Читать книгу A Little Way Ahead - Alan Sullivan - Страница 5

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FELIX’S office was in Bishopsgate—one up. He took the whole floor. One encountered, first, a commissionaire, ex-sergeant-major—resplendent—imposing—inflexible—the usher to the financial shrine. Passing him with difficulty, one came to Pumphrey, and found dignity, the old-time perfect manners. He established an atmosphere that dripped with respectability. If the caller satisfied Pumphrey, and was sharp on time for his appointment, Pumphrey would go into Frances’ room, which opened off that of Felix—she would inform Felix, and presently the visitor would be admitted to the inner sanctuary, where Felix would be found, leaning a little forward, his face quite unreadable.

This sanctuary was very large, oak-panelled, a heavy plaster ceiling by Grinling Gibbons, a marble fireplace, and a carpet that swallowed the heaviest step. Its silence was almost ominous, for unless the back windows were open no murmur of the drone of London could penetrate here. Felix had the lighting so arranged that he himself was in a sort of semi-obscurity. Here he sat, this strange, lonely, restless, resentful little man, with his thin neck, hungry eyes and small white hands. This was the magazine from which he projected his brain into the unknown.

He wanted power! As yet he had no very clear idea of what he would do with it. But he was going to have it. Not merely influence! He wanted the degree of power that would enable him to reach the nerves of this ancient and potent City, put his fingers on those nerves, and see them react. He wanted innumerable men to be vividly conscious of him—Felix Marbury. He proposed that they should acknowledge the broker’s clerk.

And to assuage the other side of himself, he wanted Frances. By this time, he argued, she must know that. If she didn’t, why had she not married? A girl like that could get a husband any day. But she hadn’t, so far as he knew, even thought of it. And her acceptance of his offer, which had been made with a good deal of timidity, was very prompt. Of course, she understood!

There remained Anne, with her frightened manner, her vagueness, her general unsuitability. He was rather sorry for Anne, but the thing spoke for itself. He had tired of Onslow Square before the upholsterers were out of the house. Anne meant well enough, but her kind of woman could contribute nothing to his kind of life. And while his body might be in Onslow Square, his soul was somewhere else. In the City! Or with Frances!

This was the setting to which Frances returned from the New Forest.

He was extremely glad to see her, having frequently thought of running down to Burley himself. But he was afraid it was a little soon for that.

“Had a good holiday in spite of the rain?”

“Yes. Burley’s lovely, and I walked miles every day.”

“Anyone else there?” he asked a bit enviously. He was picturing her alone in the Forest, and it was hard to keep what he felt out of his eyes.

“Two or three other girls—till the last day. Then a man.” She gave an odd smile, and looked Felix straight in the face. “I want to talk to you about him.”

Felix made a gesture. She didn’t look as though she were in love, though she might be. But he wasn’t going to have anything like that.

“Not fallen for anyone, have you?”

She gave him a glance suggesting, he thought, that he ought to know better. Then a shake of the dainty head. He was very conscious of the curve where her round neck slid smoothly into her shoulder. And something about her made him think—think all sorts of things.

“No, but I’ve fallen for what he told me.”

Felix tilted his small chin. “Bit mysterious, aren’t you?”

She laughed, then, very clearly, and very carefully not to sound too enthusiastic, she gave him the story. She omitted nothing—added nothing. Felix, weighing every word, did not stir till she had finished. She leaned back, rather flushed, and wondering if it seemed too much like a fairy tale.

“You believe it?” he asked dryly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s the sort of man one naturally believes. It would not occur to him to say anything but the truth.”

Felix tucked that away. He knew the kind, and sometimes they were very useful.

“Did you see his papers?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it have been a good idea?”

“I wanted you to see them. It looks like big enough business for anyone—even you.”

For a few moments he did not answer, and she waited, more keen about this affair than she wanted him to guess. She knew that his eyes were on her, but she did not meet them. And Felix, for his part, was arguing along a line that she never dreamed of. It was something like this:

“She is interested in this man. She wants to pull the thing off, and have a hand in it. Perhaps she wants to marry him. She mustn’t! If I don’t do something, she may. So why not see this affair through, send him back to Honduras, and keep him there. She wouldn’t live in a tropical hole like that. Too much City in her blood.

