“He has just deposited $250,000—an Assay Office check, the same as last Thursday. You said if he should——”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Mr. Dawson sharply. “Tell him to be kind enough to come in.” He muttered to himself: “That makes half a million in gold in a fortnight. H’m!” When Mr. Dawson h’mmed to himself it meant business—usually, woe to the vanquished!
He rose to greet the h’m-compelling depositor.
“How do you do, Mr. Grinnell?” He smiled with a cordiality that was more than mere affability and extended his hand. The president’s grasp was firm. Wall Street said that his soul had been in cold storage some thirty thousand centuries before it came down to earth to animate the body of Richard Dawson. But Mr. Dawson, just as there are men who endeavour to seem honest by habitually looking you straight in the eyes, believed that strong pressure must indicate genuine friendliness in a hand clasp.
Mr. Grinnell smiled. There was not the faintest trace of hostility in the young man’s smile; but it was not a fatuous smile, nevertheless.
“The cashier said you——”
“Yes; I told him to ask you to be good enough to see me. I hope I am not inconveniencing you?”
“Not at all. But I fancy you are very busy.”
The president smiled in self-defence.
“Mr. Grinnell,” he said, with a sort of quizzical joviality, “you have been a source of some—I’ll own up”—with the amused smile of men when they confess to an essentially feminine sin—“curiosity. I tell you frankly that I’d very much like to know more about you—what you are doing, what you have done, what you intend to do. In the past fifteen days you have deposited with us a half-million in gold.” He again smiled; this time interrogatively.