Deep in the heart of Surrey, on the edge of Walton Heath, and at the
gate of that wild loneliness which is the joy of the millions who
defile it, stands a house of no great age. It is called “Marengo.”
Round about it lie grounds, some twenty acres in extent (of which
two at least are gardens and shrubberies) wherein the speckled
laurel luxuriantly grows, and from the depths of which the copper
beech and other ornamental trees not infrequently protrude. To the
doors of “Marengo” (which is set back some yards from the road, but
not so far as to shut off the cheerful prospect of modern traffic
and the enlivening sound of horns) sweeps an avenue or approach of
gravel large enough to admit two motor-cars abreast; and there are
two gates, but no lodges. The house itself, to be perfectly honest,
is of red-brick tile-healed on the upper story; the roof, however,
has been tamed and verges upon brown. Moreover, that roof has dormer
windows--but the woodwork is of Norwegian pine.
Now this mansion was (and is) the residence of John Charlbury,
Esquire, J.P., the partner of the Honorable Charles Terrard in the
firm of Blake and Blake, Brokers, on the London Stock Exchange. He
was unmarried, just on fifty years of age, and bald. He was short, he
was square, he was stout; he was decided, and somewhat lethargic. He
was not ill-natured; he had cunning little pig’s eyes, which would
have warned off the most innocent of men at fifty yards, but which
were evidence of a very useful talent when they could work behind the
screen of correspondence, so that the victim could be caught unawares.
It is related by travelers that the great tawny lion of the Atlas,
though the vainest and therefore the stupidest of beasts, has at
least the sense to associate with creatures very different from
himself. The jackal discovers his prey, and a small bird hunts the
parasites on those parts of his integument which he cannot easily
reach with his muzzle or paws; the sword-fish is accompanied by a
very different friend, small and bearing a lamp wherewith to guide
him through the dark depths of the sea; and the very rich, themselves
innocent of letters, will furnish their households with poets,
dramatists and even philosophers of whatever caliber they can retain
in bondage.
Now so it is with the best of businesses, with the most successful
houses of affairs.
[Illustration: _The Partners._]
He does not advance the farthest who attempts to advance alone.
Rather do they go farthest who associate with some other, utterly
different from themselves, so that each may bring into play
activities of which the other is incapable. Of such a sort was the
alliance between John Charlbury, Justice of the Peace, and the Hon.
Charles Terrard, nothing--not even B.A. The latter might be compared
to the delicate rod line and fly; the former to the gaff and net.
Terrard could go where Charlbury could never go; Charlbury could
discover in the market opportunities which Terrard would not have
dreamed of. The supplemental character of their faces and their
friends was paralleled in their souls. For just as Charlbury was
short, bald, fat, square, elderly, and pig-eyed, while Terrard was
tall, lithe, young, and marrying such innocent blue eyes to such
an innocent mass of happy curls; so Charlbury knew most approaches
to the soul by avarice or fear, while Terrard was familiar only
with those attached to vanity, debauchery, and the customs of the
rich. Charlbury conducted from the base in the City, while Terrard
skirmished in the West--and between them they were doing very well:
were the firm of Blake and Blake, known to the gods as Charlie
Terrard but to men as Old Charlbury.
Deep in the heart of London on the edge of that Square Mile of the
Very Rich who are the delight of the millions they defile, stands a
wild patch of loneliness known as “The Paddenham Site.” It is some
acres of abandoned ground worth--it should be--sums untold: but none
will buy.
A Hospital had stood there once. It had gone to the country. Its
former site should have been snapped up. It was not. For a year, and
another year, and another its weeds grew, and grasses covered its
uneven hollows.
It had been bought at last, to re-sell; mortgaged; foreclosed on;
sold at a loss to resell; sold again at a loss. Thus twenty years had
passed and now the last mortgage holders in their Broad Street Office
were grown desperate. Who would hold the Baby? There was a fine
commission for whomever should introduce a purchaser; and Charlbury
had bethought him of John K. Petre.
