In this judgment he was not wholly right. The world of the Stock Exchange is as small as other worlds, and those who inhabit it have to consult the opinions of their neighbours. If anything, the keeping up of appearances was more important to these gold-hunters than it is to the village tradesman or the retired officer in his seaside villa. To have ordered a modest lunch or a cheap cigar would have been to hoist a signal of distress, perhaps to bring an unstable fortune tumbling to the ground.
Among these earthen pots the solid vessels of wealth floated calmly, sure sooner or later to crush the greater part of their venturesome rivals. As they rose from the table, Mendes moved his head slightly in the direction of the story-teller.
“That man will not last six months,” he whispered. “He has gone in for American rails.”
“Are they going down, then?” asked the ignorant Stuart, attempting to adopt the jargon he had heard around him.
Mendes smiled good-naturedly.
“It doesn’t matter whether they go up or down. Dealing in American rails is playing roulette against a croupier who can make the ball roll where he likes.”
The spectacle of all these men feverishly engaged in the hunt for gold had excited Alistair in sympathy. For a moment he felt a pale reflex of their passion, and wished that he too could be among the winners instead of the losers.
“How do men make money?” he asked wistfully of the millionaire.
“No one can make money,” the rich man replied grimly, “in this world. He can only take it. And the only way to take it is to be a little more greedy and cunning than the man you take it from.”
It was the gospel of Mammon. And Alistair Stuart knew that here at least he could never find salvation.