Mr Hartwell stepped out of the boardroom at precisely half past ten, the heavy oak doors closing behind him with a soft, final thud. The corridor outside was quiet except for the muffled clatter of typewriters and the low murmur of clerks moving between offices.
He wore his usual black morning coat—tailored, severe, single-breasted—buttoned high over a crisp white shirt and black waistcoat. His silver-streaked dark hair was combed back neatly, though a few strands had escaped during the meeting. His face was lined with fatigue; the morning had been long, filled with numbers that refused to balance and partners who refused to compromise. He carried a thin leather portfolio under one arm.
His butler walked half a step behind him.
They reached Mr Hartwell's private office at the end of the corridor. His butler opened one side and stepped aside.
Mr Hartwell entered first.
