“And the bank,” he said. “What about that? Thousands of people depend upon the success of Fratten’s Bank. All your shareholders—it’s been your policy—our policy—for generations to distribute the shares widely and in small holdings—mostly to small people. Small tradesmen, single ladies, retired soldiers and sailors, your own employees. Many of them have all their savings in Fratten’s Bank. You know well enough that the position of the private banks is anything but secure in these days—half a slip, and the ‘big five’ swallow them. We’re doing well now, we’re even prosperous—why?—because of you. Your knowledge, your experience, your flair—you are the bank, the rest of us are dummies. I don’t plead for myself, but my own position, my financial and social position are entirely dependent upon Fratten’s.”
Sir Garth shook his head impatiently.
“You exaggerate,” he said. “The Board is perfectly capable of running the bank without me—probably better. You yourself are worth in fact, though possibly not in the eyes of the public, every bit as much to the welfare of the bank as I am. You may have less experience but you have a quicker, a more acute, financial brain than I ever had and I’m past my prime—I’m depreciating in value every day. No, no, Leo; you’ve over-stated your case, and that’s fatal. I’ll take care, of course, but that appeal ad misericordiam—weeping widows and trusting orphans—is all bunkum. Anyway I must get along now—I can’t stand here arguing all day.”
Hessel’s expression was grim.
“You’ve definitely decided?” he asked.
“If it’s sound, yes. I’ve taken a leaf out of your book, Leo, about the club. I’m grateful to you for your consideration, for your advice, much of it very sound, but—I shan’t change my mind.”
He moved off down the alley, and Hessel, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him in silence. They turned into Lombard Street, both evidently wrapped in deep and probably anxious thought—so much so that Sir Garth, omitting for once the fixed habit of years, stepped into the roadway to cross the street without glancing over his shoulder at the traffic. As he did so, a motor-bicycle combination swooped from behind a van straight at him. With a violent start, Fratten awoke to his danger and stepped back on to the pavement, untouched, while the cyclist, with a glance back to see that all was well, sputtered on his way.
But though there had been no collision, all was very far from being well. The banker took two or three shaky steps forward and then tottered to the inner side of the pavement and leant, gasping, against the wall. His face was very pale, and he pressed his hand against his chest.
A crowd had gathered at the first sight of the unusual and now pressed closely round the sick man, adding its heedless quota to his distress. Hessel, who had come quickly to his companion’s side, did his best to drive off the sensation-vultures, but it was not till a majestic City policeman appeared that their victim was given a chance to breathe in comfort. After loosening his collar, the constable and Hessel guided Fratten into the office outside which the mishap had occurred. Quickly recovering himself and declining the manager’s offer to send for some brandy, Sir Garth brushed aside the constable’s desire to trace the motor-cyclist.
“No, no. No need to make a fuss,” he said. “It was as much my fault as his, and anyway you people have got more important work to do than that. I’m quite all right now; it would have been nothing if I hadn’t happened to have a dicky heart. I’d like a taxi though. I shan’t come to the bank now, Leo; it’s getting late. Ask Ruslett to send me round the papers about that Hungarian issue to my house. I shall be there by five.”