It was not long after settling day, upon an evening late, when
Charlbury sat in the drawing-room of “Marengo,” surrounded by all
things consonant to himself, and awaited his partner. He heard
the coming of the car, he welcomed Terrard and furnished him with
a drink. He asked him whether anything more had been done about
getting John K. on to the Paddenham Site purchase: and he reminded
his blue-eyed partner of the healthy little commission; of the eager
anxiety of Williams on the edge of disaster after such extreme delay,
of the people in Broad Street panting to accept the bare necessity.
Now, here, to hand, in John K. Petre, was the chance; the heaven-sent
eccentric chance.
“You’ve spoken of it to John K.?” asked Charlbury.
“Not yet,” said Terrard. “I thought I’d wait until I’d seen you.”
“Have you seen _him_ since?” said Charlbury.
“No,” answered Terrard. “I thought it best to let it stew a
little--eh?” He looked sideways at his partner, a little nervously.
That partner was staring at the fire. “You see,” added Terrard, “he’s
one of that funny kind. Quite empty to look at.... Nothing behind
his eyes.... Might be grandpapa.” Charlbury nodded slowly at the
description--he had met that kind before, and he knew how their vast
wealth had been garnered.
“I was right not to rush him?” Terrard concluded anxiously. Charlbury
continued to nod slowly at the fire. Then he gave a guffaw, roaring
out:
“So you don’t call that ‘rushing,’ eh?” and he chuckled hugely,
putting a familiar hand on Terrard’s knee to emphasize his enjoyment.
“Two days after ’e landed, rushed him for Touaregs,” and he chuckled
again, “and it’s ’ardly a week yet!”
“Well, but ...” went on Terrard, still more nervously, “I told you
I hadn’t seen him again. I thought I’d see.... But you know I’m for
acting all the same.... I don’t think he minds. It is certainly ‘yes’
or ‘no’ with him, and we have all heard what he is, though we haven’t
seen him.”
“You’ve seen ’im,” sighed Charlbury--he was faintly jealous of his
young partner’s opportunities; for in his heart he nourished secret
ambition, and he saw, far off, a day--distant but bound to come
before he died--when he should himself emerge, laden with gold, into
the great world.
“Yes,” answered Terrard snappishly, “I’ve not seen him till just now,
and then only once. We’ve all _heard_ of him and his lunacies. He’s
capable of vanishing at a moment’s notice, without telling any one.”
Charlbury nodded again, and said more softly and musingly:
“You’ve told ’em in Broad Street that you’ve some one in your eye?”
“Yes ... but I gave no name, 600,000 is what’ll fetch ’em.”
Once more Charlbury nodded. He had heard that figure.
“Make it eight,” he said briefly.
Then there was a slight pause.
Charlbury spoke again: “What’s the way to tackle him--about the
Paddenham Site, I mean?”
“I should put it straight out,” said Charlie. “When we’ve got
it clear, between ourselves, I should ring him up--this very
evening--and make an appointment for to-morrow.”
“There’s nothing to get clear,” said Charlbury. “It’s a straightforward
proposition. He will bite, or he won’t bite.”
“No,” said Terrard slowly. “But what I was thinking of was, how it
ought to be put.”
Charlbury was all decision.
“I tell you it’s straightforward. Put it that it’s a lock-up: that
it’s a lock-up for one that can afford it, but precious few can. Tell
him it’s not a lock-up for a lot of them together, because it’s got
to be kept close and tight, and that one man’s got to bide his time
and take his opportunity. Don’t ’ide anything from ’im. Tell him
it’s been empty the best part o’ twenty years--right in the ’eart o’
London--and tell ’im plain it may be five more--that there’s Gawd
knows ’ow much in it--at least, that’s my judgment, honest. I’d do
it myself if I could ...” and he sighed. “I did try to persuade old
Vere,” he shook his head sadly. “But he died--the old fool died.”
