Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the discreet adviser
in his person or surroundings. He had, it was currently whispered,
inherited from his father an enormous clientele of noble names. And
to such as have studied the history of Paris during the whole of the
nineteenth century, it will appear readily comprehensible that the
careful or the penniless should give preference to an English banker.
Mr. Turner's appearance suggested solidity, and the carpet of his
private room was a good one. The room smelt of cigar smoke, while the
office, through which the client must pass to reach it, was odoriferous
of ancient ledgers.
Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was simply
furnished and innocent of iron safes. If a client entered, one of the
six, whose business it was, looked up, while the other five continued to
give their attention to the books before them.
One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence
was admitted by the concierge. She noted that only one clerk gave heed
to her entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of her
furs.
“Of the six young men in your office,” she observed, when she was seated
in the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John Turner's
writing-table, “only one appears to be in full possession of his
senses.”
Turner, sitting--if the expression be allowed--in a heap in an armchair
before a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, but
otherwise bare, looked at his client with a bovine smile.
“I don't pay them to admire my clients,” he replied.
“If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would not
look up.”
John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that he
appeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table.
“If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to their
business,” he replied, in his thick, slow voice. “But he won't. He is
not one of my clients. Quite the contrary.”
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacket
and glanced sideways at her banker. Then she looked round the room. It
was bare enough. A single picture hung on the wall--a portrait of an old
lady. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued her
scrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no ledgers, no
diaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of business. Nothing but a bare
table and John Turner seated at it, in a much more comfortable chair
than that provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-case
which stood on a bare mantelpiece.
The lady's eyes returned to the portrait on the wall.
“You used to have a portrait of Louis Philippe there,” she said.
“When Louis Philippe was on the throne,” admitted the banker.
“And now?” inquired this daughter of Eve, looking at the portrait.
“My maternal aunt,” replied Turner, making a gesture with two fingers,
as if introducing his client to the portrait.
“You keep her, one may suppose, as a stop-gap--between the dynasties. It
is so safe--a maternal aunt!”
“One cannot hang a republic on the wall, however much one may want to.”
“Then you are a Royalist?” inquired Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
“No; I am only a banker,” replied Turner, with his chin sinking lower
on his bulging waistcoat and his eyes scarcely visible beneath the heavy
lids.
The remark, coupled with a thought that Turner was going to sleep,
seemed to remind the client of her business.
“Will you kindly ask one of your clerks to let me know how much money
I have?” she said, casting a glance not wholly innocent of scornful
reproach at the table, so glaringly devoid of the bare necessities of a
banking business.
“Only eleven thousand francs and fourteen sous,” replied Turner, with a
promptness which seemed to suggest that he kept no diary or note-book on
the table before him because he had need of neither.
“I feel sure I must have more than that,” said Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence,
with some spirit. “I quite thought I had.”
But John Turner only moistened his lips and sat patiently gazing at the
date. His attitude dimly suggested--quite in a nice way--that the chair
upon which Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sat was polished bright by the
garments of persons who had found themselves labouring under the same
error.
“Well, I must have a hundred thousand francs to-morrow; that is all.
Simply must. And in notes, too. I told you I should want it when you
came to see me at Royan. You must remember. I told you at luncheon.”
“When we were eating a sweetbread aux champignons. I remember perfectly.
We do not get sweetbreads like that in Paris.”
And John Turner shook his head sadly.
“Well, will you let me have the money to-morrow morning--in notes?”
“I remember I advised you not to sell just now; after we had finished
the sweetbread and had gone on to a creme renversee--very good one, too.
Yes, it is a bad time to sell. Things are uncertain in France just now.
One cannot even get one's meals properly served. Cook's head is full of
politics, I suppose.”
“To-morrow morning--in notes,” repeated Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence.
“Now, your man at Royan was excellent--kept his head all through--and a
light hand, too. Got him with you in Paris?”
“No, I have not. To-morrow morning, about ten o'clock--in notes.”
And Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence tapped a neat gloved finger on the corner
of the table with some determination.
“I remember--at dessert--you told me you wanted to realise a
considerable sum of money at the beginning of the year, to put into some
business venture. Is this part of that sum?”
“Yes,” returned the lady, arranging her veil.
“A venture of Dormer Colville's, I think you told me--while we were
having coffee. One never gets coffee hot enough in a private house, but
yours was all right.”
