The five prominent financiers were seated together in an office in Old Broad Street when Mr Tremlett, leaning back in his chair, said:
“Well, gentlemen, it seems that we are as far away as ever from coming to terms, and I think it useless to discuss the matter further. I must take the business elsewhere.”
“We admit,” exclaimed an old bald man, a director of one of London’s largest banks, “that it is a good thing, but the price you ask is prohibitive.”
“I can get it in Paris. So I shall go there,” was Tremlett’s prompt reply.
“Well,” exclaimed the bald man, “let’s get straight to facts. Your cousin, Lord Nassington, wants sixty thousand pounds in cash for the concession and a percentage of shares, and that, we have decided, is far too much.”
“Those are his figures,” remarked Tremlett.
“Well, then all we can offer is one-half—thirty thousand in cash and ten per cent, of shares in the company,” said the other, “and,” he added, “I venture to say that ours is a very handsome offer.” Tremlett rose from the table with a sarcastic smile.
“Let us talk of something else,” he said. “I haven’t come down here to the City to play at marbles.”
“Well,” asked the old man who was head of the syndicate. “What are your lowest terms?”
“I’ve stated them.”