I took my turn with the rest, and in due course found myself in front of the pigeon-hole, where I presented my uncle’s account.
“All right; receipt it,” exclaimed the cashier, as he returned it.
I did so, receiving the amount of the account in Bank of Scotland pound notes, a couple of score of them, or more, which I quickly folded into a kind of roll and thrust deep into my trousers pocket, keeping my hand over them for safety’s sake.
Pleased with the thought that I had got the money, I briskly threaded my way among the nondescript crowd in the passage, and even more briskly negotiated the stairs.
I had scarcely walked the length of the side thoroughfare which led into Jamaica Street, however, when I heard hurrying footsteps behind me, and, looking round, was surprised to see a very stylishly-dressed man, whose appearance was enhanced by his faultlessly-groomed hair and moustache. As soon as I looked in his direction he held up his hand and beckoned me to stop.
Wondering what he could want with me I obeyed without further ado, waiting for him to come up with me.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, with much politeness, at the same time slightly raising his hat, “but I believe this is your handkerchief.” As he spoke he swept round his hand, which he had held behind his back, and displayed to view a blue silk specimen in the handkerchief line. It was mine; there was no doubt about that, and as I advanced my hand he extended it towards me.
“I saw you drop it as you came down the stairs of Messrs. ——’s office” (mentioning the name of the firm), he explained.
I thanked him and was about to resume my way when he asked if I could direct him to Hope Street.
As everyone who knows anything about Glasgow is aware, it does not take long to reach Hope Street from Jamaica Street, and I was beginning to explain this to him when he cut me short with the remark that before we went any farther I must have a drink with him. As I was a teetotaller, however, I promptly declined his proffered hospitality, and once more resumed my walk.