Mostyn drove without any delay to David Isaacson's house, and he was lucky enough to find the financier at home. As he had expected, he found the house a particularly luxurious one. The door was swung open by two liveried and powdered flunkeys, while a grave butler appeared to enquire his business. The hall was lavishly decorated in marble, and the room into which Mostyn was shown, although not on a large scale, was suggestive, even to the very smallest item, of ostentatious wealth. Yet it was not so many years, as Mostyn knew, since David Isaacson had occupied humble little offices somewhere off Regent Street, living and sleeping in a couple of dingy rooms just over them.
"Ah! Mr. Clithero, I'm glad to see you." Isaacson, attired in a resplendent afternoon lounge suit, entered the room, a large cigar held in the corner of his mouth. He appeared a strange figure in the midst of the almost feminine luxury of his apartment, and yet there was something about the man which rather appealed to Mostyn. There was a good-humoured twinkle in his dark eyes, and a certain sincerity about his lips which rather belied his reputation for hardness. A sharp man of business, one who would insist upon his pound of flesh, but honest withal—so Mostyn summed him up. "Nice little place I've got here, eh?" The Jew gazed complacently round the ornate apartment, fully conscious of the immense value of the draperies, of the pictures, and of the various objects of art. There was hardly anything that was not a chef d'oeuvre in its way. "I am glad you have come to see me. But why not at Epsom? I should have thought that you would have been down for the first day's racing." He offered Mostyn a cigar, and then proceeded to discuss the prospects for the morrow's Derby.
"Fancy!" he said, as Mostyn, in obedience to his invitation, seated himself and lit the cigar which he had accepted. "When I heard there was a Clithero to see me, I fancied it was someone else altogether. It was lucky you gave my man your Christian name as well as your surname, for I shouldn't have been at home to any other Clithero. By the way, it never struck me before, and I hope you won't be insulted by the question—you're no relation to that blatant, conceited, self-righteous prig, old John Clithero, the banker, are you? But of course, it's not likely, a sportsman like you——"
"I am John Clithero's son," Mostyn said quietly.
"God of my fathers!" Isaacson muttered another exclamation under his breath, which Mostyn failed to understand, but which he took to be a Hebrew oath. "You the son of John Clithero? Well, I'd never have believed it—never! I'm sorry—I'm downright sorry, if I've offended you, but really, upon my word, you know, I never associated you with that lot. Now I come to think of it, though, I believe I did see something in the paper—but I forgot all about it, and I didn't know you then. There's no friendship between your father and me, Mr. Clithero," he went on, "but you—well, that's a different matter. I admire your pluck; a true sportsman always appeals to me." He had begun his apology awkwardly, but he ended it with candour, stretching out his hand, which Mostyn took readily enough.
"To think that you're a son of John Clithero!" the Jew repeated. "Well, that beats everything."
Mostyn took advantage of the opening thus offered him, to explain the object of his visit. He had nothing to say in defence of his brother, nor, very wisely perhaps, did he attempt to say much for his father, for it was palpable that Isaacson felt very strongly upon the subject of his supposed wrongs at the hands of John Clithero. He stated his case in simple words, and pleaded as though it were a personal favour that he was asking.
Isaacson did not allow Mostyn to conclude. He sat listening for a few minutes, chewing at his big cigar; then he started to his feet, crossed the room quickly, and rang the bell.
For a moment Mostyn fancied this to be an indication that the interview was terminated, that Isaacson would hear no more, but he was quickly undeceived by the smile upon the man's face and by his genial tone.
"Say no more about it, my boy," Isaacson cried heartily. "I've rung the bell for my secretary, and I'll ask him to look out the bill and hand it over to you. It's a different thing altogether now that I know you're concerned in the business. We are both of us sportsmen, what? and one sportsman isn't going to round on a friend or play a shabby trick. Old John's been taken down a peg or two as it is, I expect, and he'll feel it all the more when he knows that it's you who've pulled him out of the mire. You shall have the bill here and now."