The house was a lofty one, with a high entresol, and from the windows of the first floor it was not possible to see the street immediately below without opening the sashes.
Turner closed the cupboard and locked it, without ceasing to watch Colville, who was struggling with the stiff fastening of the outer sash.
"Anything the matter ?" inquired the banker, placidly.

"Lost a dog ?" But Colville had at length wrenched open the window and was leaning out.

The roar of the traffic drowned any answer he may have made.

It was manifest that the loss of three precious minutes had made him too late.
After a glance down into the street, he came back into the centre of the room and snatched up his hat from Turner's bare writing-table.
He hurried to the door, but turned again, with his back against it, to face his companion, with the eyes usually so affable and sympathetic, ablaze for once with rage.
"Damn you!" he cried.

"Damn you!" And the door banged on his heels as he hurried through the outer office.
Turner was left standing, a massive incarnation of bewilderment, in the middle of the room.