What responsibility was this? But Mr. Petre did as he was bid; he rose, wrote on a slip of paper which the attendant put before him, “John K. Petre” in a bold hand. It was the second time he had inscribed that fatal name. It was his now and on record. He was in for it. But anyhow, what did it matter? There was no harm done. He was sure of the Petre, and John K. was what they had recognized at the hotel. It was as John K. that he was known there. An odd combination “John K.” He must remember to avoid the mere initials, J. K. He must keep to the “John.” Mentally he performed the operation half a dozen times, and the signature “John K. Petre” rose before his inward eye, certain and fixed.
So did it rise, you may well believe, before the inward eye of that happy manager. It rose before his inward eye surrounded by an aureole of heavenly light: letters to be counted among the stars. There was a pause.
“They are preparing your book, Mr. Petre,” said his host, at length. “K ... is?”
By a happy providence Mr. Petre, on the point of answering, pulled up. He might—such is the particularity of men when they begin to use their imagination—have made a conversation by surmise. He might have guessed Kenneth or Kaspar, and Lord knows what would have happened then! for there was no John Kenneth or John Kaspar in the empyrean of high finance. But the playful Dæmon who had been given his destinies for a pastime shielded him from such a blunder. He remained obstinately dumb. The manager respected his reticence. He sent out a brief note, and in the depths of that vast mansion of gold a serf engrossed in fine black letters upon a parchment cover, bold and triumphant, “JOHN K. PETRE.” Nothing more. And what bank, let alone what obscure branch bank, could want more?
“And what kind of check book shall I send for, Mr. Petre?” said the manager kindly, as though he were offering a choice of viands.
Once more the playful immortal shielded his favorite son.
For Mr. Petre had not the least idea what he should reply, nor whether he was being asked to make a choice between various colors, or various shapes, or sundry magic names. And he would have stumbled and blundered in his reply, had not the other immediately continued: “Shall we say fifty crossed to order? It is much the more convenient form for us, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Petre, with dignity and emphasis. “Fifty crossed to order.” Then he fell silent again.
“Of course, Mr. Petre,” continued the great man, with a touch of nervousness strange in such a voice and so well poised a mouth, “we shall be happy to do anything you may require during your stay in London. Any transaction or—ah—I won’t say advice,”—and here he smiled with dignity—“but any—well—anything you may require.”
“Yes, certainly,” said Mr. Petre. “Certainly. By all means.” He could hardly say less.