The girl was a beauty, dark and vivid, but small, and young enough to feel the gibe. Before she could retaliate, however, her father intervened. “Where’s Clement?” he asked. “I know that he is not here.”
“Tell-tale!” she flung at Arthur. “If you must know, father,” mildly, “I think that he’s——”
“Mooning somewhere, I suppose, instead of being in the bank, as he should be. And market day of all days! There, come, Bourdillon, I mustn’t keep Sir Charles and Acherley waiting.” He led the way to the rear of the hall, where a door on the left led into the bank parlor. Betty made a face after them.
In the parlor which lay behind the public office were two men. One, seated in an arm-chair by the fire, was reading the Morning Post. The other stood at the window, his very shoulders expressing his impatience. But it was to the former, a tall, middle-aged man, stiff and pompous, with thin sandy hair but kindly eyes, that Ovington made the first advance. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir Charles,” he said. “Very sorry. But I assure you I have not wasted a minute. Mr. Acherley,” to the other, “pardon me, will you? Just a word with Sir Charles before we begin.”
And leaving Bourdillon to make himself agreeable to the impatient Acherley, Ovington drew Sir Charles Woosenham aside. “I have gone a little beyond my instructions,” he said in a low tone, “and sold your Monte Reales.”
The Baronet’s face fell. “Sold!” he ejaculated. “Parted with them? But I never—my dear sir, I never——”
“Authorized a sale?” the banker agreed suavely. “No, perfectly right, Sir Charles. But I was on the spot and I felt myself responsible. There was a favorable turn and—” forestalling the other as he would have interrupted—“my rule is little and sure—little and sure, and sell on a fair rise. I don’t think you will be dissatisfied with the transaction.”
But Sir Charles’s displeasure showed itself in his face. He was a man of family and influence, honorable and straightforward, but his abilities were hardly on a par with his position, and though he had at times an inkling of the fact it only made him the more jealous of interference. “But I never contemplated,” he said, the blood rising to his face, “never for a moment, that you would part with the stocks without reference to me, Mr. Ovington.”
“Precisely, precisely—without your authority, Sir Charles—except at a really good profit. I think that four or five hundred was mentioned? Just so. Well, if you will look at this draft, which of course includes the price of the stocks—they cost, if I remember, fourteen hundred or thereabouts—you will, I hope—I really hope—approve of what I did.”
Sir Charles adjusted his glasses, and frowned at the paper. He was prepared to be displeased and to show it. “Two thousand six hundred,” he muttered, “two thousand six hundred and twenty-seven!” his jaw dropping in his surprise. “Two thousand six—really! Ah, well, I certainly think—” with a quick change to cordiality that would have amused an onlooker—“that you acted for the best. I am obliged to you, much obliged, Mr. Ovington. A handsome profit.”