“A cheque?”
“No,” said the Doctor. “I was not going to run any more risks. No cheque: for the residue I insisted upon Bank of England notes and gold.”
“And you were paid like that?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have gone too far to retreat.”
“Oh no, not if we offer the man what he said he would be content with—an eighth. That’s half-a-crown to the hundred pounds, isn’t it?”
“Half-a-crown to the hundred pounds!” said Clive furiously. “Why, as soon as the truth’s known—”
“They won’t be worth that, eh?” said the Doctor dolefully.
“Oh, Doctor Praed!” cried Clive furiously. “You telegraph to me to come and help you when you have thrown your money into the gutter, and it has been picked up and is gone. It is a swindle—an imposition.”
“Yes, I’ve found out that,” said the Doctor bitterly. “But what are the shares worth then, really?”