Men of Affairs. Roland Pertwee
he occupied the time of waiting, in ringing up his broker and firing a barrage of instructions. This done he returned to the fireplace, consulted his own watch, corrected the mantelpiece clock which was a minute and a half slow, sniffed critically and proceeded to warm his hands again. There was nothing spontaneous in the action, warming his hands was as much a part of his daily programme as reading the Financial Times, the two minutes he spent lying flat on his back after lunch, or the single round of golf which he played every third Sunday throughout the year.
The clock was striking eleven when Mr. Hilbert Torrington, a bent, bald, clean shaven man of eighty years, entered on the arm of the servant. Mr. Torrington, his age claims the prefix, was a different type to Cassis. He possessed a pair of blue eyes that might have belonged to a child and the expression of his face, a face threaded with a thousand wrinkles, was sweet and calm. People who saw him but had no intimate knowledge of his powers, marvelled that this frail, kindly, stooping old man, with his look of innocence that was almost sublime, could in reality be a giant in the world of money. Such was the case. Mr. Hilbert Torrington had his fingers on the financial pulse of the world and at a pressure could accelerate or decelerate it, to suit his mood. Unlike Cassis, Mr. Torrington had time for everything. When he worked he worked instantaneously, achieving in an hour work that would have kept a less remarkable man busy for a month. After one of these flashes he would relapse into pleasant gardens where he grew roses, or pleasant galleries where he looked with eyes of understanding into the heart of pictures. Sometimes he amused himself by playing with urchins in St. James's Park and on one occasion had been seen to divest himself of his coat to supply the wickets for an informal cricket match. When asked why he bothered to take part in the rack and strain of high finance he gave the amiable reply:
"Because it's such fun."
The servant piloted him to a high elbow chair and helped him to be seated.
"Thank ye," said Mr. Torrington. "And if you'll put a side table alongside I'll try a new patience. No, don't bother to tell me your master won't be long, I know that bit by heart."
He unwound a silk comforter from his neck, hung it over the arm of the chair and produced from his pocket a small pack of cards.
"Cold, Cassis?"
"I was cold," replied Cassis exactly.
"Hm! Fine growing weather, this."
He began to lay out the cards in neat little packs.
"Bulbs are coming through nicely. I was hoping to spend a day or two in the garden but I'm afraid not—'fraid it won't be possible."
Cassis put his hands behind his back.
"This business," he said.
"Yes."
Lord Almont Frayne, a rather resplendant young man of thirty, came into the room with all the bounce of youth. His chin shone from a ten minutes' old shave, his hair clove to his head like fresh laid paint and the crease in his trousers was razor edged.
"Most awfully sorry, dear hearts," he exclaimed in clamourous apology.
"Deuce of a late night at Thingumy's ball. Do excuse."
From which the reader may assume that his lordship was a bit of an ass—but no. Under the ecstatic exterior of twentieth century modern man-about-townism there existed in the composition of Lord Almont many of the shrewd qualities that had made his father one of the richest bankers in England. People in the know would assure you it was not only luck that had kept the parental millions secure and had even increased them after the old gentleman's decease. Lord Almont had a sense of the market and his intelligence was not entirely devoted to matters sartorial.
"Anybody have anything? No. Too early? Infernally hot in here. Mind if we have a window up?"
Cassis was only just in time to lodge an objection.
Lord Almont pointed to the street.
"Here comes old Cranbourne bobbing along. Shall we wait?"
Mr. Torrington continued playing his patience game until Cranbourne was announced. And if you are interested to know what manner of man Cranbourne might be then turn to the description of the diner at the table near the door in the Berkeley Café. As to his associations with these other gentlemen it remains only to be said that he was a supplier of ideas and occasionally of ideals.
"Anybody know anything?" said Lord Almont.
Cassis shrugged his shoulders negatively.
Mr. Torrington put down a card.
"Waste of time," he said. "Waste of time. Barraclough will never get out of London by ordinary ways. It was a useless attempt."
"Well, we don't know."
"He hadn't got through at ten thirty last night," said Cranbourne. "He was dining at the Berkeley Grill. 'Course he might have had a shot later."
"Did you speak to him?"
"No—just nodded. Billings tells me he was shot at when he tried to make the tug on the river."
"The boat was shot at, you mean," said Cassis.
"Anyone rung him up this morning?" asked Mr. Torrington.
"No, it was arranged we shouldn't."
"Then he's sure to be here soon."
The remark was prophetic for as the words were spoken Barraclough was announced.
"No good," he said.
"You look tired, Barraclough," observed Mr. Torrington, who thought about men as well as money.
"Am a bit."
"Did you try to make Hendon?"
"Did I try? Yes, I tried and travelled a Wild West shooting man on the lid of the cab who worked a hold up by The Welsh Harp. Far as I can see there must be hundreds out to prevent me." His mouth hardened. "But I'm going to do it. I mean to do it somehow."
Mr. Torrington smiled sweetly.
"Ardent young man," he said.
Cassis put his finger tips together and remarked:
"Recklessness is a luxury we can't afford."
"I'm prepared to take chances," said Barraclough.
Mr. Torrington quoted:
"'On the sand drift, on the veldt side, in the fern scrub we lay.
That our song might follow after by the bones on the way.'"
"That's all very well," said Cassis sourly, "but our sons won't be able to follow after so long as Barraclough obstinately determines to keep the secret entirely to himself."
"Pooh! pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Torrington. "That was understood."
"It was," said Barraclough and swivelled round to face Cassis. "I've said frankly that until I get the concession no one but myself will be told the map reference. That's absolute."
Cassis sniffed.
"It was a pity you didn't get the concession when you made the discovery."
"You know quite well that I wasn't sure. A false move might have brought every prospector in the world to the place—would have done. Besides with all this post-war territorial shuffle it was pretty nearly impossible to say which government actually owned the land. Been jolly if we'd got a title too soon and from the wrong people."
"But the territorial point has been cleared up now, hasn't it?" Cassis put the question shrewdly.
Barraclough shut up like a clam and made no answer.
Lord Almont butted in.
"Still you're pretty confident of getting the concession if you manage to get clear."
Barraclough nodded.
"If I can slip through and they don't stop me I'll be