“Another point! I’ve never floated or backed a new company yet. This looks big. If it’s a quarter as big as it looks, why not underwrite all the shares myself, then invite the other fellow in. It would flatter the girl, too. I’d give her a good interest as her commission, and the market value of her shares will be whatever I choose to make it. Just a little indirect pressure.”

Thus ruminated Felix, intensely aware of her nearness, longing to burst out and tell her what he wanted, afraid to burst out lest he drive her away, planning, scheming, contriving, and all the time, had he but known it, laying the foundations of something far different from his desire. He could prevision the market—but that was all. Presently he looked up, his eyes rather bright.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, ironing his voice to a businesslike smoothness, “you get McLeod here, and I’ll talk to him. It looks all right. Perhaps it is big. If I do go in, it will be the first and last company I’ll ever promote. The capital would have to be large, and you’d get a ten per cent commission in shares.”

“How—how perfectly wonderful!”

“Pleased?”

She was too excited to speak. Her eyes sparkled.

It was hard not to put his arms round her, and he gripped his chair.

“Well, we’ll see. It’ll be partly on your account.”

She did not know what to say—or do. It was so much farther than he had ever gone before. But she must do something—and quickly!

“I—I don’t know how to thank you. And—oh!—there’s Mr. Quantox—I forgot him!”

Felix had a remarkable memory. “Quantox!” He pulled down his narrow brows. “That’s the fellow who——”

“Yes—he’s the man. He was on the boat with Mr. McLeod, and made him promise to keep an appointment in London.”

Felix’s brain gave a little quiver. He didn’t at this moment see or forecast anything, but it came to him with considerable certainty that he might have use for Quantox in this Honduras affair, if it went through. In the space that lay between a perfectly honest man in Central America, and an equally slippery one in the City, there was latitude for all sorts of things. Now he began to feel oddly interested in this business. He thought he could use Quantox.

“What did you do?”

“He won’t go there till after he’s been here.”

Felix smiled. “To-morrow morning at ten. Those shares of yours may be rather good before long.”

She nodded, escaped rather hurriedly, and found enough work to keep her busy till five o’clock. Then she went back to see if there was anything more. Her door was at his right. Her step made no sound on the thick carpet, but though he must have known that she was there, he did not turn as he usually did.

She waited, puzzled, and saw that his eyes were shut, his body stiff and motionless. He was frowning a little, and on his lean features an expression she had never seen before, tremendously intense and rather forbidding. His brows were pulled down to a hard, level line, his lips compressed. The thinking part of him seemed a million miles away. Something about him rather frightened her, and she retreated towards the door. At that he turned.

“Yes?” His voice was strained and thin.

“Is there anything else this evening? I’ve telegraphed to Mr. McLeod.”

“No,” he said hastily, “no thank you—nothing at all. You’ll be here when he comes?”

She said that she would, and got away, closing the door softly, and pausing for a moment before she put on her hat. What was the matter with the man? Queer! She didn’t like it. Out in Bishopsgate she drew a long breath, and began to walk very fast.

Felix had heard the door close. He did not stir, but gave a little disappointed sigh, and shook his head. He had been projecting his brain forward, trying to dig up something about the future of this Honduras affair—and Frances and himself—and Anne. He got nothing in that line. He did get a flash—the definite camera-shutter effect—concerning a railway in Texas that would be very useful, and he jotted the figure down at once. But those other matters seemed out of range. Now, why was that?

Bruce McLeod took train to London, glowing with anticipation, and confronted the gilded commissionaire at two minutes to ten. He brought his papers, and a small but remarkably heavy bag of mineral samples. The gilded guard at once passed him on to Pumphrey, who scrutinized him with polite and sincere interest. Quite a change, thought Pumphrey. Bit of a relief, too. Then appeared Frances. She gave a smile, welcoming, but as sexless as she could make it, and took him in to Felix. Felix put out a white hand, and indicated the big chair on the other side of the desk.

