The door opened; the guest appeared; he shut the door quietly and stood looking at the secretary. At last he said softly:
“Dexter.”
The man started and sprang up; his eyes looked nervous and ashamed.
“That’s all right,” said the other. “I only want to tell you what I’ve been leading up to for days. You knew I’d been leading up to something.”
“I thought you were. I don’t know what it is.”
“I should not have come in here when I was supposed to be writing letters and talked to you, unless I had been trying to size you up. I shouldn’t size you up unless I wanted you for something.”
“Want me! For what?”
“I’ll tell you.”
The guest sat in the bow window and began to talk in a low voice. It does not matter specially what he said: it was a plan of action which a man of fair repute could only have told to one whose reputation for honesty was smirched. It was a very creditable scheme from the point of view of a skilful speculator and financier who was not particular about his methods.
“My name must never appear,” he said, “though of course I am the backer of the concern. If you will run the thing for me as your own, you understand, then—I will make it worth your while. I don’t mind, to speak quite frankly, broaching the matter to you, because my reputation stands high, and I can back it with a big cheque. If you were to say I had spoken to you thus, you would not be believed if I denied it. You would be thought a blackmailer, that’s all.”