‘If I call him Cato Deeps, and say he is in Mexico, who knows? who cares? De enchineer? I pay him. De public? De diffidends are all in Treadneedle Street.’
An oscillation of good reports and bad reports, share-prices going up and down, with the Baron and his friends in the middle of the see-saw, and money rolling to them from alternate ends of the plank.
‘Gold is goot, but gompanies are better,’ he said.
But the Baron must have a free hand; it amounted to a purchase, a right to exploit. Everything depended on the Prince, and evidently the Prince depended on Mr. Cato. For the one there waited the 500,000l. a year in perpetuity, guaranteed on his own property; for the other, directorships, fees, shares, pickings at every corner; a safe income of at least ten thousand to be had for the asking. He had only to get the Prince’s consent to the bargain.
Mr. Cato flipped aside the personal question without a word. But for the Prince? 500,000l. a year. No one could reasonably ask more of life. Had he a right to refuse it? But these companies! tricks of promotion! all the garbage of the money market. Had he a right to accept it? He hesitated.
The butler came in, and murmured in the Baron’s ear.
‘Where?’
‘Just outside, sir.’
‘Gif him a smoke, and tell him to vait.’
‘Can I come in?’ said a voice at the door.