Late in the afternoon John Fanshaw came to his wife's room for a cup of tea.
"The pair went for only two hundred and forty-five," he said; "I gave four hundred for them six months ago. Ah, well, a forced sale, you know!"
"It doesn't make much difference, does it?" she asked.
"No," he said, absently stirring his tea. "Not much, Christine."
She sat very quiet by the fire watching him; her screen was in her hand again.
"It's no use, we must face it," he broke out suddenly. "Everything's gone against me again this week. I had a moral certainty; but—well, that isn't a certainty. And——"
He took a great gulp of tea.
A faint spot of colour came on Christine's cheek.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"I've been to see Grantley Imason to-day. He behaved uncommonly well. The bank can't do anything more for me, but as a private friend——"