“Nine thousand pounds contingent on eight years of single blessedness. Well, the terms oughtn’t to be difficult. Why, many a fellow would give away double the amount for the same privilege, if I know anything of my world. But as I told that old parson in chaff just now—forbidden fruit is what attracts. Poor Spalding! What on earth made him clog the concern with such a condition? The only thing is to turn the lot over—capitalise and double it as soon as possible; and, fortunately, I’m not particular how. Grand thing, a careful training in a pious family.”
An hour’s walking, and he is in the heart of the City. Turning down a little lane out of Fenchurch Street, he looks about him carefully. Through a doorway, then a couple of flights of stairs, and he is hammering at a door labelled “Mr Silas B. Morkum.”
“Boss engaged,” said the sharp boy who appeared.
“Of course he is. Take that pasteboard in at once.”
Almost immediately the boy returned and ushered Claverton into an inner office. A thin, wiry-looking man, with a hooked nose and very keen grey eyes; advanced with outstretched hand.
“Well, Claverton, my boy,” he began, with a slight Yankee drawl. “Thought you’d turn up again some day. Devilish cold? Yes. Here’s some stuff, though, to counteract that,” and he produced a wicker-covered bottle and glasses. “Fill up—that’s right. Here’s to old times. Now what can I do for you?”
Claverton laughed drily.
“That’s so like you, Morkum. Can’t you imagine any fellow looking you up purely for the fun of the thing?”
“Well, not many do—not many,” answered the American in an apologetic tone. “But—”
“But this time you’ve hit the right nail on the head. There is something you can do for me, if any one can. You can put me in the way of doubling a given sum in the shortest possible time.”