‘Waiter, the bill,’ Simon Lock cried, and then gave a sigh.
The bill came to thirty shillings—thirty shillings wasted! He reflected that in a few weeks’ time, unless something happened, he might be in serious need of that thirty shillings. Nevertheless, such is human nature, the idea of Simon Lock being hard up for thirty shillings was so amusing to him that he could not dismiss a smile. The other man wondered what evil that smile portended.
Simon Lock proceeded from the restaurant to the offices of Gaunt and Griffiths. He demanded to see Mr. Gaunt, the venerable head of the firm, and Mr. Gaunt kept him, Simon Lock, waiting ten minutes! Simon Lock had not suffered such an insult for years. At his name the most obdurate doors were accustomed to open instantly.
‘Well, Mr. Gaunt,’ he said, with an affectation of breezy familiarity, when at length he was admitted, ‘I’ve just called about the matter of those Princesse shares. How many can you offer?’
‘We can offer ten thousand, Mr. Lock.’
‘At thirty-five?’
‘At thirty-five.’
‘That means three hundred and fifty thousand pounds for your holding?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Don’t you wish you may get it, Mr. Gaunt? Eh! eh!’