"But until it is officially handed over, you are liable?"
"Yes, to an extent. As a matter of fact, we shall only be fully liable for one day. For there is a clause in the agreement which binds the Government to accept responsibilities for the work seven days after inspection by the works department, and the bulk of our insurances run on till within twenty-four hours of that date. I will tell you this much: the inspection has taken place--I cannot give you the date--and the fact that it was made earlier than we anticipated is responsible for the cancellation of the insurances."
"One more question, Sir George," said T. B. "Suppose, through any cause, the Wady Semlik Barrage broke on that day--the day upon which the bank was completely liable,--what would be the effect on Bronte's?"
"That is a contingency I do not care to contemplate," he said curtly.
"I have not asked you to explain your mysterious visit," he said, with a smile, "and I am afraid I must curb my curiosity, for I have an appointment in ten minutes, as far west as Portland Place. In the meantime, it may interest you to read the bank's balance-sheet."
Van Ingen's eye was on him as he opened a drawer in his desk.
He closed it again hurriedly, with a little frown. He opened another drawer and produced a printed sheet. "Here it is," he said. "Would you care to see me again at ten to-morrow?"
T. B. might have told him that for the next twelve hours the banker would hardly be out of sight for an hour, but he replied:
He had shaken hands with Sir George, and was on his way to the door, when Van Ingen gave him a sign. T. B. turned again.
"By the way," he said, pointing to the picture over the fireplace, "that is _the_ Bronte, is it not?"
"Yes," said he, and then with a smile: "I wonder Mr. Bronte did not fall from his frame at some of your questions."
T. B. chuckled softly as he followed the uniformed doorkeeper along the ornate corridor.
In a cab being driven rapidly westward, Van Ingen solemnly produced his finds.
"A little rose and a handkerchief," he said.
T. B. took the last-named article in his hand. It was a delicate piece of flimsiness, all lace and fragrance. Also it was damp.
"Here's romance," said T. B., folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. "Somebody has been crying, and I'll bet it wasn't our friend the banker."