"Have no scruples, my boy. We may be vultures at the feast; but before we see the end of the Fenley case there'll be a smash in Bishopsgate Street, and Miss Sylvia Manning will be lucky if some sharp lawyer is able to grab some part of the wreckage for her benefit."
"Clear logic, at any rate." And Furneaux brightened visibly.
"I'll tell you what it's based on. Our swarthy friend was examining lists of securities in the train. He didn't lift his head quickly enough—took me for a ticket puncher, I expect—so I had time to twig what he was doing. I'd like to run my eye over the papers in that leather portfolio."
"You may manage it. You're the luckiest fellow breathing. Such opportunities come your way. I have to make them."
After an interlude played by sole Colbert, Winter shot an amused question at his companion.
"What's at the back of your head with regard to the artist and Miss Sylvia?" he said.
"It's high time she spoke to a real man. These Fenleys are animals, all of 'em. John Trenholme is a genius, and a good-looking one."
"I met the girl in a corridor a while ago, and she was rather disconsolate, I thought."
"And with good reason. You've noticed how each brother eyes her. They'll fight like jackals before this night is out. I hope Sylvia will indulge in what women call a good cry. That will be Trenholme's golden hour. Some Frenchman—of course he was clever, being French—says that a man should beware when a woman smiles but he may dare all when she weeps."