you mind telling me the names of the stocks again?” asked T.B., “the stocks that are being attacked.”
The member recited a list.
“Um!” said the Commissioner thoughtfully. “Industrials, breweries, manufactories — the very shares that enjoyed the boom and are now undergoing the slump!
“Will you give me a Stock Exchange Yearbook!”
“Certainly.”
He unlocked the door and went out, reappearing shortly with a fat brown volume.
T.B. turned the pages of the book with quick, nervous fingers, consulting the list at his side from time to time.
“Thank you,” he said at length, pushing the book from him and rising.
“Have you any idea — ?” the broker began, and T.B. laughed.
“You nearly said ‘clue,’” he smiled; “yes, I’ve lots of ideas — I’m just going to work one of them out.”
He bowed slightly and the two detectives left the building together.
At the corner of Threadneedle Street he bought an evening paper.
“Issued at 4:10,” he said, glancing at the “fudge” space, where the result of a race had been printed, “and nothing has happened.”
He hailed a passing cab and the two men got in.
“Bronte’s Bank, Holborn,” was the direction he gave.
“Like the immortal Mrs. Harris, there ain’t no Bronte, as you know,” he said. “The head of the business is Sir George Calliper. He’s an austere young man of thirty-five or thereabouts. President of philosophical societies and patron of innumerable philanthropies.”
“Has no vices,” added Elk.
“And therefore a little inhuman,” commented T.B. “Here we are.”
They drew up before the severe fagade of Bronte’s, and dismissed the cab.
The bank was closed, but there was a side door — if, indeed, such an insignificant title could be applied to the magnificent portal of mahogany and brass — and a bell, which was answered by a uniformed porter.
“The bank is closed, gentlemen,” he said when T.B. had stated his errand.
“My business is very urgent,” said T.B. imperatively, and the man hesitated.
“I am afraid Sir George has left the building,” he said, “but if you will give me your cards I will see.”
T.B. Smith drew a card from his case. He also produced a tiny envelope, in which he inserted the card.
A few minutes later the messenger returned.
“Sir George will see you,” he said, and ushered them into an anteroom. “Just a moment, gentlemen, Sir George is engaged.”
Ten minutes passed before he came again. Then he reappeared, and they followed him along a marble-tiled corridor to the sanctum of the great man.
It was a large room, solidly and comfortably furnished and thickly carpeted. The only ornamentation was the beautifully carved mantel, over which hung the portrait of Septimus Bronte, who, in 1743, had founded the institution which bore his name.
Sir George Calliper rose to meet them.
He was a tall young man with sandy hair and a high, bald forehead. From his square-toed boots to his black satin cravat he was commercial solidity personified. T.B. noted the black ribbon watchguard, the heavy, dull gold signet-ring, the immaculately manicured nails, the dangling, black-rimmed monocle, and catalogued his observations for future reference. Elk, who saw with another eye and from a different point of view, mentally recorded a rosebud on the carpet and a handkerchief.
“Now, what can I do for you?” asked Sir George; he picked up the card from the desk and refreshed his memory.
“We’re very sorry to trouble you,” began T.B. conventionally, but the baronet waved the apology aside.
“I gather you have not come to see me out of office hours without cause,” he said, and his tone rather suggested that it would be unpleasant even for an Assistant-Commissioner, if he had.
“No, but I’ve come to make myself a nuisance — I want to ask you questions,” said T.B. coolly.
“So long as they are pertinent to the business in hand, I shall have every pleasure in answering,” replied Sir George.
“First and foremost, is there the slightest danger of Bronte’s Bank failing?” asked T.B. Smith calmly.
The audacity of the question struck the baronet dumb.
“Failing?” he repeated, “Bronte’s fail — Mr. Smith, are you jesting?”
“I was never more in earnest,” said T.B. “Think what you like of my impertinence, but humour me, please.”
The banker looked hard at the man before him, as though to detect some evidence of ill-timed humour.
“It is no more possible for Bronte’s to fail, than the Bank of England,” he said brusquely.
-1 1 am not very well acquainted with the practice of banking,” said T.B., “and I should be grateful if you would explain why it is impossible for a bank to fail.”
If Sir George Calliper had been a little less sure of himself, he would have detected the monstrous inaccuracy of T.B.’s confession of ignorance.
“But are you really in earnest?”
“I assure you,” said T.B. seriously, “that I regard this matter as being one of life and death.”
“Well,” said the banker, with a perplexed frown, “I will explain. The solvency of a bank, as of an individual, is merely a matter of assets and liabilities. The liabilities are the elementary debts, deposits, loans, calls, and such like, that are due from the bank to its clients and shareholders. Sometimes the liability takes the form of a guarantee for the performance of certain obligations — that is clear enough?”
T.B. nodded.
“Assets may be represented as gold, Government securities and stock convertible into gold, properties, freehold, leasehold, land; but you know, of course, the exact significance of the word assets?”
T.B. nodded again.
“Well, it is a matter of balance,” said the banker; “allowing a liberal margin for the fluctuation of securities, we endeavour to and succeed in keeping a balance of assets in excess of our liabilities.”
“Do you keep gold in any quantity on the premises? — what would be the result, say, of a successful burglary that cleared your vaults!”
“It would be
