“Explanations—no,” Thorpe told him. “But that's all right. The Marquis has been taken care of, and so has Plowden. They're game to agree to anything. And let's see—Kervick is entirely my man. That leaves Watkin and Davidson—and they don't matter. They're mere guinea-pigs. A few hundreds apiece would shut them up, if you thought it was worth while to give them anything at all.”
“And about the property,—the rubber plantation,—that the Company was formed to acquire and develop. I suppose there really is such a plantation?”
“Oh, yes, it's all there right enough,” Thorpe said, briefly.
“It's no good, though, is it?” the Broker asked, with affable directness.
“Between ourselves, it isn't worth a damn,” the other blithely assured him.
The Scotchman mused with bent brows. “There ought still to be money in it,” he said, with an air of conviction.
“By the way,” it occurred to Thorpe to mention, “here's something I didn't understand. I told Rostocker here, just as a cheeky kind of joke, that after he and Aronson had got their eight thousand five hundred, if they thought they'd like still more shares, I'd let 'em have 'em at a bargain—and he seemed to take it seriously. He did for a fact. Said perhaps he could make a deal with me.”
“Hm-m!” said Semple, reflectively. “I'll see if he says anything to me. Very likely he's spotted some way of taking the thing over, and reorganizing it, and giving it another run over the course. I'll think it out. And now I must be off. Aren't you lunching?”
“No—I'll have the boy bring in some sandwiches,” Thorpe decided. “I want my next meal west of Temple Bar when I get round to it. I've soured on the City for keeps.”
“I wouldn't say that it had been so bad to you, either,” Semple smilingly suggested, as he turned to the door.