“It's hard on the poor old chap,” he muttered to himself. “But it can't be helped!”
He straightened himself, looked at his client, then out of the window, then into the fire.
“Well, Professor,” he said slowly, “I am very sorry to say that all South American stocks and securities are very low in the market just now—in short, some of them have gone altogether. Clean gone!”
Professor Crowitzski sat upright in his chair. A mist seemed to float before his eyes; his heart began to beat as if it would choke him. He felt as if the room were spinning round, and he grasped the arms of the chair tightly to try to steady himself. When, after a few moments, he spoke, his voice sounded faint and far away.
“And—and—my—money?” he gasped, with pauses between each word.
John Surtees looked down into the fire and gave his head a little shake.
“Is it all gone?” said the old man in a kind of breathless voice.
There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the cries of the paper boys in the street. Then the stockbroker turned round.
“I am exceedingly sorry to have to tell you,” he said, speaking rather hurriedly. “It is all gone, and there is no help for it. No one—nothing could have saved it; the panic was too sudden and too violent. If I could have done anything, I would; but it was hopeless. It is hard—very hard—not only on you, but on lots of other people too. Not that that's much consolation to you!”
The Professor sat perfectly still, as if turned to stone, gazing straight into the fire, but seeing nothing. He was so still and silent that Mr. Surtees began to feel alarmed as to the possible results of the shock. He moved a step forward and gently laid his hand on the old man's shoulder.