"Citizen," he said, "there is a great crowd at the house you named. It extends half across the street. I will go no further. It is not I who care about publicity." Colville stood up and looked in the direction indicated by his driver's whip. The man had scarcely exaggerated. A number of people were waiting their turn on the pavement and out into the roadway, while two gendarmes held the door. Dormer Colville paid his cabman and walked into that crowd, with a sinking heart. "It is the great English banker," explained an on-looker, even before he was asked, "who has failed." Colville had never found any difficulty in making his way through a crowd--a useful accomplishment in Paris at all times, where government is conducted, thrones are raised and toppled over, provinces are won and lost again, by the mob. He had that air of distinction which, if wielded good-naturedly, is the surest passport in any concourse. Some, no doubt, recognised him as an Englishman. One after another made way for him. Persons unknown to him commanded others to step aside and let him pass; for the busybody we have always with us. In a few minutes he was at the top of the stairs, and there elbowed his way into the office, where the five clerks sat bent up over their ledgers. The space on the hither side of the counter was crammed with men, who whispered impatiently together. If any one raised his voice, the clerk whose business it was lifted his head and looked at the speaker with a mute surprise. One after another these white-faced applicants leant over the counter. "_Voyons_, Monsieur!" they urged; "tell me this or inform me of that." But the clerk only smiled and shook his head. "Patience, Monsieur," he answered. "I cannot tell you yet. We are awaiting advices from London." "But when will you receive them?" inquired several, at once. "It may be to-morrow. It may not be for several days." "But can one see Mr. Turner?" inquired one, more daring than the rest. "He is engaged." Colville caught the eye of the clerk, and by a gesture made it known that he must be allowed to pass on into the inner room. Once more his air of the great world, his good clothes, his flower in the buttonhole, gave him the advantage over others; and the clerk got down from his stool. "Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence is with him, I know," whispered Colville. "I come by appointment to meet her here." He was shown in without further trouble, and found Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence sitting, white-faced and voluble, in the visitors' chair. John Turner had his usual air of dense placidity, but the narrow black tie he always tied in a bow was inclined slightly to one side; his hair was ruffled, and, although the weather was not warm, his face wore a shiny look. Any banker, with his clients clamouring on the stairs and out into the street, might look as John Turner looked.