The gentleman who sat with him in his neat office had no characteristics at all. He was a big man, who breathed noisily, and he was puffy with lazy, indulgent living, but he did not fidget and his hands were folded over his large waistcoat. “My dear Marl,” the banker’s voice was soft and almost caressing, “you try my patience at times. I will say nothing about the strain you put upon my resources.” The big man chuckled. “I give you security, Brab--excellent security, old man. You can’t deny that!” Mr. Brabazon’s white fingers played a tune on the edge of his desk. “You bring me impossible schemes, and hitherto I have been foolish enough to finance them,” he said. “There must come an end to such folly. You have no need for help. Your balance at this bank alone is nearly a hundred thousand.” Marl looked round at the door and bent forward. “I’ll tell you a story,” he mumbled, “a story about a penniless young clerk that married the widow of Seller, of Seller’s Bank. She was old enough to be his mother, and died suddenly--in Switzerland. She fell over a precipice. Don’t I know it? Wasn’t I takin’ photographs of the bee-utiful mountain scenery? Did I ever show you the picture of that accident, Brab? You are in it! Yes, you’re in it, though you told the examining magistrate you were miles and miles away!” Mr. Brabazon’s eyes were on the desk. Not a muscle of his face moved. “Besides,” said Mr. Marl in a more normal tone, “you can afford it. You’re making another matrimonial alliance--that’s the expression, ain’t it?” The banker raised his eyes and frowned at his visitor. “What do you mean?” he demanded. Mr. Marl was evidently amused. He slapped his knee and choked with laughter. “What about the person you met in Steyne Square the other night--the one in the closed motor-car, eh? Don’t deny it! I saw you! A nice little car, it was.” Now, for the first time, Brabazon displayed signs of emotion. His face was grey and drawn and his eyes seemed to have receded further into their sockets. “I will arrange your loan,” he said. Mr. Marl’s expression of satisfaction was interrupted by a knock at the door. At Brabazon’s “Come in,” the door opened to admit one whose appearance put all other matters out of the visitor’s head. The girl brought a paper which she placed before her employer--evidently a pencilled telephone message. “White--gold--red,” Mr. Marl’s senses registered the impression he received. White, creamy white and delicate skin, red as poppies the scarlet lips, yellow as ripe corn the hair. He saw her in profile, was revolted a little at the firmness of her chin--Mr. Marl liked women who were yielding and soft and malleable in his hands--but the beauty of mouth and nose and brow--they made him blink. He breathed a little more quickly, a little more loudly, and when she had gone after a colloquy, in a low tone, he sighed. “What a queen!” he said. “I’ve seen her somewhere before. What is her name?”