Arthur went out taking the paper with him, but in the passage he paused, his face gloomy. After all it was not too late. He could go back and tell Ovington that his mother—but no, he could not risk the banker’s good opinion. His mother must do it. She must do it. He was not going to see the chance of a lifetime wasted—for a silly scruple. He moved at last, and as he went into the bank he jostled two persons who, sheltered by the cashier’s desk, were watching, as the Board had watched a few minutes before, the scene of excitement which the bank presented. The one was Betty, the other was Rodd, the cashier. It had occurred to Rodd that the girl would like to view a thing so unusual, and he had slipped out and fetched her. They faced about, startled by the contact. “Oh, it’s you!” said Betty. “Yes,” drily. “What are you doing here, Betty?” “I came to see the Lottery drawn,” she retorted, making a face at him. “Mr. Rodd fetched me. No one else remembered me.” “Well, I should have thought that he—ain’t you wanted, Rodd?” There was a new tone in Arthur’s voice. “Mr. Clement seems to have his hands full.” Rodd’s face reddened under the rebuke. For a moment he seemed about to answer, then he thought better of it. He left them and went to the counter. “And what would you have thought?” Betty asked pertly, reverting to the sentence that he had not finished. “Only that Rodd might be better employed—at his work. This is just the job he is fit for, giving out forms.” “And Clement, too, I suppose? It is his job, too?” “When he’s here to do it,” with a faint sneer. “That is not too often, Betty.” “Well, more often of late, anyway. Do you know what Mr. Rodd says?” “No.” “He says that he has seen just such a crowd as this in a bank before. At Manchester seventeen years ago, when he was a boy. There was a run on the bank in which his father worked, and people fought for places as they are fighting to-day. He does not seem to think it—lucky.” “What else does he think?” Arthur retorted with contempt. “What other rubbish? He’d better mind his own business and do his work. He ought to know more than to say such things to you or to anyone.” Betty stared. “Dear me,” she replied, “we are high and mighty to-day! Hoity toity!” And turning her shoulder on him, she became absorbed in the scene before her. But that evening she was more than usually grave, and when her father, pouring out his fourth and last glass of port—for he was an abstemious man—told her that the partnership articles had been signed that afternoon, she nodded. “Yes, I knew,” she said sagely. “How, Betty? I didn’t tell you. I have told no one. Did Arthur?” “No, father, not in so many words. But I guessed it.” And during the rest of the evening she was unusually pensive. CHAPTER IX