“My dear boy,” said the stockbroker, “I thought this was to be a matter of finessing and making a few thousands.”
“It is, and of making a good many thousands.”
“And you talk as if it were a plot for an Adelphi drama. My dear fellow, my brother Clive is a sort of nineteenth-century saint—not the cad in a play. Clive doesn’t drink, bet, nor gamble in any way. He is a good boy, who is engaged, and goes to church regularly with the lady.”
“Oh, yes; that’s as far as you know now.”
“I do know,” cried Jessop. “Clive has never run away with any one’s wife, nor bullied men, nor gone to the—your friends for coin. If you can’t hit out a better way than that, we may pitch the thing up.”
“At the first difficulty?” said Wrigley, smiling. “No, my boy. We want such a man as I have described—a man whose opinion about the mine will be worth taking. He must, as I say, hate your brother sufficiently to give that opinion when we want it, so as to say check to your brother and be believed.”
“Well, then, there isn’t such a man,” said Jessop sourly.
“Indeed! When do you expect your brother back?”
“At any time now. To-morrow or next day, to meet the directors at the board and report again upon his inspection.”
“Again?”