“My name is Dane Montague,” he announced, ostentatiously drawing off his glove and holding out a white, pudgy hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Pratt. This is my friend, Mr. James Littleham. The name may be known to you in connection with various building contracts.”
Jacob thrust away the papers upon which he had been engaged, with an air of resignation.
“Pray be seated, gentlemen,” he invited. “My time is scarcely my own just now. May I ask you to explain the nature of your business in as few words as possible?”
“Those are my methods exactly,” Mr. Dane Montague declared, throwing himself into the client’s chair, balancing his finger tips together, and frowning slightly. It was in this position that he had once been photographed as the organiser of a stillborn Exhibition.
“My friend Littleham,” he continued, “is a builder of great experience. I am, in my small way, a financier. We have called to propose a business enterprise to you.”
“Go on,” Jacob said.
“You are doubtless aware that large sums of money have recently been made by the exploitation in suitable spots of what have become known as Garden Cities.”
Jacob gave a noncommittal nod and his visitor cleared his throat.
“Mr. Littleham and I have a scheme which goes a little further,” he went on. “We have discovered a tract of land within easy distance of London, where genuine country residences can be built and offered at a ridiculously moderate cost.”