“Shall we say we’re in it?” asked Terrard.
“Better not. No good telling lies. Besides which, commission’s
enough. And we can’t wait years, and ye can never be _quite_ sure. If
any one’s got to bear the racket, let ’im. ’E’ll be quit of us long
before then; though, honest, mind you, I don’t believe there’ll be a
racket to bear, any’ow.”
“Very well,” said Terrard simply. He looked at his watch. It was only
a quarter past ten. “I’ll ring up now,” he said.
“Is that sife?” said Charlbury, showing anxiety for the first time
that evening.
“Quite, I think,” said Terrard, who was on his own ground. “If he’s
not out anywhere alone--for he’s keeping to himself, I’m told. He
would think it ordinary to be rung up at this hour,” and he picked up
the telephone and called up 8309 Embankment.
There was nothing heard but the slight sound of the good fire in the
room, and in that silence both men had but one thought, or rather had
before their mental eyes but one picture. Each of them saw a figure.
It was the figure of a commission. And it was a sound one.
At last came the tiny squeaking of the instrument upon Mr.
Charlbury’s ears, and he looked round and watched Terrard. That young
gentleman was saying in an easy, happy voice:
“Oh, Mr. Petre, I’m sorry to ring you up at such an hour, but I want
you to have the news as soon as I could possibly get it to you.
I am sure you won’t mind when you hear.”... “No, not at all.”...
“Thank you very much. It would be easier to put it by word of mouth.
It’s a thing called the Paddenham Site. I have just heard of the
chance. I could tell you all the details if you like. Can I see you
to-morrow?...” “Yes, certainly. That will do perfectly. Can you
lunch?”... “Very well, then, just before one, and I can tell you all
about it before we go down. It won’t take long. Then after lunch I
could show it to you. Not that that means much, but later we might go
round to their lawyers and see the papers.”... “Thanks. All right.
12.45. Go-o-o-o-o-d night.” Charlie Terrard said the last words in
the exact inflection given to them by the more refined of the wealthy
women, and hung up the receiver. And Charlbury thought in his heart
how useful a thing it was to have a partner with such an air of the
great world--and yet how bitter.
There was one thing more to be done: to write a note to Broad Street
telling them that they might expect a client introduced to them by
Blake and Blake. It wasn’t sure: but they might.
Terrard would ring them up, if it matured, at short notice, and he
would let them know when to expect him.
The note was written. Charlie took it up to town that night and got
it into the post just on the stroke of twelve.
* * * * *
At about twelve o’clock in the morning of the next day Mr. Petre was
walking slowly along the Embankment, looking at the tide that rushed
past and communing with his own soul. It was a breezy, sunny, spring
day. The water was alive, and London had half forgotten its native
misery.
It was an air in which new thoughts and clear ones should naturally
come to a man; but none came to Mr. Petre. He was pondering upon that
interview which he had to face, and went round it in his thoughts,
coming no nearer to a center, but still remaining as he had been
since the blow fell upon him, attendant upon Fate. It was to be about
some horrid business called the Paddenham Site. It might be--he dared
to hope!--that some words would be used which he should understand.
It might be that those inimitable talents of his, which all seemed
to accept, would return to him--but at the bottom of his heart he
doubted it. It was in no very happy mood that he returned to his
rooms and awaited his guest.
But men in those moods are compelled to abrupt decisions. It is the
only escape from their torture, and to such a second decision was Mr.
Petre led upon this enormous occasion.
Charlie Terrard came in all breeze and happiness, with a dancing
light in his honest blue eyes--I had almost added, in his honest
curling hair. He seemed ready to talk of anything but business, and
he came to business only as a little tedious frill, necessary, and
soon to be dismissed. But when he got it out he was clear enough, and
he explained the matter with a fair concentration, leaning forward to
Mr. Petre across the table and making his points distinctly with just
that touch and gesture which helps such a catalogue.
