Over the breakfast-table Peter Blagden told the hardly believable tale, and Buffy Thompson believed.
“I’m going to put it boldly into the one stock that won’t turn a hair,” he ended; “I’m going to buy New Bearer Loan.” He turned up the last page of the morning paper Martin had brought—the accustomed one, the Messenger. “99—8½ ... about 3 months to mature. There’ll be an odd 40,000 pounds or so.” Buffy Thompson was awed at such nonchalance—it was uncanny. “I’ll transfer it to current account in the bank at Patcham—in my own name.” He suddenly got up. “I can’t wait, Buffy, I’m on wires. You won’t mind helping me in a little business matter?”
“No,” said Buffy, “all in reason.”
“Oh! It’ll be all in reason, never fear. Now take your hat and stick and come with me.”
They drove to that Branch Bank which should be famous in the annals of Banking. Together they passed the swing doors. Together they stood as Mr. Blagden—Mr. Petre, I mean—addressed Moonface with a firm courtesy. Together they were conducted through the carpeted corridor, past the three engravings, together they entered the Sacred Cell. Mr. Petre introduced, “My dear sir, this is my friend Mr. Palling Thompson.” They all bowed. No flies were on Mr. Petre that morning. He knew his own mind at last.
“By all means, Mr. Petre, by all means. Ah! And for the purpose...?”
“One moment.” Mr. Petre pulled out a small vellum-bound book from his pocket. “Yes ... £3,273,764 6s. 2d. There are no checks outstanding. I am about to draw £264 6s. 2d. That leaves £3,273,500.”
The obvious truth needed no reply.
“Now, my dear sir,” Mr. Petre went on with calm decision, “the New National Bearer Bonds are at 98½ this morning? They were that yesterday.”
The Manager rang and asked for the sheet. It came flimsy and large; he put on his spectacles too slowly and confirmed. Yes. 98⅜, ½.