As he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old Sam’s appearance was almost as presentable as that of his clerks. Levi always smartened his master up on the day he went into the City, compelling him to wear a frock coat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat, instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore.
“And how much have we gained over the Pekin business, Ben?” Mr Samuel was asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exact replica of himself, slightly thinner and taller. Benjamin Statham, Sam’s brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of the smartest financiers in the whole City of London. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets.
“Ah!” he laughed. “When I first suggested it you wouldn’t touch it. Didn’t owe for Chinese business, and all that! You’d actually see the French people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses—and—”
“Enough, Ben. I own I was a little short-sighted in that matter. Perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear. At any rate,” he said, “I was mistaken, for you say we’ve made a profit. How much?”
“Twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk.”
“How did we first hear of the business?”
“Through the secret channel in Paris.”
“The woman?”
“Yes.”
“Better send her something.”