On the subject of business Felix talked well. He always had. And when it came to expressing himself like an experienced financier he simply willed that he should, and did it. He was not really very highly skilled as yet—though he was learning fast—but he had the jargon. Also he knew the important factors in a venture like this. When he finished, Bruce regarded him with considerable respect, and put all his cards on the table.

His own reports—those of the Government engineers—his deed of concession, in Spanish and English—photographs—records of the past production of Honduras in metal and timber—he produced all these. Then he reached for the bag of mineral samples.

Felix smiled and shook his head. “Mr. McLeod, I don’t know the first thing about minerals. You could show me brass, call it gold, and I couldn’t tell the difference. Can your concession be confirmed by cable?”

“Certainly—to the Honduras Minister of Mines. He gave it.”

“What do you think it is worth?”

Bruce shook his head. “That’s hard to answer. I know it’s worth something, and perhaps a good deal. I’m afraid to say what I think. You’d call me an optimist. The first thing it needs is work.”

Felix put his white finger-tips together. “I assume that you are ready to take permanent charge out there—I mean to live with the work?”

The young man’s hopes were mounting. He agreed instantly.

“You are ready to sign, say, a five-year contract?”

Felix waited, giving no sign of impatience. He was never impatient now. A waste of energy! As to this young man, some instinct warned him that Honduras was the safest place. Five years! The Frances matter shouldn’t take five months.

“Yes,” said Bruce suddenly, “very glad to sign that.”

Felix smiled a little. He had not the slightest conception that Frances had followed his mental processes with remarkable accuracy, as, indeed, would many a woman whose instinct warned her that she was involved in this affair. But she betrayed nothing. She watched them both, compelled to appreciate the tactics of Felix, and at the same time trying to imagine the other man buried in Honduras for five years. She couldn’t. And then and there she began to feel like an ally. His sort needed help—in some things.

The discussion went very smoothly after this. Felix did not finally commit himself, but asked Bruce to come back in a week, by which time the concession would be confirmed by cable from Honduras. He suggested a working capital that made Bruce dizzy, indicated what purchase price might be paid in shares, and, in a general way, spoke as though his mind was made up. Bruce left the office with his brain in the clouds, but not his heart. He wanted to ask Frances to lunch with him, but there was no opening.

Felix gave a little nod and glanced at his secretary. “Well, it’s good enough. I’m for it—if the cables are right.”

“I’m so glad,” she said promptly.

“Yes, you’re in on it.” He knew that that was not what she meant. “Is Quantox in town?”

“I think so.”

“I’d like to see him. I rather think I can use him.”

She was completely surprised. Quantox was crooked. They both knew that. But what Frances did not guess was that even while Felix talked of Honduras with Bruce McLeod, there was broadening in his mind a bigger, more daring scheme than any that had occurred to him yet. It would require great care, great secrecy, and the implicit obedience of a man who knew every trick and turn of the market. And from the record of Quantox, that individual had tried them all.

Frances went out into Bishopsgate, and found Bruce McLeod doing sentry-go at the front door.

“Look here,” he said promptly, “I wanted a minute with you before I left, but didn’t get it. Lunch with me? Do—please!”

The City had enthralled him with its power and weight and strength. It was going to be his City! He felt that. And it was all due to this girl. He looked at her, his eyes very eloquent.

“Do come. I haven’t had lunch with a girl for three years.”

That settled it. “Where?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he laughed. “If it were in the jungle I’d know—but not here.”

She smiled at him, and led the way westward till they reached Fleet Street. It was necessary to take his arm once or twice, as he plunged ahead, seemingly oblivious of the traffic. When she warned him to be careful, he only chuckled.

“I like you to save my life. Where are we going?”

She turned into a narrow lane, through a door, and mounted a small stairway to a room with a few old oak tables, high-backed oak benches, and a big fireplace. He looked round with interest.

“Old—isn’t it?”

“Yes, and rather famous. We’re supposed to order steak-and-kidney pie. Like it?”

He would have welcomed a meal of sawdust with her, but was afraid to say so yet, and asked a lot of questions about the place, while she studied him, noting how clear his eyes were and how gracefully he moved. Candour—honesty—the inability to be anything but frank—she recognized this. His face was very animated, and, again, sometimes held a fleeting gravity that made him look older than his years. It was the face of one who had seen many things while he was yet not much more than a boy.

