Jérôme Fandor had been ringing Juve's door bell in vain: the great detective was not at home.
"What the deuce is he doing? What has become of him? Never have I needed his advice as I need it now!... His support, encouragement—what a comfort they would be!... It is possible he would have dissuaded me against the attempt—or, he might have joined forces with me! Hang it all! It was a jolly bad move on Juve's part to make himself scarce at such a critical moment for me!... It is a long time, too, since I had news of him! Were I not certain that he has sound reasons for his absence—Juve never acts haphazard—I should be desperately anxious!"
Fandor consulted his watch—four o'clock! He had time then! He could think over all the dramatic events in which he had been involved during the past weeks, beginning with the rue Norvins affair, and ending—how, and when?
At last, our journalist arrived before the immense building which forms the corner of the rue de Clichy. He saw, in front of him, the tall windows of the flat occupied by Nanteuil: on the ground floor were the bank offices.
"Well," thought Fandor, "I certainly am going to do an unconventional thing. If my summing up of them is right, these bankers are balanced, calm, cold, without imagination, and distrusting it in others. I shall have to be eloquent to convince them, to make them listen to me and get them to do what I want. Will they show me the door, as though I were an intriguer or a madman?... I shall not let them do it!... Ah, they will owe me a fine candle if I have the good luck.... Whether there will be good luck for my venture, and gratitude from the bankers, remains to be seen.... Here goes!..."
Seated behind their large and important looking writing table, as though judges behind a judgment seat, Messieurs Barbey and Nanteuil, in their immense reception office, separated from the rest of the world by a number of padded doors, had just said to Fandor, who was standing in front of them:
"We are listening to you, monsieur."
Fandor had asked to see the bankers, and to see them only, stating that he would wait if they were engaged. He had been shown into a handsomely furnished room, then into another, then into a third; finally, he had been ushered into the office of the partners. He had waited there for a few minutes alone. He recognised it as the same room in which he had interviewed Monsieur Barbey a few weeks earlier. Again he saw the same hangings, the same fine rugs, the same velvet arm-chair of classic design.
Then Barbey, solemn, and Nanteuil, elegant, a rose in his buttonhole, had entered the room, their manner stiff-starched, showing no surprise, accustomed as they were to receive visitors of all sorts and kinds: they were polite, but not cordial.