"Then I will call again," replied M. de Clameran.

And he walked out, as he had entered, without saying "Good-morning," or
even touching his hat.

"Not very polite, that customer," said little Cavaillon, "but he will
soon be settled, for here comes Prosper."

Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel's banking-house, was a tall,
handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and large dark-blue eyes,
fastidiously neat, and dressed in the height of fashion.

He would have been very prepossessing but for a cold, reserved
English-like manner, and a certain air of self-sufficiency which spoiled
his naturally bright, open countenance.

"Ah, here you are!" cried Cavaillon, "someone has just been asking for
you."

"Who? An iron-manufacturer, was it not?"

"Exactly."

"Well, he will come back again. Knowing that I would get here late this
morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday."

Prosper had unlocked his office-door, and, as he finished speaking,
entered, and closed it behind him.