‘Mr. Craig?’
‘If you please.’
‘Mr. Craig is taking his annual holiday.’
‘Thanks,’ said Simon Lock, grinding his teeth, and walked out. He had experienced exactly the same rebuff as Richard Redgrave a few days previously.
That evening, though he had several engagements, including one to dine at the house of a Marquis in Park Lane, Simon Lock dined at home in Manchester Square. The entire household trembled, for the formidable widower was obviously in a silent and bitter rage. He found the indefatigable Oakley in the library.
‘Has that ass Custer been here again?’ he asked.
‘No, sir,’ said Oakley; ‘that ass Sir Arthur Custer has not been here within my knowledge.’
Many a clerk of Simon Lock’s had suffered sudden dismissal for a far slighter peccadillo than this sally on the part of Mr. Oakley. The fact was, Simon Lock was too surprised at the pleasantry, coming as it did from a man who seldom joked, to take any practical notice of it. The two men—the clerk and the Napoleon of finance—glanced at each other.
‘You are in a devilish merry humour tonight, Oakley!’ exclaimed Simon Lock.
‘It is my birthday, sir.’