“Do you live with your parents?” he asked suddenly.

“No; I lost both my parents—my father in the war and my mother soon after that. I live with my aunt.”

He murmured something sympathetic. “It’s queer,” he went on, “but I haven’t any parents left either. There’s an uncle up in Scotland, near Glasgow, and he isn’t interested in me. How long have you been with Mr. Marbury?”

“About a year. Before that we were in the same office. He made a lot of money, and started on his own.”

Bruce played with his pie. “Is he married?” he blurted.

She laughed. “Yes—has been for years. I’ve never seen her. Why do you ask that?”

She knew well enough, but could not forbear the question. One could see how it was going with Bruce. He was bursting with gratitude and growing admiration. He had fallen on his feet. He was also falling in love. He pictured the steaming jungle he had left only three weeks previously, looked at her with earnest, honest eyes, and wondered if it were all a dream.

“I ask because—well, I wanted to know. Of course, it isn’t really true.”

“It is—he’s bought a house in Onslow Square, and they’re living in it now. Anything peculiar about that?” She was puzzled and faintly indignant.

He fondled the handle of a pewter mug. “Sorry—no—nothing peculiar. Just as it ought to be. I suppose you know what I want to say?”

“I’m not a mind reader, Mr. McLeod.”

He wished that she were, not realizing that she read him perfectly. His condition would have been obvious across the room. And it was to a party of American tourists, who were vastly intrigued. One woman made a note for her address to the Travel Circle when she reached home. Romance in Old London.

“Well, if this thing goes through, and—er—do you think it will?”

She nodded.

“Then it’s your doing. I’m a good average engineer, but you make my brain feel small. I’ve been thinking about what you said—you know—talking too much about my private affairs—and see that I’m just the sort that is used by others—not to my advantage. I haven’t any money instinct. Sounds a blue look-out for my wife—when I get one—eh?”

“Perhaps she’ll have some money of her own,” said Frances demurely.

He laughed. “Well, I hope so. But it would always be hers. Now about this affair. I’ll get a block of shares. I won’t be thinking about them, but the work, and—er—other things. Also I’ll be a long way from London. You’ll hear things at once. Do you think that once in a while—when you have time, of course—you could send me a line and keep a friendly eye open in my interest? You don’t know what letters mean in the jungle, and anything you cared to write would be tremendously welcome. That is, of course, assuming the other fellow doesn’t object.”

“What other fellow?” she demanded, startled.

“The one you’re engaged to.”

“But I’m not engaged!”

He beamed at her seraphically. “Is such a thing possible?”

“Certainly.” Frances’s lips twitched a little. “I’m far too busy.”

Bruce regarded his mug with positive affection. “Great thing, business—for a while. Well—er—as we were saying—it’s settled that you’ll send me a line, say once every two weeks.”

“We settled nothing of the sort,” she countered. “At least, I didn’t. I’ll try and keep you informed in a general way, and with pleasure.”

“Would you mind leaving out those last three words? They sounded like the—er—the end of a business letter.”

“And isn’t it business?”

He looked at her. The American woman saw, and was thrilled to the core. It expressed a great many things, for the phrasing of which the English language was, at the moment, entirely inadequate. Frances caught it, and addressed herself to a hot pancake on which she lavished sugar with a reckless hand. A waiter observed it, but having been a waiter for many years, and being thereby made very sophisticated, he merely asked Bruce if he would have another pint.

The tension eased a little after that. Bruce had told her in the only way he could. “Straight!” she said to herself. “No man ever looked at me in just that way before. I didn’t like the other looks. But this one——!”

An odd silence grew between them. Bruce was thinking a thousand wonderful things, and she of Felix. Strange how different men were. Felix had done everything for her. This man nothing—except look at her like that. It wasn’t only love—the first giddy realization of love—but a sort of impulsive invitation to share an infinite number of wonderful things that were impossible to be described. It was though he had stretched out a hand and asked her to dive with him into some sapphire sea, and explore, far down, the new world that waited for their gleaming advent.

