“Drummond--Thalia Drummond,” said Mr. Brabazon, eyeing the gross man coldly. “Thalia Drummond!” repeated Felix slowly. “Isn’t she the girl who used to be with Froyant? Bit sweet on her yourself, eh, Brabazon?” The man at the writing-table looked at the other steadily. “I do not make it a practice to be ‘sweet on’ my employees, Mr. Marl,” he said. “Miss Drummond is a very efficient worker. That is all that I require of my staff.” Marl rose heavily, chuckling. “I’ll see you to-morrow morning about that other business,” he said. He laughed wheezily, but Mr. Brabazon did not smile. “At half-past ten to-morrow,” he said, going to the door with the visitor. “Or can you make it eleven?” “Eleven,” agreed the man. “Good morning,” said the banker, but did not offer his hand. Hardly had the door closed on the visitor before Mr. Brabazon locked it and returned to his desk. He took from his pocket-book a plain white card, and dipping his pen in the red ink, drew a small circle. Beneath he wrote the words: “_Felix Marl saw our interview in Steyne Square. He lives at 79, Marisburg Place._” He put the card into an envelope and addressed it: “_Mr. Johnson, 23, Mildred Street, City._” Chapter XIV. Thalia is Asked Out Mr. Marl had to pass through the bank premises, and he glanced along the two rows of desks without, however, catching a glimpse of the girl whose face he sought. Near the end of the counter was a small compartment, the occupant of which was shielded from observation by opaque glass windows. The door was ajar, and he caught just a flash of the figure and walked toward the door. A girl at a typewriter watched him curiously. Thalia Drummond looked up from her desk to see the big smiling face of a man looking down at her. “Busy, Miss Drummond?” “Very,” she replied, but did not seem to resent his intrusion. “Don’t get much fun here, do you?” he asked. “Not a lot.” Her dark eyes were surveying him appraisingly. “What about a bit of dinner one of these nights and a show to follow?” he asked. Her eyes took him in from his dyed hair to his painfully varnished boots. “You’re a wicked old man,” she said calmly, “but dinner is my favourite meal.” His grin broadened and the fires of conquest flickered in his faded eyes. “What about ‘The Moulin Gris’?” He suggested the restaurant, without doubting her acceptance, but her lips curled scornfully. “Why not at Hooligans Fish Parlour?” she asked. “No, it’s the Ritz-Carlton or nothing for me.” Mr. Marl was staggered, but pleased. “You’re a princess,” he beamed, “and you shall have a royal feed! What about to-night?” She nodded. “Meet me at my house in Marisburg Place, Bayswater Road. 7.30. You’ll find my name on the door.” He paused, expecting her to demur, but to his surprise, she nodded again. “Good-bye, darling,” said the bold Mr. Marl and kissed the tips of his fat fingers. “Shut the door,” said the girl and went on with her work.