His brow cleared.  He opened the next letter, with the handwriting of which he was familiar enough.  One Retallack, a speculative builder, suggested a small increase on his overdraft, offering security.  This would not do, in War time.  Mr Pamphlett dealt with it at once—­

Dear Sir,—­You are doubtless aware that the outbreak of a
European War compels the Banking Houses to look jealously after
all advances, or extensions of credit, even the smallest.

It is not so much a question of declining this new request on
your part as of reconsidering very carefully the present
position of your account.  I will satisfy myself concerning this
and advise you without delay.—­I am, dear sir, yours faithfully,
Alfred Pamphlett,
Manager.

“Business as usual”—­Mr Pamphlett repeated it many times to himself as he went through the rest of his correspondence.  His spirit—­in revulsion after his brief scare—­soared almost to gaiety.  He walked into the main room of the Bank as Hendy started to pull the door-bolts.

“We don’t open for business to-day, Hendy.”

Hendy had shown himself flatly incapable of understanding the Moratorium; what it was or how it worked.  Mr Pamphlett, for his part, was uncertain about the details.  But he explained them to Hendy.

Then he returned to his private office, pausing by the rack in the passage to draw from the tail pocket of his frock-coat there a folded copy of The Western Morning News.  There was something furtive in his action:  he would have started guiltily had he been surprised in it, even by the meek Hendy.

Business—­well, business could not be altogether as usual in these times.  As a rule Mr Pamphlett read his paper through, before and during breakfast, and left it at home for Mrs Pamphlett to scan the births, deaths, and marriages, the “wanteds,” the Court Circular, and any report there might happen to be of a colliery explosion (she specialised in colliery explosions:  they appealed to her as combining violent death with darkness) before interviewing the cook.  But to-day, with all Europe in the melting-pot—­so to speak—­Mr Pamphlett had broken his rule.  He craved to know the exact speed at which Russia was “steam-rolling.”  There was a map in the paper, and it might repay study.

Before studying the map his eye fell on a paragraph headed “Rise in Prices.”  He paused and spent some time over this.

He was still conning it when the door opened, and Hendy appeared.  Mr Pamphlett muttered “Consols,” and refolded the newspaper hastily.

“Nanjivell is here to see you, sir:  at the side door.  ’Says he must speak to you in private.”

“Oh . . . confound Nanjivell!  I’ve had enough of that man. . . .  Very well; but tell him I can’t spare a moment over five minutes.”

Hendy ushered in Nicky-Nan, who hobbled forward to the table, hat in hand.