“Wheal Carnac? Oh, yes,” said a little, sharp-looking grey man. “We—that is—an agent from this house purchased it;” and he looked curiously at Geoffrey.
“For a client of yours, I presume?” said Geoffrey.
“Certainly you may presume so if you like, sir,” said the little lawyer.
“And possibly he would be ready to part with his purchase for a small profit over what he gave?”
“Possibly he might, my dear sir,” said the lawyer; “but I don’t think it is very probable.”
“May I ask why?” said Geoffrey.
“No, sir,” said the solicitor, smiling. “Well, there, I will admit that. Because our client—another admission you see, sir—I say because our client is a gentleman, who would not be tempted by a small profit. If you wish to buy, sir, you will have to give a handsome bonus for the purchase.”
“How much?” said Geoffrey, bluntly.
“Impossible to say, my dear sir,” said the solicitor. “I do not even know that our client would sell. In fact I do not believe he would. His name? Oh, no, I cannot give you his name.”
Geoffrey had the name of the firm down in his pocket-book, and as he stepped out into noisy Fleet Street he felt that he could do no more. There was nothing left for him but to go back to Carnac and tell old Prawle of his ill success. Then, perhaps, the old man would say to what extent he would go, and the place might, probably, be obtained by private contract.