"Then I think that is really all I have to say. I shall be happy to see you at the Clarendon, if you will dine with me any evening that you are disengaged." There was very little heartiness in the tone of this invitation; and Mr. Balderby perfectly understood that it was only a formula which Mr. Dunbar felt himself called upon to go through. The junior partner murmured his acknowledgment of Henry Dunbar's politeness; and then the two men talked together for a few minutes on indifferent subjects. Five minutes afterwards Mr. Dunbar rose to leave the room. He went into the passage between Mr. Balderby's parlour and the public offices of the bank. This passage was very dark; but the offices were well lighted by lofty plate-glass windows. Between the end of the passage and the outer doors of the bank, Henry Dunbar saw the figure of a woman sitting near one of the desks and talking to Clement Austin. The banker stopped suddenly, and went back to the parlour. He looked about him a little absently as he re-entered the room. "I thought I brought a cane," he said. "I think not," replied Mr. Balderby, rising from before his desk. "I don't remember seeing one in your hand." "Ah, then, I suppose I was mistaken." He still lingered in the parlour, putting on his gloves very slowly, and looking out of the window into the dismal backyard, where there was a dingy little wooden door set deep in the stone wall. While the banker loitered near the window, Clement Austin came into the room, to show some document to the junior partner. Henry Dunbar turned round as the cashier was about to leave the parlour. "I saw a woman just now talking to you in the office. That's not very business-like, is it, Mr. Austin? Who is the woman?" "She is a young lady, sir." "A young lady?" "Yes, sir." "What brings her here?" The cashier hesitated for a moment before he replied, "She—wishes to see you, Mr. Dunbar," he said, after that brief pause. "What is her name?—who—who is she?" "Her name is Wilmot—Margaret Wilmot." "I know no such person!" answered the banker, haughtily, but looking nervously at the half-opened door as he spoke. "Shut that door, sir!" he said, impatiently, to the cashier; "the draught from the passage is strong enough to cut a man in two. Who is this Margaret Wilmot?" "The daughter of that unfortunate man, Joseph Wilmot, who was cruelly murdered at Winchester!" answered the cashier, very gravely. He looked Henry Dunbar full in the face as he spoke.