John needed no telling to rush. People had begun to notice him as the man who was doing nothing but running between the bank and the telegraph-office.
It was seven minutes to twelve when he got to the bank.
'Is that despatch right?' he said, shoving it through the arched aperture.
The clerk looked at it with provoking composure, and then compared it with some papers.
'For God's sake, hurry!' pleaded John.
'You have plenty of time,' said the cashier coolly, looking up at the clock and going on with his examination. 'Yes,' he added, 'that is right. Here is your certified cheque.'
John clasped it, and bolted out of the bank as a burglar might have done. It was five minutes to twelve when he got to the steps that led to the rooms of Mr. Von Brent. Now all his excitement seemed to have deserted him. He was as cool and calm as if he had five days, instead of so many minutes, in which to make the payment. He mounted the steps quietly, walked along the passage, and knocked at the door of Von Brent's room.
'Come in!' was the shout that greeted him.
He opened the door, glancing at the clock behind Von Brent's head as he did so.
It stood at three minutes to twelve.