‘Twenty-five!’ exclaimed the other. ‘They mean five. It’s a clerical error.’
‘The amount is written out in words.’
‘It’s a clerical error.’
‘Doubtless, sir.’
Even now the Napoleon would not believe that misfortune, perhaps ruin, was at his door. He doggedly refused to face the fact. It seemed incredible, unthinkable, that anything could happen to him. So we all think until the crash comes. He plunged into the mass of general correspondence with a fine appearance of perfect calmness. But he could not deceive Mr. Oakley.
At five minutes past nine there was a careful tap at the door. The messenger had returned from Adelphi Terrace. Mr. Redgrave was not at his rooms. He had gone out on the previous evening, and had not come in again. The landlady knew not where he was.
‘Send again at noon, Oakley,’ said the Napoleon.
In another minute there was another tap at the door.
‘Come in!’—angrily.
The footman announced that Sir Arthur Custer had called.