The banker looked at him strangely.
“It is queer that you should ask,” he said slowly, “it was the subject of a discussion at my board meeting this afternoon — it is the Wady Semlik Barrage.”
“The Egyptian irrigation scheme?” asked T.B. quickly.
“Yes, the bank’s liability was very limited until a short time ago. There was always a danger that the physical disabilities of the Soudan would bring about a fiasco. So we farmed our liability, if you understand the phrase. But with the completion of the dam, and the report of our engineer that it had been submitted to the severest test, we curtailed the expensive insurance.”
“When are the works to be handed over to the Egyptian Government?”
Sir George smiled.
“That I cannot tell you,” he said, “it is a secret known only to the directors and myself.”
“But until it is officially handed over, you are liable!”
“Yes, to an extent. As a matter of fact, we shall only be fully liable for one day. For there is a clause in the agreement which binds the Government to accept responsibilities for the work seven days after inspection by the works department, and the bulk of our insurances run on till within twentyfour hours of that date. I will tell you this much: the inspection has taken place, I cannot give you the date — and the fact that it was made earlier than we anticipated is responsible for the cancellation of the insurances.”
“One more question, Sir George,” said T.B. “Suppose, through any cause, the Wady Semlik Barrage broke on that day — the day upon which the bank was completely liable — what would be the effect on Bronte’s?”
A shadow passed over the banker’s face.
“That is a contingency I do not care to contemplate,” he said curtly.
He glanced at his watch.
“I have not asked you to explain your mysterious visit,” he said, with a smile, “and I am afraid I must curb my curiosity, for I have an appointment in ten minutes, as far west as Portland Place. In the meantime, it may interest you to read the bank’s balance-sheet.”
Elk’s vacant eye was on him as he opened a drawer in his desk.
He closed it again hurriedly with a little frown. He opened another drawer and produced a printed sheet. “Here it is,” he said. “Would you care to see me again at ten tomorrow?”
T.B. might have told him that for the next twelve hours the banker would hardly be out of sight for an hour, but he replied —
“I shall be very pleased.”
He had shaken hands with Sir George, and was on his way to the door, when Elk gave a sign which meant “cover my movements,” and T.B. turned again.
“By the way,” he said, pointing to the picture over the fireplace, “that is the Bronte, is it not?”
Sir George turned to the picture.
“Yes,” said he, and then with a smile, “I wonder Mr. Bronte did not fall from his frame at some of your questions.”
T.B. chuckled softly as he followed the uniformed doorkeeper along the ornate corridor.
In a cab being driven rapidly westward, Elk solemnly produced his finds.
“A little rose and a handkerchief,” he said.
T.B. took the last-named article in his hand. It was a delicate piece of flimsiness, all lace and fragrance. Also it was damp,
“Here’s romance,” said T.B., folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. “Somebody has been crying, and I’ll bet it wasn’t our friend the banker.”
VII. Silinski Explains
T.B. Smith was dressing for dinner in his room at the Savoy, his mind occupied by speculations that centered round a mill dam, when there came a gentle tap at the door.
“Come in,” he said, having all but completed his somewhat elaborate toilet — he was ever a little fastidious in the matter of personal adornment.
The door opened, and there came into his room a gentleman in evening dress, very beautiful to behold.
His shirt-front was soft and pleated, and there were three little diamond buttons to fasten it. His dress suit fitted him almost as well as the white gloves on his hands, and if the velvet collar of his coat was a little daring, he had the distinguished air of the educated and refined foreigner to carry off his sartorial extravagance.
“Come in, Silinski,” said T.B., without turning round. “Twentyfour hours I gave you — when do you leave?”
“May I take a chair?”
Silinski was suave, polite, deferential, all the things that a wellbred man of the world should be.
“Sorry — chuck those things of mine from the chair by the bed.”
So far from “chucking” anything anywhere, Silinski removed the various articles of attire one by one, folded them, and placed them in a neat pile on the bed.
Then he seated himself carefully.
“Mr. Smith,” he began, “it was written by the illustrious philosopher Epictetus—”
“Do not,” begged T.B., in the throes of manipulating a dress tie, “do not quote any of your disreputable friends, I beg.”
“Then,” said Silinski, unabashed, “let me put the matter in another way? Medical authority has it that all human-kind changes once in every seven years. New tissues replace the old, of superior or inferior quality according to age and temperament; but assuredly an entire change comes to every man.”
“The last man who cited to me the born-again theory — which, by the way, is an old one in criminal circles,” interrupted T.B., “is now living in retirement near Princetown because unfortunately, there was enough of the old tissue left in him to induce him to commit crimes for which, I do not doubt. the shame and indignation…”
“It it foolish.”
“It is,” said T.B., confronting him now.
“Because years ago I was,” pursued Silinski, “a poor waif without a friend in this vast city, hungry, alone, half mad with solitude and starvation; because in the far-off days I stole a little. Is my fate to be visited on my head in the days of my affluence?”
The unsympathetic T.B. grinned.
“What a liar you are, Silinski,” he said admiringly. “Friendless! starving! why, you beggar, you were living on the fat of Europe I Have you forgotten the reason for your deportation?