“Got any Courtaulds? They jumped three-eighths this morning.”

The spell broke at a voice from the next table. Bruce fumbled for cigarettes, his face a little pale under its tan. Frances came back with a rush. This was London! She was anchored to London. She was of the City, and the City was in her blood. She felt its pulse, thrilled at its movement, and the brain of her rejoiced in its prodigious vitality. Bruce was not of the City, being made for open spaces, where there was no grind of traffic, no press of multitudes. He should marry some girl of pioneer strain—not herself.

Felix swam in. Felix had his plan—never any doubt about that—but so had she. He wanted her. She wanted him—for a little while longer. That’s all. Then she would be quite independent, perhaps even rich, and leave Bishopsgate for ever. Meantime she must put up with Felix and his half-concealed desires. And with Bruce buried in Honduras she could give her mind strictly to business. But of course she would write. She looked at her watch.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m late already.”

“Right—we’ll go. I say, couldn’t we dine somewhere this week and do a theatre?” His eyes still held the reflection of that long, long look. “I don’t know a soul here except yourself.”

She hesitated, then suddenly felt rather strong and independent and quite compassionate. A boy like him should not be alone in London.

“Perhaps we might; I’ll let you know. Where would a note find you?”

“My trunk’s at Waterloo,” he said very hopefully. “I’ve got to find an hotel now. May I telephone to-morrow morning?”

She nodded, and went back to the office rather thoughtful. If only he would keep hold of himself! Felix was at his desk, and it came to her with a sort of shock that during these last months his expression had changed. It used to be a shade fretful, a shade unsatisfied, but quite gentle. She could find nothing gentle now. The lines had deepened. The brows gave a heavier line, with a short vertical wrinkle between them. The lips were tighter. And somehow—though she assured herself that the idea was absurd—he looked menacing. That dried-up little man a menace!

Quantox arrived at Felix’s office in a doubtful frame of mind. It was the condition in which a shifty man generally finds himself when he receives an unexpected summons that he does not understand. So far as he knew, Felix was not connected with any of his recent activities. But one could never tell—in London. It might—it might just possibly be the Amalgamated Zinc affair. He hoped not. He was shown into the private office by Frances, who took an instant dislike to him. Too sleek by far, she decided.

He took the chair between desk and fireplace, where the light fell full on him. Felix did not rise, but murmured something polite. Quantox, wondering more than ever, did not begin the conversation. He observed the immaculate clothes of the little man, missed nothing of the substantial expensiveness of the office, and came to a perfectly sound conclusion. Marbury was solidly on his legs. But why this interview?

“It isn’t Amalgamated Zinc,” said Felix suddenly. “I wasn’t interested.”

Quantox started, and from that moment was at a disadvantage. What did the man know? How did he know? He compressed his lips a little.

“I don’t quite understand—nor why I was invited to come here.”

Felix gave the ghost of a smile. “Very good of you to come, I’m sure. No, it isn’t me, but that Honduras affair.”

Quantox blinked at him. What did he know about the Honduras affair? McLeod was to call at his own office next week. Meantime he was to speak to no one else. And during that meantime Quantox had begun to be very busy. He reckoned that he could find enough cash to tie the thing up indefinitely. That for a start. But this must be something else in that locality.

“Again I don’t quite understand. Are you interested out there?”

Felix pushed a typewritten sheet across the desk. “Yes—in this.”

It was McLeod’s report, and it was a tribute to the training of Quantox that this time he did not stir a muscle. Felix had done him brown. Felix, for his part, paused an instant, gave a little nod—a sort of tribute to the other man’s control—and went evenly on.

“I am investigating. It looks good, and I will probably take it up. If I do, I will underwrite the working capital myself.”

Quantox gaped at him this time. Such an underwriting meant fifty thousand at the least—perhaps a hundred thousand. But that didn’t seem to burden Marbury. How much had he—anyway?

“Bit of a load for one man, with the market as it is,” he ventured. “However, that’s your end of it.”

“Quite. I don’t say that I shall; merely that I will if I think well. The load is not so serious. This, however, is by the way.” He paused again, studying the man’s face with intense concentration. “I was leading up to something else, but thought you would be interested to know that this Honduras affair is in my hands.”

