“Seems to me,” said Turner, opening his inkstand, “that the vintage of 1850 will not be drunk by a Republic.”
“Ah! indeed.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, my mind was more occupied in the quality of the vintage than in its ultimate fate. If you make out a receipt on behalf of Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, I will sign it,” answered Colville, fingering the blotting-paper.
“Received on behalf of, and for, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, the sum of one hundred thousand francs,” muttered the banker, as he wrote.
“She is only a client, you understand, my dear Colville,” he went on, holding out his hand for the blotting-paper, “or I would not part with the money so easily. It is against my advice that Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence realises this sum.”
“If a woman sets her heart on a thing, my dear fellow—” began Colville, carelessly.
“Yes, I know—reason goes to the wall. Sign there, will you?”
Turner handed him pen and receipt, but Colville was looking toward the window sunk deep in the wall on the inner side of the room. This was not a double window, and the sound of carriage wheels rose above the gentle, continuous plash of the little fountain in the court-yard.
Colville rose from his seat, but to reach the window he had to pass behind Turner’s chair. Turner rose at the same moment, and pushed his chair back against the wall in doing so. This passage toward the window being completely closed by the bulk of John Turner, Colville hurried round the writing-table. But Turner was again in front of him, and, without appearing to notice that his companion was literally at his heels, he opened a large cupboard sunk in the panelling of the wall. The door of it folded back over the little window, completely hiding it.