Mr. Petre held it up to the light and got absorbed in the grain and the Royal Arms. Then he remembered his business and put it down again.
Mr. Petre asked for a sheet of note-paper and murmured as he wrote thereon: “Please buy me 320 £10,000 nominal National Bearer Bonds at current price, this date. The balance of my account pay in to the account of Mr. Peter Blagden, of Harrington, in the Empire Bank, Patcham Branch,” and he signed boldly “John K. Petre.”
He looked up and spoke: “I want those bills put....” he began. “No! I’ll add it in writing.”
He murmured again: “P.S.—Please put the securities so purchased into a secure receptacle and keep them against my coming”—“What’s to-day? Tuesday. I’ll come on Friday”—“against my coming on Friday next, the 22nd, at 11 a.m., when I shall take them with me.—J. K. P.” “There!” he added in the tone of a man who has paid a small bill promptly, and with a pleasant smile he handed it to the Man of Affairs.
That Manager was dumb. The blow had fallen. The golden dream was over. But it had to come. It might have come at any moment in all those weeks. The Formidable Eccentric ever acted in some such lightning fashion. Doubtless (or, at any rate, pray Heaven) he would return. He had been most courteously treated. He should retain a good memory of their continued courtesy.
“By all means, Mr. Petre, by all means.” The Manager swallowed twice. “At eleven on Friday.”
There was no more to be said. There was nothing more to be done.
“Buffy,” said Mr. Blagden, when they were in the street, and the odd £264 6s. 2d. safe in pocket, “Don’t you want to come on with me? I’ve only got two things more to do—one in the Temple. Then we’ll lunch.”
“All right,” said Buffy.