“Well, I have come on behalf of Don Juan.” And seeing that the Pretender’s name made but a faint impression on the confidential secretary, or whatever he should be styled, Lord Alistair entered earnestly into the history of the Prince, his claims, his hopes, and his prospects of success, winding up with the explanation that Don Juan had authorized him to negotiate a loan.
“Do you offer security?” was the confidential man’s sole comment on this appeal.
The question dragged Alistair promptly down from the height of his enthusiasm.
“The Prince would guarantee repayment out of the taxes, I suppose,” he said a little doubtfully. “Or couldn’t he give concessions for railways, or mines, or something? He would leave that to Mr. Mendes, I should think.”
A very faint smile creased the mouth of the City man. He took a slip of cardboard from a stand in front of him, and wrote a few words on it: “Lord A. Stuart. Loan for Pretender. No security.”
With this in his hand he rose and passed into an adjoining room.
In less than a minute he returned, accompanied by a younger man, who bowed respectfully to Lord Alistair as he said:
“Will you come to Mr. Mendes, my lord?”
Alistair rose eagerly and followed him, feeling pretty sure that the banker had been disengaged the whole time. But the barriers he had had to surmount had considerably weakened his self-confidence, and he experienced a sensible relief when Mendes, rising at his entrance, shook hands with his accustomed friendliness, and offered him an easy-chair.
“I hope my people haven’t bothered you too much,” the millionaire said. “But you find me here with my armour on, keeping guard over my money-bags. Who is your royal friend?”