“Worthless,” he repeated.
“Then why, why did you send a cablegram to say the mine was full of gold? Lord Grayleigh told me he had received such a message from you.”
“I told a dastardly lie, which I am about to put straight.”
“But, but,” she began, her lips white, her eyes shining, “if you do not explain away your lie (oh, Phil, it is such an ugly word), if you do not explain it away, could not the company be floated?”
“It could, and the directors could reap a fortune by means of it. Do you understand, Mildred, what that implies?”
“Do I understand?” she replied. “No, I was always a poor little woman who had no head for figures.”
“Nevertheless you will, I think, take it in when I explain. You are not quite so stupid as you make yourself out. The directors and I could make a fortune—it would be easy, for there is enough gold in the mine to last for at least six months, and the public are credulous, and can be taken in. We should make our fortunes out of the widows and orphans, out of the savings of the poor clerks, and from the clergyman’s tiny stipend. We could sweep in their little earnings, and aggrandize our own wealth and importance, and lose our souls. Yes, Mildred, we could, but we won’t. I shall prevent that. I have a task before me which will save this foulest crime from being committed.”
Mrs. Ogilvie dropped into a chair; she burst into hysterical weeping.
“What you say can’t be true, Phil. Oh, Phil, darling, do have mercy.”