“Mind, Barton, don’t forget sharp six is the dinner-hour; you were ten minutes late yesterday, and the joint was overdone.”
In a few minutes Mr. Barton was on the roof of his ‘bus on his way to the city. As he went along he sat grave and immoveable, scrutinizing the passers-by, as if he considered they all possessed secrets he might be some day called upon to investigate.
Mr. Barton’s office was in one of the narrow streets leading off Cheapside, and consisted of two rooms on the first floor, the one a general waiting-room, the other his private office. In the former two lads were at work at a desk, copying from the “Gazette” the bankrupt and insolvent list.
“Has any one been here?”
“One gentleman, sir; he left his card.”
Mr. Barton looked at it. “Did he say he would call again?”
“He left word would you go round directly you came in.”
The card was that of the manager of a large banking firm.
“Ask any one who calls to wait, I shall not be gone many minutes,” and Mr. Barton took his way to the Bank.
On his sending in his name, he was at once shown into the manager’s room. The manager, an elderly man with spectacles, was evidently at the present time considerably ruffled and put out.