudal age was past, the old Viking race, whose stone keeps dot the English shires, had gone down, never to rise again, and to-day the barons of steel were being broken in pieces by the barons of gold.
While these reflections were passing in one compartment of his brain in another the decision formed itself to accept the conditions.
“My business is confidential,” he ventured first.
The intermediary bowed.
“I am in Mr. Mendes’ confidence.”