“I should think you were right again,” said Saunders, but he was not feeling quite so full of levity now. His puzzled mind was searching for Marble’s motives. Either this seedy old boy was balmy or else he was on some illegal lay. In either case Saunders was not having any. Saunders was a law-abiding man, save in the matter of inciting others to street-betting. And yet—and yet—
“Do you want to hear about it?” said Marble, grimly. He had himself as well in hand as when he had offered Medland that glass of whisky, but the effort was frightful. His confidence overbore Saunders’ easy scepticism.
“Right-ho. I don’t say I’ll buy it, though,” added Saunders hastily.
“No. But I want your word that you’ll keep quiet if you don’t.”
Saunders agreed. And the word of a bookmaker is accepted all over England.
“I’ve got some information. It might mean a lot of money if it were used properly.”
“Racin’ information?” There was a suspicion of a sneer in Saunders’ voice: he obtained half his income from people with racing information.
“No. Foreign exchange.”
“Don’t hardly know what that is.”
“No,” said Marble. “Lots of people don’t.”
“Oh, I know a bit,” said Saunders, anxious to justify himself. “I know about how the mark has fallen to half nothing and—and—all that sort of thing, you know.”
Somehow the moral tables had turned during those few minutes. Undoubtedly Marble was now in the ascendant. Largely, of course, this change was due to the fact that the conversation was about a subject of which he knew much and the other nothing. But on the other hand it must be admitted that the vague thing known as “Personality” was affecting the case, too. Marble was putting out all his strength to influence Saunders unobtrusively, and he was succeeding. Men can do much when they have to.
“Well,” said Marble, bleak eyes set like stones, “the franc is going to rise, and now is the time to buy.”
The secret was out now. Saunders could betray him now at leisure. But Marble, never taking his eyes off Saunders’, was sure he would not.
“I don’t say you’re not right,” said Saunders, “but what’s the little game? Where do I come in? And where do you come in?”
“It’s like this,” said Marble, showing his whole hand, so sure was he. “It isn’t much good buying francs outright. I could do that myself next door. But you don’t stand to make much that way. This time you might make a hundred percent, but of course that’s not good enough.”
“Of course not,” said Saunders submissively.
“The best way to do it is to make a ‘forward operation’ of it. That means you must put up ten percent.”
“On a margin,” put in Saunders, proud of this little bit of argot picked up during much frequenting of City public-houses.
“Exactly. On a margin. That means that a five percent rise in the franc gives you fifty percent profit. As I said, it might be a hundred percent rise this time. That would be a thousand percent profit—ten to one, in other words,” added Marble, countering Saunders’ effort.
Saunders only dimly understood.
“But I don’t see now why you’re telling me all this,” he said. “Why don’t you get along and do it? Why tell anyone else at all?”
“Because I’m not allowed to put a forward operation through for myself in the Bank. You have to have some legitimate reason for wanting to.”
“And what reason would I have?” Saunders was being rapidly drawn into the net.
“Oh, that’s easy. You can easily have some business in France, can’t you? Don’t you ever bet on French races?”
“Of course I do, sometimes.”
“And don’t you ever send money to France?”
“Well, I have done, once or twice.”
“Right, then. If you were to tell the Bank that you wanted to buy francs they’d believe you all right. And they love you in the Bank, anyhow. You keep a big current account, and they love anyone who does that.”
Saunders was still struggling against the mesmeric influence that was beginning to overpower him.
“Tell me some more about this ‘forward operation’ stunt,” he pleaded, wavering, conscious that in a minute he would have to decide one way or the other, conscious that he would most probably fall in with Marble’s plans, and conscious, too, that he did not really want to. “Tell me what I should have to do.”
Marble explained carefully, drilling it into his man with meticulous care. Then he threw his last bait. He showed how, if a man were to take his profit when it amounted to a mere five times his stake, and had the hardihood to fling both profits and stake into the business again, by the time the currency purchased stood at twice the figure it stood at at the start, the profit would not be ten, but thirty-five units.
Saunders scratched his head wildly.
“Here, what are you drinking?” he asked, signalling agitatedly to the barman, and then leaning forward again to go over the details once more. Marble’s cold judgement had chosen his man well. A bookmaker earns his living by other people’s gambling, but even with this practical example always before him there is no one on earth so ready to gamble—in anything not pertaining to the turf.
Then Saunders made a last despairing effort to writhe out of the business. He said that, after all, he was unacquainted with Marble.
“How do I know it’s straight?” he asked pitifully.
“It can’t be very well anything else, can it?” replied Marble, and the condescension in his tone was an added spur to Saunders. “I won’t be able to pinch your money, will I? It will all be in your account, won’t it? If it isn’t straight I can’t make anything out of it.”
Saunders had realized this as soon as the words had left his mouth, and he apologized. Mr. Marble, hope boiling in his veins, was very gracious.
“Well, what is it you
