“It would seem, then,” began his lordship, “that you and I, Mr. Mackeller, are owners of a property situated somewhere along the west coast of Africa, a dozen miles or so up a river whose name I do not remember, and which I could not pronounce if I did.”
“The Paramakaboo,” interjected Mackeller, junior.
“Thanks,” drawled Lord Stranleigh. “The property is known as the Red Shallows: I suppose because gold is red and the deposit is on the surface.”
The two Mackellers nodded.
“I hope I am not unduly confident when I take it for granted that there are no ’buses running to Para-what-you-call-it, nor steam launches either?”
“No,” said Peter Mackeller, “it is several hundred miles from the nearest port of call by any of the regular liners, or even tramp steamers. Once there, you must charter whatever kind of sailing craft is available, for the mouth of the Paramakaboo.”
“I see. Now, I presume, Mr. Mackeller, that, being an adept at this sort of thing, you have made your purchases of shares strictly according to the rules of the game. No hole is left for this syndicate of seven to crawl out, is there?”
“No,” said the elder Mackeller.
“They will probably try to wriggle away,” suggested Stranleigh, “as soon as they learn they are trapped.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Angus Mackeller, “but I see no way of escape except through the court of bankruptcy, which is a road these men won’t want to travel, and even if they did, they have lost all this property, at any rate. They’ve done themselves out of Red Shallows, whatever happens.”