rule in Fauntley’s business life always to open private correspondence himself, for he worked on the basis that no one else could be trusted.
Gregory came in silently, and bowed.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Look here, Gregory” — Fauntley rarely allowed himself to bandy words, about the weather or anything else, with the men who worked for him — “Klobbers. Yesterday they were bad, and to-day . . .”
“Sixteen-and-eightpence, my lord,” said Gregory. “Mr Marshall told me himself that he can’t buy them lower. They were fourteen-and-three yesterday. Shall we continue to buy, my lord ?”
“Of course, you fool, buy! Buy all you can while they’re below par, and then stop. But, listen, Gregory, if I thought you knew anything about this leakage . . .”
Gregory had been secretary to Lord Fauntley too long to take exception to the remark or the manner of it. He was a tall, pale-faced man of fifty, a confirmed bachelor, and a chronic dyspeptic.
“I assure you, my lord, the sharp rise was as much a surprise to me as to you. I was
“Oh, get out,” muttered Lord Fauntley.
“Shall I send Mr Mannering in, my lord ?”
“Mannering? Oh — oh, yes.”
Fauntley summoned a smile, but was not entirely successful in hiding his irritation. It was rare, even for the managing-director of the Fauntley Financial Trust, to find a thing like the Klobber Diamond Mines, and he had expected to get the whole fruit for himself. The fact that he had been compelled to share it was maddening. His profits were cut from forty thousand to twenty-five thousand, and he was reminding himself that fifteen thousand was a lot of money.
He stopped brooding as a figure darkened the doorway.
“Ha! Come in, Mannering, come in. Glad to see you.”
Mannering, immaculate and polished as ever, entered the office, shook hands with his lordship, inquired after her ladyship, and accepted a suggestion that he should dine at Langford Terrace that evening.
Under the warming influence of Mannering’s flattery Lord Fauntley confided that he had been stung by some darned cheap-jack of a broker, but, by Jove, he’d be more careful in the future. Then he succeeded in forcing his worries away, and chuckled.
“Still laying heavily on the winners, Mannering?”
Mannering smiled at his lordship’s eagerness.
“I was on Tanamount yesterday,” he said, “doubled with Portia. But I really came to see you about the stones, Fauntley.”
Fauntley swallowed hard. Some thirty years before he had been a clerk in the offices of a Greenwich bookmaker, whose heaviest stakes had rarely topped the hundred pounds. By unquestioned shrewdness he had climbed the backs of the masses to become a financial power, but in many ways he retained the outlook of his early days. He was unable to comprehend the coolness of Mannering in the face of sub-stantial wins and — so far as the peer could see — only occasional losses. Mannering’s nonchalance was a thing that Fauntley discussed at any and every opportunity. “An astonishing fellow. Money doesn’t matter with him. Ever met him? Come along to my daughter’s Carnival Ball — you’ll find Mannering there.” Or, to his wife: “Amazing fellow, Mannering. Fascinating. And — business with pleasure, m’dear — I think that idea of a ball is a good one. It’s time Lorna took a little interest in her old father, and a lot of people will come: surprising how much can be done at a time like that. Mannering will draw them.”
Very often Mannering told himself that he could not have a better publicity-agent, and there was an ironical gleam in his eyes when he wondered what Fauntley’s reaction would be if the peer knew just what he was doing.
“Stones?” echoed his lordship, breaking across Mannering’s thoughts.
Mannering nodded, as he proffered cigarettes.
“Yes. I’ve heard that the Lubitz diamonds will be in the market within a week or two, and . . .”
“Lubitz !” Lord Fauntley’s eyes glittered. “My heavens, Mannering, but the Lubitz collection
“So sure that I thought of buying them,” said Mannering.
The peer’s face dropped ludicrously.
“Ha! Of course. I’d forgotten you collect. Yes. Well, you won’t go far wrong with the Lubitz diamonds, that’s certain enough.”
“But,” said Mannering, frowning a little, “I’m more anxious to get the Gembolt sapphires, and I was thinking . . .”
He stopped, as Lord Fauntley’s lips tightened.
The Gembolt sapphires, Fauntley knew, were up for offer at the Garton Sale Rooms, at an auction to be held on the following morning. He, Fauntley, had them in his pocket, since money was tight, and he expected to get them for five or six thousand. But if anyone — Mannering, for instance — was going to bid against him, it would be a different matter.
“I was thinking,” Mannering went on, “that if you give me the first refusal of the sapphires I’ll see that you get the first chance of the Lubitz collection.”
“You will?” Fauntley’s eyes sparkled. “But that’s damned good of you, Mannering, damned good! I’ll keep away
