get-at-able space that lay between the two structures.

Indeed the only thing inside or out of this time-worn building
which the most fertile of imaginations could consider as being at
all up to date was the clock. Not its face--that was old-timey
enough with its sun, moon and stars in blue and gold, and the name
of the Liverpool maker engraved on its enamel; nor its hands,
fiddle-shaped and stiff, nor its case, which always reminded me of
a coffin set up on end awaiting burial--but its strike. Whatever
divergences the Exeter allowed itself in its youth, or whatever
latitude or longitude it had given its depositors, and that, we
may be sure, was precious little so long as that Board of
Directors was alive, there was no wabbling or wavering, no being
behind time, when the hour hand of the old clock reached three and
its note of warning rang out.

Peter obeyed the ominous sound and closed his Teller's window with
a gentle bang. Patrick took notice and swung to the iron grating
of the outer door. You might peer in and beg ever so hard--unless,
of course, you were a visitor like myself, and even then Peter
would have to give his consent--you might peer through, I say, or
tap on the glass, or you might plead that you were late and very
sorry, but the ostrich egg never turned in its nest nor did the
eyebrows vibrate. Three o'clock was three o'clock at the Exeter,
and everybody might go to the devil--financially, of course--
before the rule would be broken. Other banks in panicky times
might keep a side door open until four, five or six--that is, the
bronze-rail, marble-top, glass-front, certify-your-checks-as-
early-as-ten-in-the-morning-without-a-penny-on-deposit kind of
banks--but not the Exeter--that is, not with Peter's consent--and