“It’s about a bit of land called ‘The Paddenham Site.’”
Mr. Petre sat beside him, leaning back a little in his chair, and
wearing that look which he himself felt to be a betrayal of complete
incapacity, and which all who met him and knew his name (but none
more than Charlie Terrard) revered as the mask of financial genius.
Indeed, a sudden terror seized the young broker at the thought of his
own audacity, but he conquered it and went ahead.
“The Paddenham Site: yes, the Paddenham Site. That’s the official
name for it; or rather, the official name for it is Turner’s Estates
and Paggles’ Addition, subject to the order of the Court--but I won’t
trouble you with all that,” he said, as Mr. Petre, hearing these
terms, very slightly moved his head as one experienced in all such
things. “You won’t hear it called that,” went on Charlie rapidly.
“What people _call_ it, you know, is ‘That waste space where the
Hospital used to be.’ Quite young people nowadays mostly just call it
‘that funny big waste space in Paddenham Street,’ because they can’t
remember the Hospital. I can’t remember it myself. At least, I was a
child when they pulled it down. And look here,” he said, putting a
greater intensity into his voice, “I have got first of all to tell
you the drawback.”
What drawback, or why, or what it was all about Mr. Petre could not
have told you under threat of torture. Therefore he looked still
more solemn, and slightly emphasized the movement of his head, as
one who was taking it all in and glancing with eagle eye over every
opportunity and every disadvantage.
“You know it’s been standing like that for more than twenty years?”
Here, as in a special effort of heroic falsehood, Mr. Petre quite
distinctly nodded, and Terrard was relieved.
“I’m glad you know that,” he said, “because it’s the very first
thing to get hold of. _Why_ a site like that should stand empty in
the heart of London all the time it would take a very long time to
explain to you. It began with a quarrel between the two estates, or
rather between the Trustees of the Paddenham Estate and a claimant
who had bought up an option on the addition; or rather, we won’t
say a quarrel, but what each called obstinacy. And then there was
the bankruptcy, you know: old Elmer’s bankruptcy--the Elmers are
Paddenhams. A lot of small people were rather badly hit, because
there was a syndicate.”
Mr. Petre was in up to his middle, and as the meaningless words
flowed on he began to nod more vigorously than ever.
“Exactly,” he said. “Exactly. I quite understand.”
[Illustration: “_Exactly. I quite understand._”]
“Then, when the second syndicate took it over, they got the option of
a price which seemed nothing at the time--but that was just before
the London Traffic Bill. The fight over that held it up, of course,
and then after the compromise....”
“Yes,” said Mr. Petre, “of course,” as though that explained it all.
(What compromise? his dear heart asked of him--and an inward voice
replied, “God knows!”)
“If the Government hadn’t been nibbling at it,” went on Mr. Terrard
rapidly, “they wouldn’t have hung on, perhaps. But they did, and
there was the second bankruptcy. Then Williams came in. You know what
_that_ means?”
“Ah!” said Mr. Petre, with a knowing smile.
“Williams thought he had got it for nothing. But still it was all he
could do to meet it, and he certainly covered it; but he could not
meet it alone.”
“No,” said Mr. Petre in judicial tones. “No! Naturally!” and Terrard
marveled at the man’s familiarity with the details of a distant land.
“In a sense Williams has got it still, but he can’t hold. It’s
cracking--you can hear it cracking.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” laughed Mr. Petre joyously--it was astonishing
how quickly these things were coming to him now when once he warmed
to them. “I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Now, the question is this. When people are desperate like that, and
have to let things go, they’re watched, aren’t they?”
Mr. Petre said nothing. He smiled another knowing smile.