Quantox made an indefinite gesture.

“Then have you any definite engagement at the present time?”

Quantox nearly laughed. Engagement! And he knew that Felix knew.

“I happen to be quite free,” he answered.

“Then would you consider a proposal to ally yourself with me?”

This question, put as it was in the dry, measured voice of a man who appreciates exactly what he is saying, made Quantox a little dazed. He had expected to be bullied a bit, probably warned, and possibly punished. He admitted several openings for this. But Felix’s proposal was so startling as to be incredible. Ally himself with one of the most remarkable men in the City! Preposterous! What was behind it? He became aware that Felix was speaking again.

“Mr. Quantox, let me say at once that I know all about you. All! If I didn’t I wouldn’t have suggested this talk. Nor would I ever consider the co-operation of a man whom I did not thoroughly understand. That is the only reference I propose to make to your past. You follow me?”

It was very brutal, but very even, and quite unbroken by any shade of condemnation. It put Quantox definitely in his place with no mistake whatever. It was biting. And, further, it was entirely justified.

Quantox flushed, then turned rather green. What he should do was take his hat and walk out, flinging something back from the threshold. He knew that. But that one word “ally” had possessed him. The fibre of him weakened—stretched—yielded. He felt himself sliding—sliding. He looked uncertainly round the office. He glanced at Felix, and recognized the mysterious thing called power. He smelled money. And that smell was like incense.

“It’s hardly necessary to talk like that,” he said weakly. “Well, what about it? What’s the game?”

Felix saw and understood perfectly. He read it like a book, and he knew that the man who swallows this sort of thing and opens his gullet for more is thoroughly humbled. Which was exactly the way he proposed to begin.

“Well, now we can get on. I am not a member of the Stock Exchange. I don’t wish to be. But what I do need is someone who will act for me with the various brokers through whom I buy and sell. That man must do exactly as I tell him. He must ask no questions. However strange my orders may sound, they must be carried out to the letter. That is the sort of ally I’m looking for. Do you fancy the job?”

Quantox could hardly credit his ears. “Act for you?—why, of course—I’d be delighted. I understand the market—if anyone does—and it——”

Felix lifted a white hand. “Yes—to act for me—that is what I want—but it must not be known outside this office. This is imperative.”

Quantox’s brows went up. “You mean that I would not be your accredited representative?”

“Accredited nothing! You’d still be the gambler you are now, but on an infinitely larger scale. You’d make losses that would—well,”—he smiled a little—“would sink the ordinary gambler in a morning. But you’d make them for me! Understand that?”

Quantox’s lips were open now, and his eyes held the slow dawn of profound admiration. This from Felix Marbury! Marbury, of all men! They were made for each other, he and Marbury!

“Please go on.” It was like a child to his parent.

“Ah, I see you get the drift of it. To the world you are an independent operator on a very large scale. Your instructions would come solely from me. You would be supplied with funds by me—probably by way of the Continent. I would give you a salary. You would in no case whatever speculate on your own account, and you would report whenever required.”

Saying this, Felix leaned back and regarded his visitor with a contemplative eye. There was no invitation in that eye. It was fish-like. It said in so many words: “I need a crook in my business—I know you to be a crook—the place is open—but solely on the condition that you do exactly as you are told.”

“What’s the salary?” asked Quantox in a ragged tone.

“I thought of three thousand a year to begin with. What it is later would depend on you.”

“I’d need an office—and money to start with.”

“That would be seen to.”

There was such a calm assurance in the tone that Quantox was convinced. No question about the money. But supposing Marbury were to tell him to bear the market in a given stock, and leave him unprotected? Supposing a lot of things that might easily happen? What security had he? This alliance would never be put on paper. He was attracted—frightened—uncertain and hungry all at once. Felix must have perceived this.

“Quantox,” he said, “I know what’s in your mind, and you’d better think it over. I don’t want an answer to-day. You’re wondering how I make my money. I won’t tell you the system. It will die with me. But there’s three thousand a year and all expenses for doing what you’re told. Meantime are you in any way embarrassed for funds?”

