Bart Dickon left The Prof's house with Jock. The slow, slightly bumbling Hibernian was dependable and devoted. They both assumed that Snowy's disappearance from the parlour while Jock dozed had been due to a prior appointment or boredom. Or both. Dickon was a man on a mission:
'You know, Jock,' he said as they shut The Prof's front gate, 'the wreckers aren't within the proletariat, no matter what our enemies say. Those newpaper magnates and the blood suckers who own the means of production and distribution are hell bent on destroying any consensus amongst the workers they exploit.' Then, after a few steps: 'Agitate!... Educate!... Organise!' he cried into the night as a hansom thundered by in a maelstrom of spray and hooves.
'Aye, aye. Keep your voice down, laddie. Oor enemies are everywhere–'
'Sorry, Jock, but it gets me so bally steamed up. The injustice. The injustice.'
'Och! This weather's atrocious, Bart,' said Jock as he turned up his collar against the driving rain.
'But it might just work in our favour, my Scotch friend,' reparteed Dickon. This slightly nettled Jock. He could never shake himself of the feeling that his country of birth caused The Ideologically-Sound Secret Agent (Bart Dickon) to be slightly condescending. He was a Boswell to Dickon's Johnson. Bart's voice broke in:
'Let's to Clarnico's, my old friend.'

They made their way past Marble Arch and took a train on the newly opened Metropolitan Line to Fitzrovia. This novel infrastructure passed through shallow tunnels and sections exposed to the night weather by turns and the open carriages behind the belching steam locomotive gathered vapour, rain, smoke and smuts. Dickon and Jock sat hunched in one of the first class carriages at the rear of the train which had the partial cover of a roof. The smell of coal smoke and a damp London suffused everything. Arrived, they ascended to the street: Dickon scaling the spiral staircase three at a time like a slinky wolf ascending a spiral staircase, Jock trudging steadily behind.

Clarnico's bank was a heavy building with Palladian frontage flanked by Corinthian half-columns of lapis lazuli, their brilliant colour now coated in yellow-grey soot and grime.
'Let's cross the street and observe... observe' murmured Dickon gripping Jock's arm to arrest his progress and steering him between horse and motor traffic.

'Observe, my friend and colleague.' breathed Dickon, 'We must bide our time. If I am right, we may discover an important clue to the identity, or identities, of the miscreants.'
'But –' spluttered Jock, but he was overridden by Bart's fluency as he wamed to his theme. 'You will observe, no doubt, that the banks and financial institutions which cluster round this neighbourhood like flies round a dropped half-tasted madeleine, are all in league with the capitalist sytem – they are indeed the capitalist system writ large – feeding the monstrous machines of privilege, power and profit and swelling the flesh-pots of the conniving factory owners in the unrestrained lottery of the Stock Market. All, I say, except one...' There was a dramatic pause marred only slightly by a supressed burp from Jock. 'And that one bank is that which we look upon through the rain tonight. Yes, Jock, Clarnico's, whilst giving every appearance of a normal bank: the clerks at their small windows, the polished oak counters and brass inkwells, the ledgers, the cash boxes and safes stuffed with postal orders, fifty pound promissory notes and Bradburys, linen bags bursting with coin of the realm and deposit boxes filles with the silver plate and antique jewellery of the well heeled. This is mere facade to conceal Clarnico's true raison d'etre. It plays a vital role in the Class War. Syphoning off funds – in imperceptible amounts, mind – from the accounts of the bourgeoisie, the bloated slave masters of the Industrial Revolution and the in-bred landed gentry–.' 'But–!' butted Jock once more against the rising volume of the word 'order' of the ongoing explanatory passage. '...in order to fund our struggle to smash the chains of the masses until, at last, Integral Man is free. Free at last!'
'But y' told me a' this yesturrday.'
'Did I? Must have slipped my mind, Jock. Never mind, now everyone knows.'