ce, 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 clientele 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 cont