“Now, what shall I do? Shall I give you a check on the Metropolitan or—”
“By drawing bills of exchange on London,” said the old banker musingly, “Mr. Dawson will not know for some days what you wish the money for.”
“Well, you have one there for £2,000,000 as a starter,” said the young man calmly. Mr. Herzog looked at him searchingly; then he smiled approvingly.
“Good! I see!”
“Well, sir?” asked Grinnell quietly.
“We will sell bills of exchange on London, Berlin, and Paris to Mr. Dawson’s bank. They will presently buy from us, thinking the high rates of exchange tempt us to sell them. This is enough for this week. There are still the bonds of the friends and of the friend’s friends to be sold, Mr.—” The old man paused. “I do not know your name sir; but I know you.”
“My name is Grinnell.”
“Thank you. Of course, it was on the checks. And, if I may ask, sir, what is your business, besides that of a great financier?”
“I am a metallurgical chemist.”
“Chemist?” The old banker started. He looked at Grinnell intently. The young man’s face was impassive; perhaps too impassive. Mr. Herzog blinked his eyes; not dubiously, but as some men will when their thoughts are racing at a furious rate. His head was bent slightly to one side as his alert, intelligent eyes looked and looked at the young man from under the thick, shaggy eyebrows that so heightened the patriarchal aspect of his face. At length he straightened his little body up as though he were on springs, and began to rub his hands briskly. It was imagination—Oriental imagination, more vivid, more opulent in detail than the Occidental.