It was six o’clock on the following day, and in the sunset light of
the July evening--a light with which the bustling, hurrying, unlovely
crowd on which it fell seemed strangely out of harmony--the current of
human life was setting strongly in every direction from the City. Along
Cornhill, going against the stream, but driven, nevertheless, at a pace
which was looked upon far from favourably by the police occupied in
regulating the traffic, there came a hansom cab. In the cab, with one
hand gripping the doors until the knuckles stood out white, was Julian
Romayne. His hat was pulled slightly forward over his brow, as if with
some half-conscious sense of the ghastliness of his face, some instinct
to hide that ghastliness from casual eyes. His face was of a livid
pallor. There were grey shadows about the mouth, which was set into
hard lines of temporary and difficult self-control. His nostrils, not
sensitive as a rule, quivered slightly as the pace of his horse slackened
perforce now and again; he gave no other slightest sign of consciousness
of his surroundings.
The cab turned out of Cornhill, and in another second pulled up suddenly.
Almost before the cab had stopped, Julian flung open the doors and leapt
out. He paid the man double his fare, dashed into the building before
which they had stopped, and up the stairs to an office on the second
floor. His hand was shaking like a leaf as he stretched it out to try the
lock of the door. It yielded to his touch, and he flung it roughly open
and passed rapidly in. The outer office had only one occupant, a rather
feeble-looking little man, who was trying to improve the appearance of a
shabby hat by a careful application of his coat-sleeve. He looked up with
a start on Julian’s entrance, and an expression of comprehending concern
dawned on his face. He was the messenger of the Welcome Diamond Mining
Company. Before he could speak, however, a hoarse, peremptory question
broke from Julian:
“Mr. Ramsay’s not gone?”
“Not yet, sir,” was the answer, given with timid alacrity. “He’s here
later than usual to-night, you see, in consequence----”
But before the first words were fairly uttered, Julian had crossed the
room, and as he reached the second door leading into the inner office,
it opened quietly, and Ramsay stood on the threshold. He was looking
as imperturbable and uninterested as usual, and his voice was dry
indifference itself as he observed:
“I have been expecting you all day.”
Without a word Julian strode past him into the manager’s room, and then,
as Ramsay shut the door calmly, he said, in a quick, unnatural tone,
which also carried with it a curious suggestion that he had not even
heard Ramsay’s words:
“It’s a mistake! It’s a mistake! It must be!”
Ramsay’s only answer was a slight shrug of the shoulders as his dull eyes
rested, apparently with complete indifference, upon Julian’s face; and
the latter went on, rapidly and unevenly:
“I’ve only just heard. I’ve been out of town all day. I’ve come to
hear--to see what can be done.”
The last words were hardly audible, as though his mouth was so parched
that he could hardly articulate. He lifted his hand as if involuntarily,
and pushed back his hat, fixing a pair of fierce, burning eyes upon
Ramsay.
“There’s nothing to be done, of course,” said Ramsay drily. “The thing’s
collapsed.”
A harsh, wild laugh rang through the room, its faint echoes startling the
little man in the outer office.
“Collapsed!” cried Julian. “Collapsed, by Heaven!”
He put out one hand gropingly, caught at a chair near him and dropped
heavily into it, letting his face fall forward upon his folded arms as
they rested upon its back.
Only half an hour had passed since he had gone to his rooms in the Temple
after a picnic on the river, to find waiting for him there a telegram
from Ramsay. And into that half-hour had been compressed such a desperate
stand against despair as is little less terrible than despair itself.
The telegram had told him that on the opening of the Stock Exchange that
morning it had been spread abroad on unimpeachable authority that the
Welcome Diamond Mine was under water. This evening, the inevitable sequel
of such a fact, as he knew too well, shares in the Welcome Diamond Mining
Company were so much waste-paper.
Ramsay stood for a moment looking at him, with a rather curious
expression on his inexpressive face.
