A small pandemonium reigned in Wingrave’s sitting room. The telephone rang all the time; the place was besieged with brokers. Then Wingrave showed his hand. He had bought these shares to hold; he did not intend to sell one. As to the six thousand owed to him beyond the number issued, he was prepared to consider offers. One broker left him a check for twenty thousand dollars, another for nearly forty thousand. Wingrave had no pity. He had gambled and won. He would accept nothing less than par price. The air in his sitting room grew thick with curses and tobacco smoke.
Aynesworth began by hating the whole business, but insensibly the fascination of it crept over him. He grew used to hearing the various forms of protest, of argument and abuse, which one and all left Wingrave so unmoved. Sphinx-like he lounged in his chair, and listened to all. He never condescended to justify his position, he never met argument by argument. He had the air of being thoroughly bored by the whole proceedings. But he exacted always his pound of flesh.
On the third afternoon, Aynesworth met on the stairs a young broker, whom he had come across once or twice during his earlier dealings in the shares. They had had lunch together, and Aynesworth had taken a fancy to the boy—he was little more—fresh from Harvard and full of enthusiasm. He scarcely recognized him for a moment. The fresh color had gone from his cheeks, his eyes were set in a fixed, wild stare; he seemed suddenly aged. Aynesworth stopped him.
“Hullo, Nesbitt!” he exclaimed. “What’s wrong?”
The young man would have passed on with a muttered greeting, but Aynesworth turned round with him, and led the way into one of the smaller smoking rooms. He called for drinks and repeated his question.
“Your governor has me six hundred Hardwells short,” Nesbitt answered curtly.
“Six hundred! What does it mean?” Aynesworth asked.
“Sixty thousand dollars, or thereabouts,” the young man answered despairingly. “His brokers won’t listen to me, and your governor—well, I’ve just been to see him. I won’t call him names! And we thought that some fool of an Englishman was burning his fingers with those shares. I’m not the only one caught, but the others can stand it. I can’t, worse luck!”
“I’m beastly sorry,” Aynesworth said truthfully. “I wish I could help you.”
Nesbitt raised his head. A sudden light flashed in his eyes; he spoke quickly, almost feverishly.