‘It’s all square. You won’t do any harm to anyone by earning it. All I want you to do is to go into the post-office and say that on the last telegram sent to your firm the name of the office of despatch isn’t stamped clearly. Ask them to refer and tell you what it is. They know you, I suppose?’ ‘Oh yes, sir.’ ‘Well, run along.’ The boy, dazzled by the glitter of sovereigns, went. Simon Lock waited for him outside the post-office. ‘What’s the answer?’ he asked when the boy came out. ‘They said I ought to have brought the form with me,’ said the boy, ‘but I talked to ’em like a father. I reckon I know how to manage them girls.’ ‘And what’s the name of the place?’ ‘Hockliffe.’ ‘Here’s your two sovereigns,’ said Simon Lock gladly. The lad capered down the street in the exuberance of joy. Simon had learnt something. And yet, when he thought over what he had learnt, he seemed to think somehow that it was valueless to him. He had guessed all along who was at the bottom of the La Princesse business. His guess had been confirmed--that was all. He had threatened that, when he knew, he would do such and such dreadful things; but what could he, in fact, do? Should he send for Raphael Craig and threaten him? With what? It would be absurd to threaten with dismissal from a post worth at most a thousand a year a man who stood to gain hundreds of thousands from you. No; that manoeuvre would not serve. At last he decided that he would pay a surprise visit of inspection to the Kilburn office of the British and Scottish Bank, and then act as circumstances dictated. He jumped into a hansom. ‘Kilburn,’ he said shortly. ‘What ho!’ exclaimed the driver, not caring for such a long journey; ‘Kilburn, eh? What’s the matter with the Tuppenny Toob?’ However, Simon Lock insisted on being driven to Kilburn, and was duly driven thither, though at a pace which suited the horse better than it suited Simon Lock. The latter revenged himself--but not on the horse--by paying the precise legal fare. He walked into the bank. No one knew him. His august presence caused no flutter of excitement. The cashier inquired briefly what he wanted. ‘The manager,’ said Simon Lock. ‘Mr. Craig?’ ‘If you please.’ ‘Mr. Craig is taking his annual holiday.’ ‘Thanks,’ said Simon Lock, grinding his teeth, and walked out. He had experienced exactly the same rebuff as Richard Redgrave a few days previously. That evening, though he had several engagements, including one to dine at the house of a Marquis in Park Lane, Simon Lock dined at home in Manchester Square. The entire household trembled, for the formidable widower was obviously in a silent and bitter rage. He found the indefatigable Oakley in the library. ‘Has that ass Custer been here again?’ he asked. ‘No, sir,’ said Oakley; ‘that ass Sir Arthur Custer has not been here within my knowledge.’