“I thought my meaning plain enough,” he replied, “but as you are here, I will answer you; and first, I want to put a question to you. Why do you wish me to be the assayer?”
“For many reasons; amongst others, because I wish to do you a good turn. For your position you are not too well off. This will mean several thousands a year to you, if the vein is as rich as we hope it will be. The alluvial we know is rich. It has washed at five ounces to the ton.”
“But if there should not happen to be a rich vein beneath?” queried Ogilvie, and as he spoke he watched his companion narrowly.
Lord Grayleigh shrugged his shoulders. The action was significant.
“I see,” cried Ogilvie. He was silent for a moment, then he sprang to his feet. “I have regarded you as my friend for some time, Grayleigh, and there have been moments when I have been proud of your acquaintanceship, but in the name of all that is honorable, and all that is virtuous, why will you mix up a pretended act of benevolence to me with—you know what it means—a fraudulent scheme? You are determined that there shall be a rich vein below the surface. In plain words, if there is not, you want a false assay of the Lombard Deeps. That is the plain English of it, isn’t it?”
“Pooh! my dear Ogilvie, you use harsh words. Fraudulent! What does the world—our world I mean—consist of? Those who make money, and those who lose it. It is a great competition of skill—a mere duel of wits. All is fair in love, war, and speculation.”
“Your emendation of that old proverb may be fin de siècle, but it does not suit my notions,” muttered Ogilvie, sitting down again.
Grayleigh looked keenly at him.
“You will be sorry for this,” he said; “it means much to you. You would be quite safe, you know that.”
“And what of the poor country parson, the widow, the mechanic? I grant they are fools; but——”