“Get rid of those shares,” said Petre.
“What shares?” came the startled answer.
“Those. I don’t know what you call them. Those damned Amalgamated, I mean Rotor, no British——Oh, curse it, Terrard,” the voice sinking again, “it’s beyond me! Get rid of them for me, I can’t bear it!”
Terrard could not believe his ears.
“I get rid of ... Mr. Petre, what do you mean?”
“What I say,” with a burst of new energy. “Turn them into money. I must go free.... Ever since——” He checked himself. “Well, no matter, but ever since a certain moment in a certain day it’s been cozening and evil beyond a harassed man’s enduring; and nightmares, Terrard. I’ve come to the end of my tether.... Terrard, what’s my holding worth? Now? To-night?”
Terrard had seen the last tape—luckily: 121. He remembered the original allotment—the balance after the frills (especially his own substantial frill), and he took for granted that none had been sold. He made a rapid calculation. Then—as though in a religious awe of such a man—instead of speaking, he pulled out his pencil, and jotted figures down on a half sheet from the table and handed it to Mr. Petre.... There was written, “roughly £2,634,300.”
Mr. Petre looked at the row of digits with a dull, unhappy eye. “Turn ’em into money,” he said, “clean money—and put it in the Bank for me—to-night: no ... what am I saying.... I’m ill, as you say, Terrard; I haven’t slept for three days hardly ... I’m in for another night of it,” and he groaned.
“My dear sir,” gasped Charlie, “you can’t go into the market and sell a lump of that sort like ... like eggs. It wants any amount of handling—and even then what a crash!”
“Oh?” said the suffering man sullenly. “I didn’t know. I don’t understand these things. What’s to be done? I can’t wait. I won’t.”