“What did Jessop tell you?”
“What does every man tell you when he has you at his mercy? That the paper was worthless, but he might get some speculative fool to buy them; and if I waited there at his office he would try, but I must expect the merest trifle for them.”
“Well?” said Clive, frowning.
“Don’t take it so confoundedly cool, sir. I was obliged to do the best I could, and I put myself in his hands.”
“Well?”
“And he went out and brought the speculative person—a Mr Wrigley, a solicitor.”
“Well?”
“Well! Ill, man, ill!”
“But what did my worthy brother’s friend say?”
“Shrugged his shoulders—said it was throwing money away—mere gambling. He did not want them, but to oblige his old friend, Mr Jessop Reed, he would take them at a pound apiece, and the chance of making an eighth out of them.”