“Mr. Speedwell.”
“Damn,” said Cheyne: then as he looked at the smiling face of the pretty clerk he suddenly felt ashamed of himself.
“I’m sure I beg your pardon,” he said, and as he saw how neatly he had got his desserts he laughed ruefully himself. This confounded temper of his, he thought, was always putting him into the wrong. He was just determining for the thousandth time that he would be more careful not to give way to it in future when Mr. Speedwell’s melancholy voice fell on his ears.
“Ah, that is better, sir. Won’t you come back and let us resume our discussion?”
Cheyne re-entered the private room.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said, “but really your proposition was so very—I may say, amazing, that it upset me. Of course you were not serious in what you said?”
Mr. Speedwell leaned forward and became the personification of suave amiability.
“I sell my wares in the best market, Mr. Cheyne,” he declared. “You couldn’t blame me for that; it’s only business. But I don’t want to drive a hard bargain with you. I would rather have an amicable settlement. I’m always one for peace and goodwill. An amicable settlement, sir; that’s what I suggest.” He beamed on Cheyne and rubbed his hands genially together.
“If you have information which would be useful to me I am prepared to pay its full value. As a matter of fact I called for that purpose. But you couldn’t have any worth two hundred pounds or anything like it.”
“No? Well, just what do you want to know?”