“Naturally,” said Bigourdin. “One would be a linnet or a butterfly instead of a man if one took a step like that without thinking. But at least the idea is not disagreeable to you.”
“Of course not,” replied Martin. “The only question is how should I get the money?”
“Your little heritage, parbleu.”
“But that is in Consols—rentes anglaises, and I only get my dividends twice a year.”
“You could sell out to-morrow or the next day and get the whole in bank notes or golden sovereigns.”
“I suppose I could,” said Martin. Not till then had he realised the simple fact that if he chose he could walk about with a sack of a thousand sovereigns over his shoulder. He had taken it in an unspeculative way for granted that the capital remained locked up behind impassable doors in the Bank of England. Instinct, however, restrained him from confessing to Bigourdin such innocence in business affairs.
“If I did not think it would be as safe here as in the hands of the British Government, I would not make the suggestion.”
Martin started upright in his chair.
“My dear friend, I know that,” he cried ingenuously, horrified lest he should be thought to suspect Bigourdin’s good faith.
“And you would no longer wear that costume.” Bigourdin smiled and waved a hand towards the dress-suit.