In his own room he turned and looked toward the door leading through to that from which he had hurriedly escaped. He passed his hand across his face, which was white and moist. "For the sake of France!" he echoed in bewilderment. "For the sake of France! Gad! I believe he _is_ the man after all." CHAPTER XXIII A SIMPLE BANKER Mr. John Turner had none of the outward signs of the discreet adviser in his person or surroundings. He had, it was currently whispered, inherited from his father an enormous clientèle of noble names. And to such as have studied the history of Paris during the whole of the nineteenth century, it will appear readily comprehensible that the careful or the penniless should give preference to an English banker. Mr. Turner's appearance suggested solidity, and the carpet of his private room was a good one. The room smelt of cigar smoke, while the office, through which the client must pass to reach it, was odoriferous of ancient ledgers. Half a dozen clerks were seated in the office, which was simply furnished and innocent of iron safes. If a client entered, one of the six, whose business it was, looked up, while the other five continued to give their attention to the books before them. One cold morning, toward the end of the year, Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence was admitted by the concierge. She noted that only one clerk gave heed to her entry, and, it is to be presumed, the quiet perfection of her furs. "Of the six young men in your office," she observed, when she was seated in the bare wooden chair placed invitingly by the side of John Turner's writing-table, "only one appears to be in full possession of his senses." Turner, sitting--if the expression be allowed--in a heap in an armchair before a table provided with pens, ink, and a blotting-pad, but otherwise bare, looked at his client with a bovine smile. "I don't pay them to admire my clients," he replied. "If Mademoiselle de Montijo came in, I suppose the other five would not look up." John Turner settled himself a little lower into his chair, so that he appeared to be in some danger of slipping under the table. "If the Archangel Gabriel came in, they would still attend to their business," he replied, in his thick, slow voice. "But he won't. He is not one of my clients. Quite the contrary." Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence smoothed the fur that bordered her neat jacket and glanced sideways at her banker. Then she looked round the room. It was bare enough. A single picture hung on the wall--a portrait of an old lady. Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence raised her eyebrows, and continued her scrutiny. Here, again, was no iron safe. There were no ledgers, no diaries, no note-books, no paraphernalia of business. Nothing but a bare table and John Turner seated at it, in a much more comfortable chair than that provided for the client, staring apathetically at a date-case which stood on a bare mantelpiece. The lady's eyes returned to the portrait on the wall.