"Delighted—if I can help at all."
Cydonia stole a glance at him. Here was another side to the picture she already knew by heart.
She watched the serious olive face with its strong chin and tight-closed lips—a hint of obstinacy there which added a strongly British look to his slightly foreign grace, banishing all effeminacy, suggesting a hidden power.
It seemed to her he was snatched away into a world remote from her, and for the first time in her life she felt uneasy, half-afraid ...
"Some years ago," the Bishop blinked, "six, to be strictly accurate, I was induced to invest some money in a new company. I am not quite sure as to the process, but it—the invention—claimed to produce a liquid fuel out of coal-slag at an absurdly low cost. The shares had run up quickly until they were eight pounds apiece—one pound shares, you understand. I gave eight." He paused ruefully.
"And now?" McTaggart prompted gently.
"I believe," the Bishop gave a sigh—"they are selling at ... about twelve shillings! The worst of it is——" his voice rose. "They have never paid a dividend."
"How did you hear of it?" McTaggart felt a half-amused sense of pity.
"One night I was dining with Lord Warleigh. His place, you know, is near Oxton. And the principal director—the promoter of the affair—was staying with him for the week-end, in order to place a block of shares to provide for further working expenses. Warleigh was enthusiastic and as to the man himself, he seemed most reliable, heart and soul absorbed in the scheme. Of German origin, naturalized—Herman Schliff—— Do you know the name?"
"Never heard of it—or the company." McTaggart shook his head.