“Then I have nothing further to say to you, sir.”
The old man seemed about to withdraw, then hesitated, remembering he was in his own house. Stranleigh sat there unperturbed.
“You have nothing further to say, Mr. Anson, because two thoughts are sure to occur to you. First, a man whose word you would not accept cannot be believed, either on his honour or his oath. Second, the Trust doesn’t need to send an emissary to you; it has only to wait until November, and acquire your factory at its own figure. No one except myself would bid against the Trust.”
“That’s quite true,” agreed Anson. “I beg your pardon. What have you to propose?”
“I wish to know the sum that will see you clear and enable you to tear down those white posters at the gates, and those on the mill.”
Stanmore Anson drew a sheet of paper from his pocket, glanced over it, then named the amount.
“Very good,” said Stranleigh, decisively. “I’ll pay that for the mill and the ten acres.”
“They are not worth it,” said Anson. “Wait till November, and even though you outbid the Trust, you’ll get it at a lower figure.”
“We’ll make the mill worth it. You may retain the residence and the rest of the property.”