ness in speech. But more noticeable than anything else
in Mr. Gabriel Chestermarke was his head, a member of his body which was
much out of proportion to the rest of it. It was a very big, well-shaped
head, on which, out of doors, invariably rested the latest-styled and
glossiest of silk hats--no man had ever seen Gabriel Chestermarke in any
other form of head-gear, unless it was in a railway carriage, there he
condescended to assume a checked cap. Underneath the brim of the silk
hat looked out a countenance as remarkable as the head of which it was
a part. A broad, smooth forehead, a pair of large, deep-set eyes, the
pupils of which were black as sloes, a prominent, slightly hooked nose,
a firm, thin-lipped mouth, a square, resolute jaw--these features were
thrown into prominence by the extraordinary pallor of Mr. Chestermarke's
face, and the dark shade of the hair which framed it. That black hair,
those black eyes, burning always with a strange, slumbering fire, the
colourless cheeks, the vigorous set of the lips, these made an effect on
all who came in contact with the banker which was of a not wholly
comfortable nature. It was as if you were talking to a statue rather
than to a fellow-creature.

Mr. Chestermarke stepped quietly from his brougham and walked up the
steps. He was one of those men who are never taken aback and never show
surprise, and as his eyes ran over the three young men, there was no
sign from him that he saw anything out of the common. But he turned to
Neale, as senior clerk, with one word.

"Well?"

Neale glanced uncomfortably at the house door. "Mr. Horbury is not at
home," he answered. "He has the keys."

Mr. Chestermarke made no reply. His hand went to his waistcoat pocket,
his feet moved lower down the hall to a side-door sacred to the
partners. He produced a key, opened the door, and motioned the clerks to
enter. Once within, he turned into the partners' room. Five minutes
passed before his voice was heard.

"Neale!"

Neale hurried in and found the banker standing on the hearth-rug,
beneath the portrait of a former Chestermarke, founder of the bank in a
bygone age. He was suddenly struck by the curious resemblance between
that dead Chestermarke and the living one, and he wondered that he had
never seen it before. But Mr. Chestermarke gave him no time for
speculation.

"Where is Mr. Horbury?" he asked.

Neale told all he knew: the banker listened in his usual fashion,
keeping his e