But in the meantime he paid his debt to weakness, and sat brooding on the past, rather than preparing for the future; and time passed, the relentless hand moved round the clock. Twice the clerk came in with his doom-bearing slips, and presently Rodd appeared. But the cashier had nothing to say that the banker did not know. Ovington took the paper and looked at the figures and at the total, but all he said was, “Let me know when Owen and Jenkins come.” “Very good, sir.” Rodd lingered a moment as if he would gladly have added something, would have ventured, perhaps, some word of sympathy. But his courage failed him and he went out. Nor when Clement, half an hour afterwards, returned from his mission to Garth did he give any sign. Clement laid his hand on his shoulder and said a cheery word, but, getting no answer, or as good as none, he went through to his desk. A moment later his voice could be heard rallying a too conscious customer, greeting another with contemptuous good humor, bringing into the close, heated atmosphere of the bank, where men breathed heavily, snapped at one another, and shuffled their feet, a gust of freer brisker air. Another half-hour passed. A clerk brought in a slip. The banker looked at it. No more than seven hundred pounds remained in the till. “Very good,” he said. “Let me know when Mr. Owen and Mr. Jenkins come.” And as the door closed behind the lad he fell back into his old posture of depression. There was nothing to be done. But five minutes later Clement looked in, his face concerned. “Sir Charles Woosenham is here,” he said in a low voice. “He is asking for you.” The banker roused himself. The call was not unexpected nor quite unwelcome. “Show him in,” he said; and he took up a pen and drew a sheet of paper towards him that he might appear to be employing himself. Sir Charles came in, tall, stooping a little, his curly-brimmed hat in his hand; the dignified bearing with which he was wont to fence himself against the roughness of the outer world a little less noticeable than usual. He was a gentleman, and he did not like his errand. Ovington rose. “Good morning, Sir Charles,” he said, “you wanted to see me? I am unfortunately busy this morning, but I can give you ten minutes. What is it, may I ask?” He pushed a chair toward his visitor. But Woosenham would not sit down. If the man was down he hated to—but, there, he had come to do it. “I am sure it is all right, Mr. Ovington,” he said awkwardly, “but I am concerned about the—about the Railway money, in fact. The sum is large, and—and—” stammering a little—“but I think you will understand my position?” The banker smiled. “You wish to know if it’s safe?” he said. “Well, yes—precisely,” with relief. “You’ll forgive me, I am sure. But people are talking.”