“Well,” continued Terrard, “they’ve watched a little too long. And
_if_ some one came in _now_--I don’t think it would be less than
£800,000--it might be a little more ... but if some one comes in
_now_, while Williams’ tongue is hanging out....” Mr. Petre saw
that tongue and oddly visualized the unknown Williams in the shape
of a large dog panting and athirst--“he gets it!” concluded Terrard
triumphantly, striking the table gently but sufficiently with his
open palm. “He gets it. And then it’s whatever you like. Doubling it
might be too much, but it can’t be less than a fair margin of 60 per
cent, when it does go.”
“I see,” said Mr. Petre, getting up and pacing slowly down the little
hotel sitting-room and back again. “I see.” For, like the blind man
in the story, he didn’t see at all.
“That’s the trouble,” said his guest, leaning back in his chair as
though he were relieved by the conclusion of the tale. “It must be
one man, and one big man, for they’re all shy of it, are the little
ones. And it must be one man because it will have to be handled
briskly at both ends.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Petre rapidly, “at both ends.”
“Buying and selling,” said Terrard.
“Obviously,” said Mr. Petre.
There, at least, he was on firm ground. So much was clear. If
somebody bought a thing some one else must sell it. It was a relief
to understand one thing, anyhow, in the rigmarole. He halted with his
back to the light.
“Besides which,” said Terrard, “you don’t want to be bothered with
other people. I know you’ll take it or leave it, and I wanted to put
it before you now and at once. I don’t know if you’re following our
London site-values, Mr. Petre? No doubt you’ve handled such things in
your time?”
“It is very good of you,” said Mr. Petre. He was miserable within;
he felt himself being led on, but what he dreaded most was an agony
of doubt and delay; for he saw himself arguing and re-approached
and his other ventures quoted. If once he allowed the series to
accumulate upon him one pressure and question after another,
suggestion following suggestion, in the end he would be corralled
and find himself right up against that fatal day when his awful
riddle should be published to others before he had solved it himself.
A man’s judgment in such suffering is that of a thing hunted,
unbased, perhaps instinctive, at any rate precipitate; and Charlie
was astonished to hear the words solemnly and simply pronounced by
the standing figure at the window, who looked at him with a sort of
forensic severity.
“Well, Mr. Terrard, you have convinced me.”
“Mr. Petre, Mr. Petre,” said Charlie Terrard in the agony of his
relief and the whirlwind of such expectations suddenly realized. “I
am undertaking a great responsibility! Do not be rushed on account of
what I have just said! I do not pretend for a moment that there is an
immediate market. I do not believe there is.”
“No,” said Mr. Petre, sitting down again. “No. Quite so,” as if it
were the smallest matter in the world.
“But the mere fact that your name--if you will allow it to be known,
_after_ the transaction.... Well, you see, it would mean a great
deal. They would take it for granted that you were going to build, or
at any rate they would know that you hadn’t done it without knowing
what you were at.”
“Nor should I,” said Mr. Petre coolly.
“Of course not,” and Terrard laughed nervously. “No. Naturally. Well,
your name, you see....” He looked at his watch. “Shall we go and see
the place now, or after lunch?”
“Come down and lunch with me,” said Mr. Petre--he felt it was the
least he could do under circumstances so grand. “And we could go and
look at it afterwards.”
Terrard excused himself a moment, to buy a paper he said. And so he
did buy a paper; but he also telephoned to Broad Street. Then he
returned to his millionaire in the Louis Quinze grill room of the
Splendide.
They lunched. They proceeded. And Mr. Petre gazed for a good ten
minutes on sodden grasses waving in the wind, tall and dirty stalks
and broken palings; the poor abandoned acres of bare land lying there
doing nothing, with the enormous wealth of London all around. It was
like seeing a hole in the middle of the sea, and wondering why the
water did not pour in and flood it; wondering why the huge appetite
of London did not snap up such a morsel, why the jostle of London
didn’t crowd that vacancy with London once again.
