John Steele bowed his acknowledgment. It was if the lion had begun by complimenting Daniel.
“Gentlemen, I think the hour has struck,” said the grave Farwell senior, taking his seat at the head of the long table.
The directors ranged themselves on either side, Nicholson at the right hand of the chairman, Metcalfe next him, and the younger Farwell the third on that side. Opposite Nicholson sat John Steele, and beside him his two nominees. Thus quietly the lines of battle were formed and to all outward appearance the meeting resembled a love-feast. Bunches of papers were heaped before the chairman, while writing-pads, pens and ink were placed in front of each director. Steele, assuming a negligent, unconcerned air that was admirably put on, wondered what particular battery Nicholson would unmask. The latter’s eyes were bent on his writing-pad, and he tried one nib after another, as if to find a pen to his satisfaction. The chairman, in droning voice, recited the history of the company up to its going before the public, read documents, and gave various figures which it might be supposed were familiar to all there assembled. There was silence around the table. Nicholson never looked up until the chairman announced the amount of public subscription.
“What’s that, Mr. Farwell?” he asked quietly, raising his head. “What are the figures?”
Farwell repeated them.
“And how much do you say is the authorised capital of the company?”
Farwell named the sum.
“Then we are a million short?”
“Nearly so, Mr. Nicholson.”
Nicholson’s face became set and stern. Slowly he turned towards Metcalfe on his right hand, whose eyes shifted uneasily from one to another without ever resting on John Steele.