On the bridge Da Souza saw him accost a policeman, and brushing close by, heard him ask the same question. The man shook his head, but pointed eastwards.
“I can't say exactly, sir, but somewhere in the City, for certain,” he answered. “I should make for the Bank of England, a penny 'bus along that way will take you—and ask again there.”
The old man nodded his thanks and stepped along Da Souza felt that his time had come. He accosted him with an urbane smile.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I think I heard you ask for the offices of the Bekwando Land Company.”
The old man looked up eagerly. “If you can direct me there, sir,” he said, “I shall be greatly obliged.”
“I can do so,” Da Souza said, falling into step, “and will with pleasure. I am going that way myself. I hope,” he continued in a tone of kindly concern, “that you are not a shareholder in the Company.”
The old man dropped his bag with a clatter upon the pavement, and his lips moved for a moment without any speech coming from them. Da Souza picked up the bag and devoutly hoped that none of his City friends were in the way.
“I don't exactly know about being a shareholder,” the old man said nervously, “but I've certainly something to do with it. I am, or should have been, joint vendor. The Company is wealthy, is it not?”
Da Souza changed the bag into his other hand and thrust his arm through his companion's.
“You haven't seen the papers lately, have you?”