"Bronte's Bank, Holborn," was the direction he gave.
"Like the immortal Mrs. Harris, there ain't no Bronte, as you know," he said. "The head of the business is Sir George Calliper. He's an austere young man of thirty-five or thereabouts. President of philosophical societies and patron of innumerable philanthropies."
"Has no vices," added Van Ingen.
"And therefore a little inhuman," commented T. B. "Here we are."
They drew up before the severe façade of Bronte's, and dismissed the cab.
The bank was closed, but there was a side door—if, indeed, such an insignificant title could be applied to the magnificent portal of mahogany and brass—and a bell, which was answered by a uniformed porter.
"The bank is closed, gentlemen," he said when T. B. had stated his errand.
"My business is very urgent," said T. B. imperatively, and the man hesitated.
"I am afraid Sir George has left the building," he said, "but, if you will give me your cards, I will see."
T. B. Smith drew a card from his case. He also produced a tiny envelope, in which he inserted the card.