“What’s Paris now, Netley?” he asked a passing subordinate.
“One-nineteen, one-seventeen,” replied Netley over his shoulder as he hurried on hoping that Mr. Marble would notice that he deliberately did not say “sir.”
Two points rise again, thought Mr. Marble. There might be some truth in the wild theories that had been flashing through his brain. On the other hand, it might be only one of the periodic and temporary recoveries that were usual. The price might sag at any minute again. If Mr. Marble were to buy, he might find that he had bought at the beginning of a fall instead of the beginning of a rise. And if he were to buy on a margin—Mr. Marble had already in his mind a scheme to enable him to do so—then the inevitable ten point fall would deprive him of ninety percent of his capital. But then—Mr. Marble’s silly heart was already bumping heavily against his ribs—the sort of rise he thought possible would bring him in nearly a hundred times the amount invested. Mr. Marble managed to keep his brain deadly clear despite the thumping of his heart, just as he had done that memorable evening some months ago. It was a chance. Mr. Marble’s brain sorted out all the tiny indications it had collected and stored up unbidden for weeks past. It was more than a chance. It was a certainty, decided that clear brain.
Yet Mr. Marble felt the flush of blood in his cheeks, and his heart beat unbearably as he rose from his seat and walked out of the office on what was to be one of the momentous occasions of his life. Even his gait was a little unsteady so great was the strain upon him, and the younger clerks whom he had to pass on the way to the door nudged each other merrily as he went by.
“Old Marble going out for his usual,” they said. “Bit early even for him. Must have been properly soused last night.”
There was a public-house round the corner, and it was there that Mr. Marble stayed his steps, just as, be it admitted, he had often done before. The girl at the bar knew him, and the double Scotch was ready for him before even he was within reach of it. But Mr. Marble did not, as was usual, drain it off and demand another. Instead, he withdrew, glass in hand, to a bench behind a table, and sat waiting, waiting inexorably, while his heart beat in his finger tips so that his hands shook. It was only just opening time, and there was a steady stream of entrants, stockbrokers and clerks, street-betting agents, all the curious mixture that is to be found in a public-house fifty yards from Threadneedle Street on a weekday morning.
Once or twice men he knew entered, and nodded, but Mr. Marble was not cordial. His return nod carried with it no invitation to share his bench and sit at his table with him. Most probably none of them would have accepted such an invitation anyway, unless it were unavoidable. Mr. Marble continued to stare at the swing doors.
And then Mr. Marble’s heart gave a convulsive throb. He suddenly felt sick with fear, fear of the future. At last his scheme was presented to him in the concrete, instead of the comfortably abstract. For a wild moment he thought of flight, of abandoning the whole business. He could, he knew. He might struggle along for years without the aid that improbable success in this venture would bring him. But Mr. Marble thrust the temptation on one side, and proceeded with the business with bitter determination. He beckoned to Saunders, the man whose entrance had caused this last internal commotion.
Saunders had his drink in his hand; he had greeted those men at the bar whom he knew, and was glancing round the room to make sure that he had missed no one.
He was a plump man of middle height, rosy and prosperous looking. He knew Marble slightly; that is to say, he had talked to him a dozen times in that public-house. He was acquainted with the fact that Marble worked for the National County Bank, which he himself employed, and that was all. Naturally he was a little puzzled at Marble’s beckoning to him, but Saunders took care to be friendly to everyone who spoke to him, seeing that his livelihood depended on the goodwill of the public. Saunders was a bookmaker, in a tiny office five stories up near Old Broad Street, conducting his business almost entirely by telephone and by the men who waited about at lunchtime near the corners of the streets.
Glass in hand, Saunders came across to the table just as Marble had done before him, and almost without knowing it he sat down opposite him. There was that in Marble’s manner which seemed to make it inevitable that he should sit down.
“Well,” said Saunders cheerily, “how’s things?”
“Not too bad,” said Marble. “Got ten minutes to spare?”
Saunders supposed he had, a little ruefully, though, for he had at first imagined that this was merely evidence of a desire to open a credit account with him, and, since Marble’s manner did not indicate this, he came to the other conclusion, that he was about to hear a hard luck story. As far as Saunders’ experience went, men between themselves did nothing but bet or borrow.
“You do bank with the National County, don’t you?” began Marble.
“You’re right.”
“And you know I work there?”
“Right again. What’s the matter? Firm going bust? My account overdrawn?” Saunders was a witty fellow; there never was the slightest chance of the National County suspending payment, and Saunders’ account was never lower than four hundred pounds. But Marble hardly smiled. Instead, he turned his bleak eyes full upon Saunders’ brown ones.
“No,” he said; then slowly, “I want to do a deal, and I must have the help of a
