Rodd nodded, his face stubborn. He stood alone, divided from the other three by the table, for Arthur had passed round it and placed himself at Ovington’s elbow.
“His view,” the banker continued, polishing his glasses with his handkerchief and looking thoughtfully at them, “is that if there came a check in trade and a fall in values, the bank might find its resources strained—I’ll put it that way.”
Arthur sneered. “Singular wisdom! But a fall—a general fall at any rate—what sign is there of it?” He was provoked by the banker’s way of taking it. Ovington seemed to be attaching absurd weight to Rodd’s suggestion. “None!” contemptuously. “Not a jot.”
“There’s been a universal rise,” Rodd muttered.
“In a moment? Without warning?”
“No, but——”
“But fiddlesticks!” Arthur retorted. Of late it seemed as if his good humor had deserted him, and this was not the first sign he had given of an uncertain temper. Still, the phase was so new that two of those present looked curiously at him, and his consciousness of this added to his irritation. “Rodd’s no better than an old woman,” he continued. “Five per cent. and a mortgage in a strong box is about his measure. If you are going to listen to every croaker who is frightened by a shadow, you may as well close the bank, sir, and put the money out on Rodd’s terms!”
“Still Rodd means us well,” the banker said thoughtfully, “and a little caution is never out of place in a bank. What I want to get from him is—has he anything definite to tell us? Wolley? Have you heard anything about Wolley, Rodd?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what is it? What is it, man?”