“I fear nothing on this earth,” said Onslow, “when it’s to my interest not to fear. Moreover, though I’m not a saint, my standard of morality is probably a shade higher than yours. I don’t mind doing some sorts of dirty things; but there are shades in dirtiness, and at some tints I draw the line. It’s dangerous to—er—have the tips of these cues glued on so badly. They fly off and hit people.”
The billiard-room door had opened, and Amy Rivers had come in, with Fairfax at her heels. Hence Onslow’s digression. The matter had not been put in so many words; but he felt sure that the commission of a great robbery had been proposed to him, and he had more than half a mind to drive his knuckles into Theodore Shelf’s lying, hypocritical face on the spot.
CHAPTER III.
THE REQUIREMENTS OF MRS. SHELF.
Mr. Theodore Shelf wanted to drag Onslow off there and then to his own business-room, on the first floor, to discuss further this great project which he had in his head; but Onslow thought fit to remain where he was. Mr. Shelf nodded significantly towards the new-comers, as much as to hint that a third person with them would be distinctly an inconvenient third. Onslow turned to them, cue in hand, and proposed a game of snooker.
“That’s precisely what we came up for,” said Amy Rivers promptly. “Hamilton, get out the balls. Mr. Onslow, will you put the billiard-balls away, so that they don’t get mixed?”
They played and talked merrily. Their conversation turned on the wretched show at the recent Academy, which they agreed was a disgrace to a civilized country; and Onslow made himself interesting over the art of painting in Paris—mural, facial, and on canvas. When he chose he could be very interesting, this man London had nicknamed “The Great Traveler”; and he generally chose, not being ill-natured.
Mr. Theodore Shelf left the billiard-room with a feeling beneath his waistcoat much akin to sea-sickness. First of all, that plain-spoken Patrick Onslow had not over politely hinted that he was a canting hypocrite, and had showed cause for arriving at the conclusion. This was true, but that didn’t make it any the more digestive. And secondly, he himself, in a moment of excitement, had let drop to this same pernicious Onslow (who after all was a comparative stranger) a proposal to make the sum of £500,000 at one coup. True, he had not mentioned the means; but Onslow had at once concluded it was to be gained by robbery, and he (Theodore Shelf) had not denied the impeachment.
Consequently Mr. Shelf went direct to his own room, locked the door, and fortified his nerves with a liberal allowance of brandy. Then he munched a coffee-bean in deference to the blue ribbon on his coat-lapel, replaced the cognac bottle in the inner drawer of his safe, and sat down to think.
If only he understood Onslow, and, better still, knew whether he might trust him, there was a fortune to be had. Yes, a fortune! And it was wanted badly. The great firm of Marmaduke Rivers and Shelf, which called itself “Agents to the Oceanic Steam Transport Co.,” but which really ran the line of steamers which traded under that flag, might look prosperous to the outer eye, and might still rear its head haughtily amongst the first shipping firms of London port. But the man who bragged aloud that he owned it all, from offices to engine-oil, knew otherwise. He had mortgages out in every direction, mortgages so cunningly hidden that only he himself was aware of their vast total. He knew that the firm was rotten—lock, stock, and barrel. He knew that through any one of twenty channels a breakup might come any day; and, following on the heels of that, a smash, which would be none the pleasanter because, from its size and devastating effects, it would live down into history.