Down at the Consulate, the Vice-Consul received Mr Gobbitt with what that pillar of finance considered most unbecoming levity. “Got anything out of old Gumpertz?” he asked. “I suppose you had a long lecture on Liberty and Brown Brothers. No? You are lucky, then. He’s not what you might call inspired, unless it’s on a question of dollars. He got his job because he kept some big city solid for the Party, they say. He owned, or bought up, all the bars in the place, lost his money over it, and so, to keep him quiet and give him a chance to retrieve his fortune, they sent him out here. He is retrieving fast, but he’s really still what he was by birth, a petty, huckstering tradesman. They say that his father used to be a pork-butcher in the Happy Fatherland.”
Had it not been for the last few words, Mr Gobbitt might have paid some attention to the rest; but those decided him. Obviously, the whole thing was rank prejudice. He got up, waving aside a proffered cigar. “Thank you. I do not smoke. Is the Consul in?”
The Vice-Consul got up wearily. “Shan’t I do? Oh, very well. I’ll see. He was having an extra siesta; didn’t feel quite the thing after tiffin. I’d be careful of the Club whisky, if I were you. Rotten brand they’ve got on tap now;” and, without noticing Mr Gobbitt’s indignant looks, he lounged into the inner office.
The Consul, or rather Acting-Consul, the regular Consul-General being on leave, did not seem exactly delighted to see Mr Gobbitt.
“Well, did you hear anything new from Gumpertz?” he asked.
Mr Gobbitt shook his head. “He says Mr Dunk died of fever and was buried in the jungle. That is all they know.”
The Consul yawned. “It’s about their mark. The Army would have sent out to see quick, and so would the Guardia Civil. Those people get in a fluster if a native is killed, and don’t worry about a white man. Is that all? Find your books all right?”
The visitor flushed. He did not like this man any better than he liked the Vice-Consul. “They were correct,” he said severely. “The books of our firm always are. But there is one curious thing—the day before he left Manila Mr Dunk drew ten thousand pesos from the bank; and we cannot trace to whom he paid it.”
“Whew! Ten thousand pesos, eh?” The Consul whistled in what struck Mr Gobbitt as a most undignified manner. “A big sum that. Was he—do you think he was mixed up in any sort of graft here—corruption, you’d call it—with the officials?”
There was wrath on Mr Gobbitt’s face as he got up from his chair. “Sir, members of our firm are not mixed up in such things …. No, sir, I do not smoke; nor will I have a whisky-and-soda. I, myself, drink only at meals.”