“Yes,” mumbled Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, behind her quick finger, busy
with the veil.
Beneath the sleepy lids John Turner's eyes, which were small and
deep-sunken in the flesh, like the eyes of a pig, noted in passing that
his client's cheeks were momentarily pink.
“I hope you don't mean to suggest that there is anything unsafe in Mr.
Colville as a business man?”
“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated Turner. “On the contrary, he is most
enterprising. And I know no one who smokes a better cigar than
Colville--when he can get it. And the young fellow seemed nice enough.”
“Which young fellow?” inquired the lady, sharply.
“His young friend--the man who was with him. I think you told me, after
luncheon, that Colville required the money to start his young friend in
business.”
“Never!” laughed Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who, if she felt momentarily
uneasy, was quickly reassured. For this was one of those fortunate
ladies who go through life with the comforting sense of being always
cleverer than their neighbour. If the neighbour happen to be a man, and
a stout one, the conviction is the stronger for those facts. “Never! I
never told you that. You must have dreamt it.”
“Perhaps I did,” admitted the banker, placidly. “I am afraid I often
feel sleepy after luncheon. Perhaps I dreamt it. But I could not hand
such a sum in notes to an unprotected lady, even if I can effect a sale
of your securities so quickly as to have the money ready by to-morrow
morning. Perhaps Colville will call for it himself.”
“If he is in Paris.”
“Every one is in Paris now,” was Mr. Turner's opinion. “And if he likes
to bring his young friend with him, all the better. In these uncertain
times it is not fair on a man to hand to him a large sum of money in
notes.” He paused and jerked his thumb toward the window, which was
a double one, looking down into the Rue Lafayette. “There are always
people in the streets watching those who pass in and out of a bank. If a
man comes out smiling, with his hand on his pocket, he is followed, and
if an opportunity occurs, he is robbed. Better not have it in notes.”
“I know,” replied Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, not troubling further to
deceive one so lethargic and simple, “I know that Dormer wants it in
notes.”
“Then let him come and fetch it.”
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence rose from her chair and shook her dress into
straighter folds, with the air of having accomplished a task which she
had known to be difficult, but not impossible to one equipped with wit
and self-confidence.
“You will sell the securities, and have it all ready by ten o'clock
to-morrow morning,” she repeated, with a feminine insistence.
“You shall have the money to-morrow morning, whether I succeed in
selling for cash or not,” was the reply, and John Turner concealed a
yawn with imperfect success.
“A loan?”
“No banker lends--except to kings,” replied Turner, stolidly. “Call it
an accommodation.”
Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence glanced at him sharply over the fur collar
which she was clasping round her neck. Here was a banker, reputed
wealthy, who sat in a bare room, without so much as a fireproof safe
to suggest riches; a business man of world-wide affairs, who drummed
indolent fingers on a bare table; a philosopher with a maxim ever
ready to teach, as all maxims do, cowardice in the guise of prudence,
selfishness masquerading as worldly wisdom, hard-heartedness passing
for foresight. Here was one who seemed to see, and was yet too sleepy
to perceive. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was not always sure of her banker,
but now, as ever before, one glance at his round, heavy face reassured
her. She laughed and went away, well satisfied with the knowledge, only
given to women, of having once more carried out her object with the
completeness which is known as twisting round the little finger.
She nodded to Turner, who had ponderously risen from the chair which was
more comfortable than the client's seat, and held the door open for her
to pass. He glanced at the clock as he did so. And she knew that he was
thinking that it was nearly the luncheon hour, so transparent to the
feminine perception are the thoughts of men.
When he had closed the door he returned to his writing-table. Like many
stout people, he moved noiselessly, and quickly enough when the occasion
demanded haste.
He wrote three letters in a very few minutes, and, when they were
addressed, he tapped on the table with the end of his pen-holder, which
brought, in the twinkling of an eye, that clerk whose business it was to
abandon his books when called.
“I shall not go out to luncheon until I have the written receipt for
each one of those letters,” said the banker, knowing that until he went
out to luncheon his six clerks must needs go hungry. “Not an answer,” he
explained, “but a receipt in the addressee's writing.”
And while the clerk hurried from the room and down the stone stairs at a
break-neck speed, Turner sank back into his chair, with lustreless eyes
fixed on space.
“No one can wait,” he was in the habit of saying, “better than I can.”