In half an hour, his guest having taken leave, Rolfe put on his overcoat, and stepped out into the cold, clammy November night. He was overtaken by a fellow Metropolitan—a grizzled, scraggy-throated, hollow-eyed man, who laid a tremulous hand upon his arm.
'Excuse me, Mr. Rolfe, have you seen Frothingham recently?'
'Not for a month.'
'Ah! I thought perhaps—I was wondering what he thought about the Colebrook smash. To tell you the truth, I've heard unpleasant rumours. Do you—should you think the Colebrook affair would affect the "Britannia" in any way?'
It was not the first time that this man had confided his doubts and timidities to Harvey Rolfe; he had a small, but to him important, interest in Bennet Frothingham's wide-reaching affairs, and seemed to spend most of his time in eliciting opinion on the financier's stability.
'Wouldn't you be much more comfortable,' said Rolfe, rather bluntly, 'if you had your money in some other kind of security?'
'Ah, but, my dear sir, twelve and a half per cent—twelve and a half! I hold preference shares of the original issue.'
'Then I'm afraid you must take your chance.'
'But,' piped the other in alarm, 'you don't mean that—'
'I mean nothing, and know nothing. I'm the last man to consult about such things.'