‘To think,’ said the attorney, stroking the book with his fleshy hand, ‘how much one can read between the lines of these plausible announcements, almost as blandly eulogistic as the inscriptions which chronicle on their tombstones fond wives, faultless husbands, and parents worthy to be immortalised by Plutarch! How trippingly the name of that needy old reprobate Sir Harbottle rolls off the tongue. He to be described as of Threepham and Malpas! Say, rather, of any foreign lodging or foreign jail, of the Isle of Man while it was yet a sanctuary for the debtor, of the Rules of the King’s Bench. But Carbery is very genuine anyhow.’
Mr Wilkins paused for a moment, and then mused: ‘I could spoil your little game, Sir Sykes—spoil it in a moment, and compel you to exchange your D. L.’s uniform of scarlet and gold for—never mind what! So long as the goose lays the golden eggs, it would not be the part of a wise man to twist her neck.’ Having said which, Mr Wilkins brushed his coat, drew on his gloves, and taking up his hat, sallied out. ‘Taxing office; back in an hour,’ he said to the office lad as he went out. ‘If I am detained, you need not wait for me after two o’clock.’
‘Ten to four, he don’t shew up,’ said the youth, who was accustomed to the professional figments which served to beguile credulous clients, but who congratulated himself at the prospect of a speedy release from duty. ‘If the governor doesn’t put in an appearance by 1.30, I’ll make myself scarce, or my name is not Sims!’
Meanwhile, Mr Wilkins made his way through the jostling crowd that roared and seethed among the busy streets of the City, until he reached an office, resplendent with plate-glass and French-polished mahogany, in Cornhill, on the door of which was inscribed, ‘Bales and Beales, Stock and Share Brokers.’
There were a good many customers in the outer office, a few of whom were quiet men of business, while the others, nearly half of whom were anxious-eyed ladies who had reached middle life, seemed flushed and ill at ease as they perused and reperused the written and printed memoranda with which they all seemed to be provided, and glanced impatiently at the ornamental clock on its gilded bracket. The lawyer, as an habitué of the place, sent in his name, and gained speedy admittance to the inner den, where Mr Bales himself, tall, thin, and with a thatch of bushy eyebrows projecting in pent-house fashion over his steady blue eyes, held out a cool white hand to be grasped by the hot red hand of Mr Wilkins.
The head of the firm of Bales and Beales was pre-eminently a cool man, and nothing could be in stronger contrast than was his unimpassioned bearing and the flutter and flurry of his customers.
‘How about my Turks?’ unceremoniously demanded Mr Wilkins. ‘Of course I know they’re down again—confound them!’
‘The fall continues. They have receded, let me see, two and seven-eighths since this morning,’ returned the broker, pointing to the official bulletin in its frame on the wall beside him. ‘Probably they are falling as we speak, for the Bourses of Paris, Amsterdam, and Vienna opened heavily.’
‘Well, you are a Job’s comforter, Bales,’ said the lawyer, wiping his heated brow. ‘Will this sort of thing go on, hey? Shall I sell, or stick to my colours like a Briton? Can’t you give a fellow your advice?’
‘I never advise,’ answered Mr Bales, with his cold smile. ‘Life would be a burden to me if I did. I prefer to lay the facts before those who do me the favour to come to me, leaving to their unbiassed judgment the course to pursue. Here are some Stock Exchange telegrams, part of which you will see presently, no doubt, in the evening papers. They help to explain the rush on the part of the public to sell out.’