"Burnet!" called the banker.
The old clerk came again. Nothing ever excited or disturbed him, and that was what made him so reliable as a financial clerk and cashier. He never made any mistakes, never overpaid any one, and his cash always "balanced."
"What shall I do? My private papers have been stolen!" said the banker, nervously. "Who was the man that came out of the office?"
"I don't know, sir."
"What was he like?" demanded Mr. Checkynshaw, impatiently.
"Well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish."
"And the boy?"
"Fourteen or fifteen—looked well."
"Send for André Maggimore, the barber."
Burnet bowed and retired. Charles was sent to the saloon of Cutts & Stropmore; but it was four o'clock, and André had gone to dress the hair of Elinora Checkynshaw. The banker was annoyed, vexed, angry. He wanted to see the boy who had left the office with the man "well-dressed, rowdyish, foppish." He did not know where Leo lived, and the barber had no business to be where he could not put his hand on him when wanted. Impatiently he drew on his overcoat, rushed out of the office, and rushed into the shop of Cutts & Stropmore. Mr. Cutts did not know where André lived, and Mr. Stropmore did not know. André was always at the shop when he was wanted there, and they had no occasion to know where he lived. Probably they had known; if they had, they had forgotten. It was somewhere in High Street, or in some street or court that led out of High Street, or somewhere near High Street; at any rate, High Street was in the direction.