It was an odd ritual, this looking at the nothingness of the
Paddenham Site. It might just as well have been foregone. But Terrard
was not wrong in his psychology. Looking at a purchase discussed is
the beginning of possession, and as they walked away and Terrard
explained, amid the dodging of the traffic and the crowds, the
importance of a rapid decision, Mr. Petre was prepared for the next
step. They picked up a rotor taxi and were crawling towards the City.
As they went Charlie explained their goal. In the office they were
bound for they would meet the man who could treat for Williams--for
the Vendor: and he had full powers.
Charlie knew what they would take. He repeated to Mr. Petre frankly
that less than 700,000 was no use, but that 800,000 would fetch them.
They wouldn’t dare stand out for more. All that was needed was plain
speech and no haggling: take it or leave it.
In a large, very dirty room that looked out through dirty windows
upon a court off Broad Street Mr. Petre was solemnly introduced
to maps, to abstracts, to memoranda, to as many papers as would
have taxed in so brief a time the brain of the most practiced at
conveyance. But he took the onset solidly, and Terrard, standing at
his elbow, a little hard spectacled man who was doing the honors of
the treat, and a busy clerk who came in and out with new papers as
they were needed, and withdrew those done with--all secretly agreed,
each in his own heart, that they were dealing here with such a brain
as they had never met before.
Mr. Petre had such a way of spreading a parchment and holding it
down firmly with both hands while he mastered its contents, of
peering at the smaller details of a plan, of smiling sardonically at
illegible pencilings in the corners, of copying into a pocket book
chance details such as “not 5½--8½” and “This must be corrected by
comparison with No. 10”; he had such a rapid fashion of putting aside
what he chose to regard as insignificant (though they might have
thought it essential) and of delaying upon little things which they
had disregarded, but which he for some deep reason of his own would
closely examine, that they were impressed as they had never yet been
impressed; and the hard little man in spectacles, silent upon nearly
every other experience in his career of purchase and option and
foreclosure, would recount in his later years over and over again to
whomever would hear, the strange happenings of these two hours. For
two hours only were taken up in the great decision.
A line of memorandum was written, initialed, and signed; and Mr.
Petre went out into the fresh air hooked, securely hooked, on to the
Paddenham Site, and liable, morally liable, for rather more than
£800,000 and frills. The man Williams, all witless of his happy
fate, was saved.
Terrard took leave at his office door, and Mr. Petre, crawling back
westward again in a taxi to his hotel, suffered what is known as the
reaction.
He sat for the best part of an hour in his room, turning over in
his mind the madness, the enormity of the thing he had just done.
It rushed in upon him suddenly, like a fierce animal springing from
the brake upon a traveler, that he had not realized--it had been too
sudden--the affair of the £73,729 16s. 3d. He was living in a whirl
of dreams. The reality of that solid sum now loomed upon him. It was
jeopardized. It might go like smoke. Then with infinitely greater
force, with a thud like a battering ram, came the consideration that
he was by way of meeting a sum the like of which was fantastic beyond
the powers of any but one man in millions. Under the deadening blow
of that fairly obvious discovery he reeled back into the consolation
which he had already found on that day, not so long past, when he
had ordered with perfect simplicity in the corner of Berkeley Square
the purchase of fifty-thousand barbarous things called Touaregs of
which he knew not anything at all. He remembered the fate of that
blind action of a moment. He trusted to the same good fortune. And
there returned to him that odd consolation which he had felt on that
first day. What if the whole thing crashed? He was only where he
was before. Would a man standing as he was be held responsible? His
conscience told him yes, but the Law?--He knew nothing of the law in
the matter.
And then ... if he were really all they thought he was (and they
seemed to know) he might be able to raise even so vast a sum.... But
how without discovery of his dreadful secret?
It meant the revelation which he dreaded, at the worst; but that at
the worst would come anyhow. At the best (and, after all, it was one
chance in two), his fate would be postponed.
