“That will do now,” said the millionaire, “take the money, and go home.”
“My God! I cannot find utterance,” said Holt, stammering forth the words with difficulty. “Good heaven! is it possible? Is it true? I am still thinking 'tis only a dream.”
“Downright reality, my man!” said the banker. “Stop crying; save your tears for a more fitting occasion. Put the rolls in your pocket, and go home.”
Greifmann's coldness was effective in sobering down the man intoxicated with joy.
“May I ask, sir, what your name [pg 043] is, that I may at least know to whom I owe my rescue?”
“Seraphin is my name.”
“Your name sounds like an angel's, and you are an angel to me. I am not acquainted with you, but God knows you, and he will requite you according to your deeds.”
Gerlach nodded gravely. The banker was impatient and murmured discontentedly. Holt carefully pocketed the rolls of money, made an inclination of gratitude to Gerlach, and went out. He passed slowly through the hall. The porter opened the door. Holt stood still before him.
“I ask your pardon, but do you know Mr. Seraphin?” asked he.
“Why shouldn't I know a gentleman that has been our guest for the last two weeks?”