He paid twenty-six pounds for the lot, and the man who waited on him tried in vain to tempt him to spend more. Philip knew exactly what he wanted. He adhered to his program. He possessed sufficient genuine luggage and clothing to be presentable anywhere. He had enough money to maintain himself for weeks if necessary. For the rest, another couple of hours would place it beyond doubt whether he was a millionaire or not; for, if Isaacstein failed him, London was big enough and wealthy enough to quickly decide that point.
He entered the Hatton Garden office as the clocks struck the hour.
Some boys of his age might have experienced a malicious delight when the youthful Israelite on guard bounced up with a smirk and a ready:
"Yessir. Vat iss it, sir?"
Not so Philip. He simply asked for Mr. Isaacstein, but he certainly could not help smiling at the expression of utter amazement when his identity dawned on his hearer.
The "Yessir, vil you blease valk in," was very faint, though; the office boy ushered him upstairs as one in a dream, for he had been warned to expect Philip, a Philip in rags, not a smart, young gentleman like a bank clerk.
Isaacstein on this occasion looked and acted the sound man of business he really was.
He awaited Philip in his private office. He seemed to be pleased by the change effected in the boy's outward appearance. There was less of burlesque, less outrage to his feelings, in discussing big sums of money with a person properly attired than with one who wore the garments of a tramp.
"Good-morning," he said, pleasantly. "You are punctual, I am glad to see. Have you been to Somerset House?"
"No," said Philip.