"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.