“I say,” he said, “when you told me that you wanted to make money, were you in earnest?”
“In the deadliest earnest,” replied Jack Meredith, in the half-mocking tone which he never wholly learnt to lay aside.
“Then I think I can put you in the way of it. Oh, I know it seems a bit premature—not known you long enough, and all that. But in this country we don't hold much by the formalities. I like you. I liked the look of you when you got out of that boat—so damned cool and self-possessed. You're the right sort, Mr. Meredith.”
“Possibly—for some things. For sitting about and smoking first-class cigars and thinking second-class thoughts I am exactly the right sort. But for making money, for hard work and steady work, I am afraid, Mr. Durnovo, that I am distinctly the wrong sort.”
“Now you're chaffing again. Do you always chaff?”
“Mostly; it lubricates things, doesn't it?”
There was a little pause. Durnovo looked round as if to make sure that Joseph and the boatmen were out of earshot.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked suddenly.
Jack Meredith turned and looked at the questioner with a smile. His hat had slipped to the back of his head, the light of the great yellow moon fell full upon his clean-cut, sphinx-like face. The eyes alone seemed living.
“Yes! I can do that.”