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The annual meeting of the Rialto Investment Trust was to be held on the morning after I returned at eleven. I had only been to such an event once before, and it had been deadly and interminably dull. A South African mining company, that had been, and I had been sent because the poor soul who normally attended such things was off sick. Ever since the Boer War, South African mining companies had a claim to be news, in the way that the doings of most coal mines or cotton companies were not. So I went, with strict instructions not to fall asleep. 'Just spell the name of the chairman right and remember – profits for this year and last, dividend for this year and last. That's all anyone is ever interested in.'

So I went and did as I was told, sitting alone – the real shareholders avoided me as though I had a strange smell and I didn't get any of the tea and biscuits either – and took down everything I was told to take down. I still maintain it wasn't my fault that I missed a share issue to raise more capital. Even had I been awake, I would not then have understood what they were talking about.

But now I considered myself almost an expert in all matters financial. Words and phrases like scrip issue and debenture stock could trip from my tongue with the same facility that grievous bodily harm or assault and battery had done only a few weeks before. And, just to be on the safe side, I persuaded Wilf Cornford to come along as an interpreter. I was there with a notebook pretending to be a reporter once more; how Wilf got in I do not know. Apart from us there were about ten other journalists – itself notable as such meetings normally only attracted one or two – and at least a hundred shareholders. This, said Wilf, was unprecedented. Something, he said, was up.

And so it was, although while it was going on it was about as thrilling as a committee meeting at a town council, all motions to amend and comments from the floor so densely wrapped up in convoluted phrases that their import was somewhat lost. The nominal chairman of the event was Mr Cardano, the executor of Ravenscliff's will. He did a good enough job, I thought; he made a brief, and entirely empty speech about Ravenscliff's great qualities and abilities – which I noted was met with suspicious silence – before passing matters over to Bartoli, who sat on his left looking studiously neutral. This gentleman then rattled through the annual accounts at such speed that he was back in his chair only a few moments later. The only bit I properly appreciated was his closing sentence – 'and in view of the excellent year and good prospects for the coming year, we recommend an increase of dividend of 25 per cent, to four shillings and a penny per every one pound nominal.' He sat down to a smattering of applause.

There then followed questions – although not from the journalists, who were not allowed to speak, an unnatural state which made them chatter amongst themselves to indicate their discomfort. When would the Ravenscliff estate be wound up? Very soon, promised Mr Cardano. Could the executor reassure investors about the state of Rialto's finances? Absolutely yes: the figures were there for all to see; reassurance was surely unnecessary. And what about the companies Rialto invested in? On that he could not reply, but application must be made to those companies. However, their published accounts suggested they were all doing splendidly. And so it went on; there were votes on this, and votes on that. Hands were raised and lowered again. Cardano periodically muttered words like 'Carried' or 'Not carried'. Wilf squiggled in his seat. And finally there was a motion to adjourn and everyone stood up.

I tried to sidle up to Cardano at the end, but he was surrounded by other members of the board almost like an emperor being shielded by a praetorian guard, and no journalist got near. Only one man approached; he got to a few feet away, and Cardano looked at him – how did I do? was clearly on his face. This man nodded, and Cardano relaxed, and left the room.

An important figure, then, but who was he? I kept him in sight as he stood, being buffeted by those making their way to the door. Not remarkable really: middle-aged; slim, short dark hair thinning on the top; of average size. A clear, open face, clean-shaven, a vague smile on a generous, well-proportioned mouth. He turned, and nodded a brief bow as a stout man, about seventy, with a round face and white toothbrush moustache looking like a retired lieutenant-colonel in a county regiment tapped him on the shoulder. I could not hear the conversation, but I grasped enough. 'Good to see you, Cort,' said the ex-officer in a booming voice. Then they moved out of earshot. I would have loved to have heard more, but it was enough: I had a face for the name. I now knew what the mysterious Henry Cort looked like. He didn't look so frightening to me.