“No, it seems fair enough.”

“It is not pleasant to have to go hat in hand borrowing money, but there are times, as you may find before you are my age, Westmacott, when a man must stow away his pride.  But here’s their number, and their plate is on the corner of the door.”

A narrow entrance was flanked on either side by a row of brasses, ranging upwards from the shipbrokers and the solicitors who occupied the ground floors, through a long succession of West Indian agents, architects, surveyors, and brokers, to the firm of which they were in quest.  A winding stone stair, well carpeted and railed at first but growing shabbier with every landing, brought them past innumerable doors until, at last, just under the ground-glass roofing, the names of Smith and Hanbury were to be seen painted in large white letters across a panel, with a laconic invitation to push beneath it.  Following out the suggestion, the Admiral and his companion found themselves in a dingy apartment, ill lit from a couple of glazed windows.  An ink-stained table, littered with pens, papers, and almanacs, an American cloth sofa, three chairs of varying patterns, and a much-worn carpet, constituted all the furniture, save only a very large and obtrusive porcelain spittoon, and a gaudily framed and very somber picture which hung above the fireplace.  Sitting in front of this picture, and staring gloomily at it, as being the only thing which he could stare at, was a small sallow-faced boy with a large head, who in the intervals of his art studies munched sedately at an apple.

“Is Mr. Smith or Mr. Hanbury in?” asked the Admiral.

“There ain’t no such people,” said the small boy.

“But you have the names on the door.”

“Ah, that is the name of the firm, you see.  It’s only a name.  It’s Mr. Reuben Metaxa that you wants.”

“Well then, is he in?”

“No, he’s not.”

“When will he be back?”

“Can’t tell, I’m sure.  He’s gone to lunch.  Sometimes he takes one hour, and sometimes two.  It’ll be two to-day, I ’spect, for he said he was hungry afore he went.”

“Then I suppose that we had better call again,” said the Admiral.

“Not a bit,” cried Charles.  “I know how to manage these little imps.  See here, you young varmint, here’s a shilling for you.  Run off and fetch your master.  If you don’t bring him here in five minutes I’ll clump you on the side of the head when you get back.  Shoo!  Scat!” He charged at the youth, who bolted from the room and clattered madly down-stairs.

“He’ll fetch him,” said Charles.  “Let us make ourselves at home.  This sofa does not feel over and above safe.  It was not meant for fifteen-stone men.  But this doesn’t look quite the sort of place where one would expect to pick up money.”

“Just what I was thinking,” said the Admiral, looking ruefully about him.

“Ah, well!  I have heard that the best furnished offices generally belong to the poorest firms.  Let us hope it’s the opposite here.  They can’t spend much on the management anyhow.  That pumpkin-headed boy was the staff, I suppose.  Ha, by Jove, that’s his voice, and he’s got our man, I think!”