Trent looked at them all in well-simulated amazement.
“Lord!” he exclaimed, “you don't know—none of you! I thought Da Souza would have told you the news!”
“What news?” Da Souza cried, his beady eyes protuberant, and his glass arrested half-way to his mouth.
“What are you talking about, my friend?”
Trent set down his glass.
“My friends,” he said unsteadily, “let me explain to you, as shortly as I can, what an uncertain position is that of a great financier.”
Da Souza leaned across the table. His face was livid, and the corners of his eyes were bloodshot.
“I thought there was something up,” he muttered. “You would not have me come into the City this morning. D—n it, you don't mean that you—”
“I'm bust!” Trent said roughly. “Is that plain enough? I've been bulling on West Australians, and they boomed and this afternoon the Government decided not to back us at Bekwando, and the mines are to be shut down. Tell you all about it if you like.”
No one wanted to hear all about it. They shrunk from him as though he were a robber. Only the little brown girl was sorry, and she looked at him with dark, soft eyes.