much more of that exceedingly dull and commonplace puff do you propose to read, Jeffreys?” he asked.
“No more, Sir Robert. We are paying The Cynic thirty guineas to insert this article, and the point is that they say that if they have to put in the ‘national and imperial’ business they must have twenty more.”
“Indeed, Jeffreys? Why?”
“Because, Sir Robert—I will tell you, as you always like to hear the truth—their advertisement-editor is of opinion that Sahara Limited is a national and imperial swindle. He says that he won’t drag the nation and the empire into it in an editorial under fifty guineas.”
A faint smile flickered on Sir Robert’s face.
“Does he, indeed?” he asked. “I wonder at his moderation. Had I been in his place I should have asked more, for really the style is a little flamboyant. Well, we don’t want to quarrel with them just now—feed the sharks. But surely, Jeffreys, you didn’t come to disturb me about such a trifle?”
“Not altogether, Sir Robert. There is something more important. The Daily Judge not only declines to put any article whatsoever, but refuses our advertisement, and states that it means to criticize the prospectus trenchantly.”
“Ah!” said his master after a moment’s thought, “that is rather serious, since people believe in the Judge even when it is wrong. Offer them the advertisement at treble rates.”
“It has been done, sir, and they still refuse.”
Sir Robert walked to the corner of the room where the yellow object squatted on its pedestal, and contemplated it a while, as a man often studies one thing when he is thinking of another. It seemed to give him an idea, for he looked over his shoulder and said:
“That will do, Jeffreys. When Major Vernon comes in, give him my compliments and say that I should be obliged by a word or two with him.”
The clerk bowed and went as noiselessly as he had entered.
“Let’s see,” added Sir Robert to himself. “Old Jackson, the editor of The Judge, was a great friend of Vernon’s father, the late Sir William Vernon, G.C.B. I believe that he was engaged to be married to his sister years ago, only she died or something. So the Major ought to be able to get round him if anybody can. Only the worst of it is I don’t altogether trust that young gentleman. It suited us to give him a share in the business because he is an engineer who knows the country, and this Sahara scheme was his notion, a very good one in a way, and for other reasons. Now he shows signs of kicking over the traces, wants to know too much, is developing a conscience, and so forth. As though the promoters of speculative companies had any business with consciences. Ah! here he comes.”
Sir Robert seated himself at his desk and resumed his calculations upon a half-sheet of note-paper, and that moment a clear, hearty voice was heard speaking to the clerks in the outer office. Then came the sound of a strong, firm footstep, the door opened and Major Alan Vernon appeared.
He was still quite a young man, not more than thirty-two or three years of age, though he lacked the ultra robust and rubicund appearance which is typical of so many Englishmen of his class at this period of life. A heavy bout of blackwater fever acquired on service in West Africa, which would have killed anyone of weaker constitution, had robbed his face of its bloom and left it much sallower, if more interesting than once it had been. For in a way there was interest about the face; also a certain charm. It was a good and honest face with a rather eager, rather puzzled look, that of a man who has imagination and ideas and who searches for the truth but fails to find it. As for the charm, it lay for the most part in the pleasant, open smile and in the frank but rather round brown eyes overhung by a somewhat massive forehead which projected a little, or perhaps the severe illness already alluded to had caused the rest of the face to sink. Though thin, the man was bigly built, with broad shoulders and well-developed limbs, measuring a trifle under six feet in height.
Such was the outward appearance of Alan Vernon. As for his mind, it was able enough in certain fashions, for instance those of engineering, and the soldier-like faculties to which it had been trained; frank and kindly also, but in other respects not quick, perhaps from its unsuspiciousness. Alan Vernon was a man slow to discover ill and slower still to believe in it even when it seemed to be discovered, a weakness that may have gone far to account for his presence in the office of those eminent and brilliant financiers, Messrs. Aylward & Champers-Haswell. Just now he looked a little worried, like a fish out of water, or rather a fish which has begun to suspect the quality of the water, something in its smell or taste.
“Jeffreys tells me that you want to see me, Sir Robert,” he said in his low and pleasant voice, looking at the baronet rather anxiously.
“Yes, my dear Vernon, I wish to ask you to do something, if you kindly will, although it is not quite in your line. Old Jackson, the editor of The Judge, is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“He was a friend of my father’s, and I used to know him slightly.”
“Well, that’s near enough. As I daresay you have heard, he is an unreasonable old beggar, and has taken a dislike to our Sahara scheme. Someone has set him against it and he refuses to receive advertisements, threatens criticisms, etc. Now the opposition of The Judge or any other paper won’t kill us, and if necessary we can fight, but at the same time it is always wise to agree with your enemy while he is in the way, and in short—would you mind going down and explaining his mistake to him?”
Before answering Major Vernon walked to the window leisurely and looked out.
“I don’t like asking favours from family friends,” he replied at length, “and, as you said, I think it isn’t quite my line. Though of course if it has anything to do with the engineering possibilities, I shall be most happy to see him,” he added, brightening.
“I don’t know what it has to do with; that is what I shall be obliged if you will find out,” answered Sir Robert with some asperity. “One can’t divide a matter of this sort into watertight compartments. It is true that in so important a concern each of us has charge of his own division, but the fact remains that we are jointly and severally responsible for the whole. I am not sure that you bear this sufficiently in mind, my dear Vernon,” he added with slow emphasis.
His partner moved quickly; it might almost have been said that he shivered, though whether the movement, or the shiver, was produced by the argument of joint and several liability or by the familiarity of the “my dear Vernon,” remains uncertain. Perhaps it was the latter, since although the elder man was a baronet and the younger only a retired Major of Engineers, the gulf between them, as any one of discernment could see, was wide. They were born, lived, and moved in different spheres unbridged by any common element or impulse.
“I think that I do bear it in mind, especially of late, Sir Robert,” answered Alan Vernon slowly.
His partner threw a searching glance on him, for he felt that there was meaning in the words, but only said:
“That’s all right. My motor is outside and will take you to Fleet Street in no time. Meanwhile you might tell them to telephone that you are coming, and perhaps you will just look in when you get back. I haven’t got to go to the House to-night, so shall be here till dinner time, and so, I think, will your cousin Haswell. Muzzle that old bulldog, Jackson, somehow. No doubt he has his price like the rest of them, in meal or malt, and you needn’t stick at the figure. We don’t want him hanging on our throat
