“Yes, I am a banker,” he said, more genially.
The Minister gave a short laugh.
“Monsieur,” he said, “every one in Europe knows that. Proceed.”
“And I only meddle in politics when I see the possibility of making an honest penny.”
“Already made—that honest penny—if one may believe the gossip—of Europe,” said the Minister. “So many pence that it is whispered that you do not know what to do with them.”
“It is unfortunate,” admitted Turner, “that one can only dine once a day.”
The little gentleman in office had more than once invited his visitor to be seated, indicating by a gesture the chair placed ready for him. After a slow inspection of its legs, Mr. John Turner now seated himself. It would seem that he, at the same time, tacitly accepted the invitation to ignore the presence of a third person.
“Since you seem to know all about me,” he said, “I will not waste any more of your time, or mine, by trying to make you believe that I am eminently respectable. The business that brought me here, however, is of a political nature. A plain man, like myself, only touches politics when he sees his gain clearly. There are others who enter that field from purer motives, I am told. I have not met them.”
The Minister smiled on one side of his face, and all of it went white. He glanced uncomfortably at that third person, whom he had suggested ignoring.
“And yet,” went on John Turner, very dense or greatly daring, “I have lived many years in France, Monsieur le Ministre.”