His disturbed and blinded heart was the lighter for this confusion of
thought so ending, and he exercised what power he had over his own
thoughts to drive from them all anxiety. He knew one way in which it
could be done. He had tried it already. He left an abrupt message, as
he had left one those few days before; he noted the date when he was
pledged to return to the city, and he departed by the very next train
he could catch for his retreat in Hampshire.
The playful Dæmon attached to Mr. Petre’s fortunes grinned to himself
and acted. He it was that thrust a spear into the heart of a certain
minor official of the Education Department.
He was a poet in the truest sense of the word; a creator, was that
minor official. They only paid him £750 a year--from which income
tax was brutally deducted ere ever he touched the checks--he lived
a bachelor and alone in Clapham. But the Spirit bloweth where it
listeth, it does, and it had inspired this isolated man.
Long ago this minor official of the Education Department had been
inspired to save England.
It was a vision; a revelation; it had struck him in one blinding
flash that what Elementary Education lacked in all our great towns
and especially in London was a Central Physical and Civic Training
Ground and Development Premises; what was soon briefly known under
his energetic propaganda as a C.P.C.T.G.D.P.
That was three years ago; all that time the great idea had grown.
Lady Gwryth had taken it up with all her might and so had her sister.
What an ideal to realize! Miniature ranges, swimming baths, large
airy gymnasiums, acoustic theaters, Greek plays and, above all,
Dromes!
A new life open (in relays) to the children of the poor, and that in
the very core of London!
Only the Treasury blocked the way. It did not definitely oppose, but
it looked askance at the proposed expenditure. For the County Council
could not add more than 2d.
The Dæmon suddenly stirred that minor official with the sharp
decisive conviction that his moment had come. And, indeed, it was
Primrose Day.
Therefore, much at the same time that Mr. Petre was sitting there in
his room, wrestling with gloom and consolation, before his flight
to the isolation and refreshment of Southern England, that minor
official had jogged the memory of a superior; that superior had
determined to approach the Permanent Secretary once more with his
mighty scheme; and the Permanent Secretary, before the office closed
for the evening, had determined in his turn that the thing must be
done now or never, and had gone himself (for all his glory) to the
House of Commons, and had bearded the Secretary of State in his room.
Therefore it was that when, the next day, Mr. Petre was relaxing in
the happy vacuity of his beloved Hampshire a brief note came by hand
to the hard little man in spectacles in the dirty court off Broad
Street, and that individual found himself summoned to the big palace
in Whitehall; the Education Department had at last made up its mind
to buy.
It had been told (as perhaps three hundred other possible purchasers
had been told) that the site could be got for a song, the song being
perhaps 2d., perhaps 2½., upon the insignificant rates; or, if the
worst came to the worst, a mere pimple upon the Budget. And after
all, they had delayed too long. They had heard it, as all those other
possible gulls had heard it, in every form of approach--at dinner, in
the street, by letter, by write-ups in the Press, even through the
personal eloquence of Mr. Williams himself. No one can say as a rule
what it is that moves a public department at last to act, or what
power fixes the moment; but in this case we know the agent: it was
the Playful Dæmon.
The hard little man in spectacles heard with impassible face the
demand and the project of his Sovereign--for, as we all know,
Ministers are but advisers to the Crown. And as the scheme unrolled
before him, his accurate, well-trained mind, immeasurably experienced
in such things, was running up figures and attaching to the sum upon
which at last it settled, that happy margin which would fall to the
office in Broad Street when all the rest of the pack had torn off
their share.
Provisionally, very provisionally, protesting that he had no powers
to act; protesting that he could not speak for his principals;
protesting that it must be put before others; he stated--oh, so
provisionally--a bedrock sum (in round figures, of course, only
round figures); and the Department, which had been well salted, was
astonished to hear that what it hardly expected much under three
millions was obtainable--provisionally of course, it was a mere
estimate, there was no authority--for not so very much more than two.