‘Hockliffe.’
‘Here’s your two sovereigns,’ said Simon Lock gladly.
The lad capered down the street in the exuberance of joy.
Simon had learnt something. And yet, when he thought over what he had learnt, he seemed to think somehow that it was valueless to him. He had guessed all along who was at the bottom of the La Princesse business. His guess had been confirmed—that was all. He had threatened that, when he knew, he would do such and such dreadful things; but what could he, in fact, do? Should he send for Raphael Craig and threaten him? With what? It would be absurd to threaten with dismissal from a post worth at most a thousand a year a man who stood to gain hundreds of thousands from you. No; that manoeuvre would not serve. At last he decided that he would pay a surprise visit of inspection to the Kilburn office of the British and Scottish Bank, and then act as circumstances dictated.
He jumped into a hansom.
‘Kilburn,’ he said shortly.
‘What ho!’ exclaimed the driver, not caring for such a long journey; ‘Kilburn, eh? What’s the matter with the Tuppenny Toob?’
However, Simon Lock insisted on being driven to Kilburn, and was duly driven thither, though at a pace which suited the horse better than it suited Simon Lock. The latter revenged himself—but not on the horse—by paying the precise legal fare.
He walked into the bank. No one knew him. His august presence caused no flutter of excitement. The cashier inquired briefly what he wanted.
‘The manager,’ said Simon Lock.