“A very wealthy American financier,” the stockbroker replied, “not at all an unlikely person for a loan of the sort you mention.”
“American citizen?” Peter inquired.
“Without a doubt. Of German descent, I should say, but nothing much left of it in his appearance. He settled over here in a huff because New York society wouldn’t receive his wife.”
“I remember all about it,” Peter declared. “She was a chorus girl, wasn’t she? Nothing particular against her, but the fellow had no tact. Do you know him, Edwardes?”
“Slightly,” the stockbroker answered.
“Give me a letter to him,” Peter said. “Give my credit as good a leg as you can. I shall probably go as a borrower.”
Mr. Edwardes wrote a few lines and handed them to his client.
“Office is nearly opposite,” he remarked. “Wish you luck, whatever your scheme is.”
Peter crossed the street and entered the building which his friend had pointed out. He ascended in the lift to the third floor, knocked at the door which bore Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge’s name, and almost ran into the arms of a charmingly dressed little lady, who was being shown out by a broad-shouldered, typical American. Peter hastened to apologize.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, raising his hat. “I was rather in a hurry and I quite thought I heard some one say ‘Come in.’”