“I understood, sir,” said Nicholson very slowly, as if weighing his words, “that all the money was in the bank?”
“I told you, sir,” replied the hesitating Metcalfe, “that there was in the bank all the capital we thought necessary.”
“Necessary?” echoed Nicholson, in cold, even tones. “We make a demand upon the public. We state that the value of our property is so much. The public responds by offering us a million less. Necessary? I have never yet had anything to do with a company whose capital was not over-subscribed. I have never yet sanctioned the sending out of letters of allotment unaccompanied by letters of regret.”
John Steele had difficulty in keeping the smile from his lips. The tones of righteous indignation were not in the least overdone. The expression of virtuous disapproval at being tricked, on the splendidly chiselled, clear-cut face, was marvellous in its reserve; in its hint of unlimited power behind. Steele felt, rather than saw, the uneasiness of the two colleagues by his side, who realised, without exactly understanding why, that things were going desperately wrong, like an engineer who sees an open bridge in front of him, and finds the brakes will not work.
“Admirably acted,” said Steele to himself. “We pay good money to visit the theatre, and yet there is such histrionic talent as this in the business world.”
Then aloud, in a voice mildly protesting, he said: “Nevertheless, Mr. Nicholson, the million shares left on our hands are quite marketable. We have ample capital to go on with, and Mr. Metcalfe will assure you that the factories themselves are all on a paying basis. You cannot surely mean that having arrived at this stage, we are not to proceed to allotment, Mr. Nicholson?”
“That is exactly what I do mean,” replied Nicholson, speaking as mildly as his opponent had done. “My colleagues would never consent to admit connection with a company formed in the circumstances now before us. Our duty to the public——”
“Mr. Nicholson, I quite appreciate your position, and that of your colleagues, Mr. Peter Berrington and the rest. The public would indeed be shocked to learn that Peter, one of our religious pillars, could be guilty of anything in the least oblique. As cleanliness is next to godliness, we are all aware that Amalgamated Soap stands close to the Pearly Gates, and the only thing we fear about Peter is that when he gets to heaven he shall find another saint of the same name there before him, which may lead to confusion of identity. I take it for granted, Mr. Nicholson, that you are about to move a resolution requiring all this money to be returned to the subscribers. If you will propose such a motion, I shall be very happy to second it.”
An electric silence fell on the group, the kind of silence which on a hot summer’s night precedes a clap of thunder. Nicholson drew a long breath and squared his shoulders. Metcalfe gazed in fascinated dismay at John Steele. Even the Farwells showed traces of human interest. Nicholson did not venture to challenge a vote. After a few moments of this embarrassing stillness he said gently:
“Perhaps Mr. John Steele has something else to propose?”