discuss the financial position.

"Things all right?

"Nothing to complain about," said Slotman, who did not believe in crying
stinking fish. Credit meant everything to him, and it was for that
reason he wore very nice clothes and more jewellery than good taste
warranted.

In Mr. Slotman's inner office he and his friend, Mr. James Bloomberg,
lighted expensive cigars.

"So the pretty typist has gone, of course?" said Bloomberg.

Slotman started. "You mean--?"

"Miss Meredyth; I've heard about her."

"About her. What?"

Bloomberg drew at his cigar. "Of course you know she's come into money,
a pot of money and a fine place down in the country. Uncle died, left a
will--that sort of thing. Rankin acts for me, a sound man. I was talking
to him the other day, and your name cropped up."

"Go on!" said Slotman. The cigar shook between, his finger and thumb.
"My name cropped up?"

"And Rankin was interested, as a young lady he was acting for had just
come into a pot of money and a fine place down in Kent, and he had heard