With the fibre doormat scratching his bare feet Mr. Marble stood and read the financial columns of the newspaper. It was unenlightening. It mentioned the closing price of the franc—118—one point better than he had bought at. Mr. Marble knew that already. Nowhere was there any mention of drastic action by the French Government. Everything seemed as it was yesterday. Mr. Marble realized that he might perhaps be able to get out of the transaction even now with safety and a small profit. That would perhaps keep Saunders’ mouth shut. But Mr. Marble only dallied with the idea for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed, and his weak, nubbly chin came forward an eighth of an inch. No. He would stick it out now. He would carry the business through, cost what it might. He was sick of being afraid. There was some quite good stuff in the makeup of Mr. William Marble. It was a pity that it took danger of life and death to stir him up to action.
Yet Mr. Marble was so anxious that he called up to his wife, “Aren’t you ever coming down, Annie?” and he bustled hastily through his dressing and breakfast and rushed off to the City a good half-hour before his usual time. No one in the crowded railway carriage guessed that the little man in the blue suit perched in the corner, his feet hardly touching the floor, who read his paper with such avidity, was hastening to either fortune or ruin, although perhaps a closer glance than ever Mr. Marble received might have raised some strange speculations, considering his white face and his tortured light-blue eyes. He did not walk across the bridge from the station. Instead he scampered, breathlessly.
At the Bank he hung up his hat and coat carelessly, and dashed upstairs to the department of Foreign Exchange. The few clerks already there stared in wonder at his unwontedly early arrival. Straight to Mr. Henderson’s room went Mr. Marble, to that private sanctum which only he and Henderson had the right to enter. He looked at the tape machine. Fool that he was! Of course, there would be no quotations through yet. He might as well have stayed at home.
He came back to his desk, and sat down, making a pretence of being busy, though this was difficult to maintain, as the letters had not yet arrived. He waited for twenty minutes while the room filled with late arrivals of the one timetable and the early arrivals of the other. The customary din of the office began to develop. The telephones began to ring, and the clerks began to call to each other from desk to desk. Mr. Marble became conscious that young Netley was speaking into the telephone opposite. He knew from Netley’s greeting to the unknown at the other end that he was talking to the exchange brokers in London Wall.
“Yes,” said Netley, “yes, no, what, really? No, I hadn’t heard, yes, yes, all right.”
Marble knew instinctively what he was talking about.
“What’s Paris now, Netley?” he asked.
Netley was so full of his surprising news that he did not notice the coincidence, and also actually added the hated “sir.”
“Ninety-nine, sir,” he said. “It’s gone up twenty points in the night. They don’t know why, yet.”
Marble knew. He was right, of course. He had a good head for finance when he chose to use it.
Henderson came in and passed through to his own room. Marble did not notice him. He was busy thinking. He was nerving himself to go on with the venture. If he sold now he could give Saunders some three hundred pounds profit—enough to satisfy him most probably. Anyway, he was safe for a bit. Keeping in close touch with the market as he naturally did, he could sell at the instant a decline seemed likely. But if he did what he had suggested to Saunders yesterday—sold out and then reinvested, he would be much less safe. A ten percent drop would wipe out profit and capital as well, and Saunders would think he had been swindled. But all Marble’s judgement told him that the rise was bound to continue. There was a huge gain to be made if only he was bold enough—or desperate enough—to risk it. Henderson appeared at the door of his room.
“Mr. Marble,” he said, “someone wants you.”
Marble went in and picked up the receiver.
“Hullo,” he said.
“That Mr. Marble?” said the receiver.
“Hallo, old bean, how’s things?” said the receiver.
It was Saunders. He had begun to regret his transaction of the previous day long ago, but he was determined on playing the game to the last. Marble might have got four hundred pounds out of him by some nefarious means, but he was not going to get a rise out of him as well. He would see the thing through to the bitter end.
“Going well,” said Mr. Marble.
He had to pick his words, for Henderson was within earshot, and it would never do for him to know that he was acting in collusion with one of the Bank’s customers.
“They’ve begun to rise,” said Mr. Marble. “Look at your tape machine.”
Mr. Saunders was unable to retain an exclamation of surprised unbelief.
“You can get out now with a bit of profit,” said Mr. Marble. His tone was cold and sincere, as he was striving to make it, and carried conviction.
“Sorry, I can’t hear what you’re
