“Major!” cried Clive excitedly, as a sadden thought flashed through his brain. “Good Heavens! Surely you have not sold your shares?”
The Major was silent, for at last the younger man’s tones had carried conviction.
“You have?”
The Major nodded, and looked ghastly now.
“Then you have thrown away thousands,” cried Clive angrily. “There was not a share to be had when you bought. They were mine—my very own, that no other man in England should have had at any price. Why didn’t you come to me? How could you be so mad?”
“Then—then it really is a false report?” faltered the Major.
“False as hell,” cried Clive, who now strode up and down the room in turn, his brow knit, and eyes flashing. “How could you be so weak—how could you be so mad? The scoundrels! The cowardly villains. Oh, Major, Major, you should have trusted me.”
There was a tap at the door, and the Major took out his handkerchief, and made a feint to blow his nose loudly, as he surreptitiously wiped the great drops from his brow.
“Come in,” cried Clive; and the servant entered with a number of newspapers.
“The evening papers, sir.”