“I could use a few hundreds very nicely,” said Quantox, marvelling.

“Equally, you would like to be assured of the soundness of my financial system? You would naturally like that?”

“Reasonable, isn’t it, considering everything?”

“Perfectly reasonable. Now, I never lend money—people don’t thank you for it in the end, and it generally makes enemies; but if I were you I’d buy all the Texas South-Eastern common you can lay your hands on. I think you’ll be pleased.”

Quantox licked his lips. He couldn’t believe that Marbury was going to lend him money before anything had been settled; he did want to think this over very earnestly, and he was very much astonished at being given a straight tip.

“Texas South-Eastern, you said?”

“Yes, and I’d suggest putting in a selling order at fifty-nine. Thanks for coming in. I assume you’ll get in touch a little later. Good morning.”

Quantox went out with the demeanour of one who is leaving a shrine, and Felix stared into mid-air as though he expected to see something. Nothing appeared. He was not disappointed because, by now, he invariably had to focus his brain on its invisible target before he got any results. And he felt too tired for that now. But what he did see was the profile of Frances in the other room. Instead of ringing for her, he went in.

“Busy?”

“I haven’t done half these letters yet.”

“There’s no particular hurry. Let them wait.”

His tone was odd—strained—unnatural. A fleck of colour had crept into his usually sallow cheeks. She noted this, wishing she were in the outer office with Pumphrey. She fingered a letter, and gave a little laugh.

“That’s not very businesslike. You said they ought to go to-night.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. Look here, I’ve nothing to do this evening. No one in the house. What about dinner and a theatre? It would let me down. I’m tired.”

He looked tired—and nervous. His eyes seemed to change their light. His fingers twitched. She was afraid he was going to touch her. But he dropped into a chair, looking so done up that she felt sorry for him. She wanted to ask him about Quantox. Perhaps that would come later.

“That Honduras thing—it’s going through—definitely,” he said with a small glance. “McLeod is perfectly straight. You saw that, too.”

“I was sure of it.”

He was silent for a moment, while Frances pictured the face of Bruce when he heard. It should make him, and she was secretly happy that it should have come through her. This for being a chatterbox! But the thing wasn’t done yet, and it turned on Felix, whereat it seemed to her that she mustn’t antagonize him. She wondered if he had taken it up because she brought it. Hardly! Like herself, he had appreciated a good thing. Perhaps she had better accept for to-night. Queer to be doing it—and for the first time—for the sake of the other man who had proposed a similar evening.

“I’ll dine with you if you like,” she said gently.

He smiled, nodded, and went in to speak to Pumphrey.

“Tell my man I won’t need the car. Send him home, please.” Then returning to his own room, he sat and argued with himself thus:

“I am tired. I do need companionship. I don’t get it from Anne. She doesn’t know enough, and her brain’s too slow. Frances understands me better than any living soul. She knows what I feel about her—she must know. She rests me—she revives me—she’s different. I’m going to do big things—she’ll be in on them—and for a companion I want someone who had nothing to do with the ghastly grind of the last fifteen years. She makes me feel—Anne only makes me critical.”

By the time the office had emptied itself of all but himself and Frances, he felt fifty per cent younger and ninety per cent justified.

“Well,” he asked cheerfully, “where would you like to go? I’m not very well posted. What about the Beauclerk?” He suggested that having seen the accounts of fashionable entertainments given there.

“Too big,” she said. “Why not an Italian restaurant in Soho? Some of them are awfully nice. Of course they’re small.”

“Nice, but small!” That rather took his fancy, and they went to Dean Street in a taxi. He liked the place, took more interest in his food than he ever did in Onslow Square, and was surprised at the smallness of the bill.

“Didn’t think one could do so well so cheaply. How much do I give them?”

“Ten per cent would be right.”

He put down eighteenpence, chuckling. “That’s your figure, too.”

“My figure!”

“Yes—your commission on the McLeod business.” He tilted his head and looked at her quizzically. “Twenty-five hundred pounds!”

“What!” she gasped.

“Par value of your shares. I’ll make ’em worth a good many times par. Realize it?”

