“Why have I an office in the City?” I asked, for that point was puzzling.
“In order to carry on your business.”
“What business?”
“That of financial agent.”
I smiled at the absurdity of the idea. I had never been a thrifty man; in fact, I had never had occasion to trouble my head about finance, and, truth to tell, had always been, from a lad, a most arrant dunce at figures.
“I fear I’m a sorry financier,” I remarked for want of something better to say.
“You are acknowledged to be one of the shrewdest and the soundest in the City of London,” Gedge answered.
“Well,” I remarked, closing the pass-book, securing the flap, and handing it back to him, “all I have to say is that this last hour that has passed has been absolutely replete with mystery. I can make nothing of all these things you tell me—absolutely nothing. I shall begin to doubt whether I’m actually myself very soon.”
“It would be better to rest a little, if I might advise,” he said, in a more deferential tone than before. “Britten suggested repose. That blow has upset you a little. To-morrow you’ll be quite right again, I feel sure.”
“I don’t intend to rest until I’ve cleared up this mystery,” I said determinedly, rising from the table.