“Nobody can be honest in finance.”
“Well,” I said, resenting his imputation, “I wasn’t aware that I had ever swindled a person of sixpence in my life.”
“Sixpences in such sums as they deal in at Winchester House don’t count. It’s the thousands.”
We passed a couple of gaping maid-servants in long-stringed caps, who stood aside, looking at me in wonder. No doubt the news that a demented man was in the house had reached the servants’ hall. I was, in fact, on show to the domestics.
“Then you mean to imply that these financial dealings of mine—of which, by the way, I have no knowledge whatsoever—are not always quite straight?” I said, as we walked together down a long carpeted corridor. He looked at me in hesitation.
“It’s, of course, business,” he answered—“sharp business. I don’t mean to imply that the dealings at Winchester House are any more unfair than those of any other financier in the City; but sometimes, you know, there’s just a flavour of smartness about them that might be misconstrued by a clever counsel in a criminal court.”
“What?” I cried, halting and glaring at him. “Now, be frank with me, Gedge. Tell me plainly, have I ever swindled anybody?”
“Certainly not,” he said, laughing. “Why, it’s this very smartness that has made you what you are to-day—a millionaire. If you had not been very wide awake and shrewd you’d have been ruined long ago.”
“Then, I suppose, I’m well known in the city, eh?”
“Your name’s as well known as Bennett’s clock, and your credit stands as high as any one’s between Ludgate Hill and Fenchurch Street.”