“If it must be, it must,” said Mr. Petre, in the low tense tone of a man who bears the pangs of his tumor until the morphia comes. “But—as quick as you can ... as quick as you can,” and he closed his eyes.
Terrard was watching him. Was it madness or acting? And if it was affected (a miracle!), what object in it all?
But he could not delay. He left the eccentric—or genius—with his eyes still closed and dashed out. He ran to the nearest telephone, in a pub, and caught Charlbury, who was fuming at the other end of the wire: “No, don’t argue. Meet me half-way—at the New Tavern; that’s half-way; it’s urgent.” And at the New Tavern, to the sound of an intolerable band, and steadying his nerves with old brandy, Terrard told his quite incredible tale.
“Does he mean it?” said Charlbury when he had done.
Terrard arched his eyebrows. “Looks like it!” he said. “Anyhow, it’s orders. And you know what he is. It’s mortal to cross him.”
Charlbury nodded. “What’s his game?” he half mused, screwing his little eyes together in a downward investigation of the floor.
“Beyond me!”
“There must be something,” said Charlbury. Then a light broke on him, he slapped his thigh. “By God! The old weasel! He’s going to freeze Trefusis out!”
Terrard shook his head. “It can’t be that. He’s offering them to Trefusis,” he said.
Mr. Charlbury smiled pitifully. “That’s the bait,” he remarked. “He’ll buy in later, after the slump.”