“It’s a turn of the game,” he said drily. “If you stand to win, you must
stand to lose, too. You hadn’t thought of that, I suppose?”
With a sudden tumultuous movement, as though his agony of mind was no
longer to be endured in stillness, Julian sprang from his chair and began
to walk up and down the room with hasty, uneven strides.
“Thought of it!” he cried. “What was there to make one think of it? It
was a certainty yesterday, man; a certainty!”
A spasm passed across his face, and seemed to cut off his words, and
Ramsay observed sententiously:
“It’s a mistake to reckon anything as a certainty till you hold it in
your hand.”
Julian faced round suddenly and confronted him, his eyes blazing, every
feature working.
“What the devil is the good of saying things like that?” he demanded.
“Can’t you understand that I have reckoned on it, as you call it? Can’t
you understand that it was all or nothing with me, and I am just done?
Can’t you understand----”
He broke off suddenly, and, turning away with a heavy groan, flung
himself into a chair, and let his face fall forward on the table. For
all that he was face to face with at that moment he could have found no
words. The remorse, the sense of failure and helplessness, the despair
which seemed to be tearing his heart to pieces, were one intolerable
anguish.
Ramsay followed him with his eyes, and then crossed the room quietly, and
stood beside his bowed figure, which was shaken now and again from head
to foot.
“Is it so bad as this, boy?” he said quietly. Then, as there came no
answer, he went on meditatively: “Ten thousand pounds! Ten thousand isn’t
so much to lose. Counters in the game, that’s all.”
He paused, and after a moment Julian lifted his face, haggard and drawn.
“It’s the stake you must look to,” he said. “My stake was heavy, Ramsay.
Oh, you’re right enough. Ten thousand pounds isn’t much. I borrowed a
thousand yesterday--raised it on a reversion--to get hold of some shares
Loring wanted to sell. That wasn’t much either, of course.”
He had spoken in a dreary, monotonous voice, which was inexpressibly
hopeless. And Ramsay’s eyes were fixed keenly on him as their owner said
drily:
“You bought a thousand pounds’ worth of Loring’s shares yesterday? Did
you know that he was selling out all his interest in the Welcome?”
Julian turned with a quick, startled movement, and then paused.
“All his interest?” he repeated. “He wanted a thousand to pay for a
Scotch moor, that was all.”
“He sold every share he had yesterday,” returned Ramsay. “Curious
coincidence.”
“You don’t mean to tell me----”
The eyes of the two men met; and Julian sprang to his feet with a fierce
imprecation.
“He knew it?” he cried; “he knew it, and kept it dark, that he might keep
the market to himself? It isn’t possible, Ramsay; it isn’t possible!”
“Nothing is impossible,” returned Ramsay quietly.
A savage, hissing breath came from between Julian’s set teeth, and he
seemed literally alive with passion. Without a word he stretched out his
hand for his hat and turned to leave the room. Ramsay quietly intercepted
his passage.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“I’m going to see Mr. Loring.”
The slightest possible smile touched the elder man’s lips, and he said:
“All right. I shall have something to say to Mr. Loring, too. But listen
to me, first. Was it a desperate necessity to you to pull off this
affair?”
Julian did not speak. His lips twitched for a moment, then settled into a
thin line; and the look in his eyes was answer enough.
“Very good, then,” said Ramsay. “Come and see me here to-morrow at six. I
may be able to give you a hand.”
With a gesture of uncomprehending assent, but with no word of answer,
Julian turned away and left the room.
* * * * *
Three-quarters of an hour later he was coming rapidly down the staircase
which led from Loring’s chambers. His face was flushed and quivering,
and every pulse was beating madly, like the pulses of a man who has
just given unrestrained expression to furious passion. He turned on to
the Embankment, and began to walk away in a headlong fashion, evidently
neither knowing nor caring where he was going.
And as he walked the tumultuous life and glow of his face died slowly
out, and settled into a haggard, sullen mask of dull despair. He had
spoken his mind to Loring, and now there was nothing more for him to do.