It was evident that she hadn’t, so bright became her eyes, so suddenly flushed her cheeks. It couldn’t be taken in at a gulp. “Twenty-five——” he heard her whisper. In the taxi on the way to the theatre he took her hand, pressing it gently. “You’re going to be rich—and soon. Not in love with that chap, are you?”

She seemed to be in a dream, and left her hand in his for a moment.

“In love! What chap?”

“McLeod. I wondered if he’d said anything down in the New Forest.”

She withdrew the hand, shaking her head. “Can you imagine me living in Honduras?”

“That’s right—that’s right. You couldn’t. Just a fancy of mine. I’d hate to lose you. Couldn’t get on very well without you. I’m lonely. Feel as though I’ve been lonely all my life. It gets one after a while. The business is all right—but after the business—that’s what I don’t like.”

She listened curiously, blaming herself for listening, but oddly fascinated to watch this other Felix coming out. She had never seen Anne, seldom heard him speak of her. Felix leaned toward her so that their shoulders touched. It intoxicated him as it might a boy of nineteen, and amused her. She felt the older of the two.

“Mr. Quantox?” she asked suddenly. “Is he to have anything to do with the Honduras business?”

Felix straightened up as though he had been pricked. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I don’t like him.”

“Then you don’t want him to have anything to do with it?”

“Would that make any difference?” she murmured.

“All the difference. I don’t really need him for that, though I had thought—well, it doesn’t matter.” He gave a little grunt, and smiled at her. “Frances!”

“Yes?” He never called her Frances in the office, and she didn’t mind it here.

“Do you ever think of Silks Preferred?”

“Often. How could I forget it?”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you that it will happen again. Do you remember all about it?”

She knew then what he meant, and wedged herself into the corner of the seat. Was he going to kiss her this time?

“I’m afraid I was very foolish,” she said nervously.

He shook his head. “Don’t be frightened. You’ll have a much bigger reason to be foolish next time. I don’t promise what I can’t carry out. And I’m going to be good—for a little while longer.”

Next day he felt pleased with himself, but a little guilty, so embarked on a careful analysis of the Honduras affair. Glancing now and again at Frances, he decided that no harm had been done, and perhaps a little good. Her expression was just the same. Certainly not offended. Encouraging!

He realized quite clearly that he was starting on the road to infidelity, and confessed to being somewhat timorous. Why should that be? He puzzled over this till he saw that constancy, in men like himself, was as much a matter of habit as anything else. It was a habit, imposed very often by the narrowness of their sphere of life. Now, however, his sphere was expanding—had expanded prodigiously. His habits, therefore, would be changed; and, looking back at Brixton, he could not see any virtue in having done what was imposed on him by the sheer force of circumstances. Men of genius—and there was no question about his present type of genius—were automatically given more rope.

Through all this moved Anne; large, but limited; kind, but clumsy. He hadn’t much hope that changed surroundings would do anything for her. Her brain wasn’t compact or sharp enough. They had occupied the Onslow Square house for some months, but she didn’t yet seem at home. It swamped her. She would have made an excellent mother in some rambling establishment where there were lots of children—would have fussed over their food and clothes and heard their prayers every night. He could easily imagine that. But there were no children—he knew there never would be—by her—and in spite of all that had happened—in spite of money to burn—in spite of London itself—the only change in her was a change of address.

At four o’clock, still feeling guilty, he telephoned, asking her to come in the car and pick him up. She arrived breathless, and entered his office for the first time. And it was of the nature of things that her eye, disregarding all else, fastened immediately on Frances. Felix had expected that, and was quite ready.

“You’ve heard me speak of her often,” he said, introducing them.

Anne nodded and smiled. It was a wistful smile, because she instantly perceived in Frances what she could never be herself. Finish—poise—a clear, transparent skin—a grace and dexterity in movement—a figure that was almost vocal in its appeal—the nameless and unnameable, living, palpitating message that creates response in men and envy or apprehension in other women—Anne saw all this. Then she accomplished the most difficult feat of her life. She kept it to herself.

“Yes, I’ve heard of you very often. My husband says you’re invaluable. What a nice office this is! And so quiet! Are you ready now, Felix?”