“I think I should like to have a sight draft on London for two million pounds sterling, Mr. Williams.”
The assistant cashier opened his mouth. Remembering what the president had said—and the tone of his voice—he closed it apologetically and, to excuse himself said, very quickly: “Certainly, Mr. Grinnell, certainly.” He busied himself with the expostulating head of the bank’s foreign exchange department. It was an extraordinary transaction, but the Metropolitan was an extraordinary bank, and Mr. Dawson was an extraordinary man when vexed.
He came back and asked: “Payable to whom, Mr. Grinnell?”
“To my order, please.”
“Yes, sir; yes, sir.”
The bill of exchange for £2,000,000 was made out on Waring Bros., of London, in favour of George K. Grinnell. Mr. Williams handed it to Grinnell with an obsequious little flourish and said, “Thank you, Mr. Grinnell.”
“Thank you,” said Grinnell smiling. “Good-morning.”
Mr. Williams bowed him out.
Grinnell walked briskly up Wall Street to the Wolff Building, and entered the office of Wolff, Herzog & Co.
“I should like to see Mr. Isaac Herzog,” he told a spectacled, middle-aged man who sat by a little table near the gate of a railing on the other side of which was a half-door of ground glass marked “Private.”