Besides, there was the revolver.
So Mr. Ilam said merely, in a sort of pained surprise:
“Jetsam!”
“Exactly,” said Jetsam.
And the imperturbable fellow, with his grey hair and his shabby suit and his weary eyes, nonchalantly sat down on the edge of one of the counting-tables, his legs dangling, and his body leaning forward.
The two employés were by this time convinced that the new-comer must be either the Shah of Persia in disguise, or else some extremely intimate and life-long friend of Ilam’s, perhaps richer than Ilam himself. The bank-clerk knew by sight several chairmen of banks who were quite as badly dressed as the man on the table. Nevertheless, they did not carry revolvers. The revolver was certainly rather disquieting. However, they bent to their work, as though both eyes of the Recording Angel were upon them.
Ilam closed the door of the safe.
“The doorkeeper let you pass?” he ventured.
“No, not at all,” replied Jetsam.
“He isn’t at his post?”