James Hazeldine at this time was fifty-four years old. He was closely shaven, except for two small side-whiskers, so that there was nothing to hide his square, clear-cut jaw, his thin lips, and firm-set mouth. In color his hair and whiskers, once nearly black, were now an iron-grey. He had a prominent, well-cut nose, and cold, resolute, steel-grey eyes. The predominant expression of his face was determination; you felt that here was a man with a masterful spirit who would not readily be moved from any course, whether for good or evil, which he had once made up his mind to follow. Mingled with this expression was the keen, shrewd look of the experienced man of business--the look of one who in his time had chaffered and bargained with many men. In his dress Mr. Hazeldine was somewhat old-fashioned and precise; possibly it was part of his policy to be so. He wore a black tail-coat and waistcoat, and pepper-and-salt continuations. He wore a starched checked cravat, high-pointed collars and broad-toed shoes with drab gaiters. With the addition of an overcoat in winter, his dress was the same all the year round.
To-day, however, Mr. Hazeldine was not looking in his usual health. There was a worn and anxious expression on his face like that of a man who had been much worried of late. His eyes, too, looked sunken and dull, but his mouth was as firm-set as ever. Only a few days ago his daughter Fanny had said to her mother:
"Have you noticed how fast papa's hair has been turning grey of late?"
But Mrs. Hazeldine, whose eyesight was no longer as good as it had once been, had noticed nothing.
Mr. Hazeldine roused himself from his reverie with a sigh when the train stopped for the collection of tickets. At the terminus he engaged a hansom and was driven direct to the Bank of England. There he exchanged notes to the value of twelve hundred pounds for gold, which sum he locked up in the bag he had brought with him.
On leaving the Bank, he made his way into Throgmorton Street, where he plunged into a maze of narrow and tortuous courts and passages, nearly all of which have been swept away within the last few years.
Threading his way like one who held the clue, he presently dived into the semi-dark entry of one of the oldest houses; the numerous names painted on the door-posts betokening that it was split up into sundry suites of offices. Ascending slowly to the first floor, with feet which seemed weighted with lead, Mr. Hazeldine turned the handle of a certain door, and went in. He found himself in an outer office occupied by two clerks.
"Is Mr. Barker within and disengaged?" he asked.
"What name, sir?" queried one of the clerks, thereby answering the double question.
"Mr. James," was the reply.