"Naturally," she answered demurely, "after what the bank manager said."
"It rests on the bank manager, does it?"
She blushed faintly. "No, Mr. Hewson, it doesn't. One doesn't need a bank manager to confirm—a certainty."
And then the fool engine-driver had started his beastly machine. But to call it a normal departure is obviously absurd.
III
"Good-morning. Mr. Ferguson, I believe?".
Hewson entered the office at 20, Plumpton Street, and bowed slightly to the man at the desk. As he had expected, the type was a common one—one, incidentally, with which he had had a good deal to do himself. Mr. Arthur Ferguson could be placed at once in the category of men who consider that in business everything is fair, and that if they can get the better of another man the funeral is his. And as an outlook on life there is nothing much to be said against it, provided the other man is of the same kidney.
"Yes." Ferguson indicated a chair. "What can I do for you, Mr.——" He paused, interrogatively.
"I have come to have a short talk with you on a little matter of business." Hewson took the proffered chair, while Ferguson glanced at him covertly. Who the deuce was the fellow? His face seemed vaguely familiar.
"Delighted!" he murmured. "Have a cigar?"