Copley shook his head as he motioned his visitor to a chair. He pa.s.sed over the cigars to Sir George, and sat down to listen in an att.i.tude of respectful attention.

"No, you wouldn't understand these things," he explained. "It is only the man of hard business training and instinct that can follow the ramifications of modern finance. Finance is a fascinating sport with substantial gains for the successful man, but Heaven help him who fails.

He is bound to go to the wall, and no one has the slightest mercy for him. It is almost a truism to say that we are at war with one another.

Though outwardly on good terms, we really are the bitterest enemies. It is part of the game. I go and stay with other financiers, and they come and stay with me. We drink each other's wine and smoke each other's cigars. We share grouse moors and yachts, we even marry each other's daughters. But, at the same time, it is everybody for himself. That is one of the recognized rules, and if you go under you may become a clerk or something of that kind, unless you prefer to blow out your brains. It is all the same in the City. I tell you this, so that you may understand what a lot of enemies one makes when one embarks in a new venture. It is a mistake to imagine that all the money the successful man makes comes from the public. Every time I make a quarter of a million, some of my friends must suffer. I have a very big thing on at present, and thought I had guarded myself at all points. But man is only human, and it is impossible to foresee everything. Two of my cleverest friends spotted the weak point in my armour, and were not slow to take their opportunity. They squeezed me to such an extent that, about a fortnight ago, they very nearly crushed the life out of me altogether. I was compelled to find forty thousand pounds at a few hours' notice. The only people I could think of were Absalom & Co., and I transferred your debt to them. My dear fellow, if I hadn't done so I should have been in the Bankruptcy Court to-day. Absalom & Co., in their turn, are being squeezed, and that is why they are putting pressure upon you."

"Then you can't help me?" Sir George said blankly.

"My dear Sir George, I am afraid not. It is with great regret I say this. In two or three weeks I shall be in funds, and if you will wait till then, why I shall give you my cheque with pleasure. At the moment I have nothing. In a month's time I shall have a fortune at my disposal.

But probably these people won't wait."

"Then I am ruined," Sir George exclaimed.

Copley murmured that it looked very much like it. He made no suggestion at all. He merely appeared to be duly sympathetic. He was waiting for Sir George Haredale to realize his position. That done, it would be easy to play his game successfully.

For a time Sir George paced up and down the library. He cursed himself and his bad fortune, blamed Chance, bemoaned his cruel ill luck; in fact, like the weak man he was, he blamed everything except the headlong folly and short-sighted blindness which had brought all this about. In the meantime, Copley sat letting his fish play until his strength was exhausted and he could readily be drawn to land. It was a one-sided battle.

"Is there nothing you can suggest?" Sir George cried despairingly. "Is there no way of getting delay?"

Copley made no reply for a time. When at length he spoke he dropped his voice to a persuasive whisper.

"Well, there is one method," he said. "Absalom is a sportsman, and he takes a great interest in racing matters. Between ourselves, he finances some of the swell bookmakers, and I understand has a grip upon some of the large commission firms. If you could show him a way to make thirty or forty thousand pounds on a race like the Derby, you might induce him to withdraw his execution for a month. Though he is in a corner, or he wouldn't have dropped on you, the suggestion I speak of would be worth a sacrifice."

"I don't follow you," Sir George said.

"No? Then I must speak more plainly. At the present moment you own a colt which looks like winning the Derby. I know the colt has been coughing lately, but your man Raffle is very sanguine and knows what he is talking about. I see the colt has come back in the betting to eight to one, and the public never seem to be tired of backing him. That, however, is the public's look-out and is no concern of yours. In the colt's present condition you will be justified in putting a pen through his name and n.o.body could blame you. Owners don't raise horses for the benefit of the public, and if the public choose to come in and forestall the market and the horse is scratched, then they must take the consequences. It has been done over and over again, and I don't see why you shouldn't do it yourself. You needn't do it to-day, or to-morrow, or even next week, but if I can a.s.sure Absalom that this is going to happen, why, in that case, I feel certain these proceedings will be withdrawn, and perhaps such terms arranged as will wipe the debt out altogether. Do you follow me?"

Sir George sat white and rigid. He seemed trying dimly to comprehend what Copley was driving at. All the time Copley was speaking he did not meet the eye of his victim. But Sir George's face was no index of his feelings. He was quivering from head to foot with a nameless indignation and, though Copley did not know it, was within an ace of inflicting personal punishment on the financier.

"You can't be in earnest," Sir George said with difficulty. "Surely, you were joking when you asked me to do this thing? Why, it would be contemptible, dishonourable to the last degree. I expect to win a fortune with the Blenheim colt, but I backed him at a very long price, and if he breaks down the loss will not be so great. It would be bad enough to lose a fortune which I regarded as as good as in my pocket, but deliberately to scratch the horse, to wait for a fortnight whilst these friends of yours are laying against the colt, is an insult which I did not dream any man would put upon me."

"You will pardon me if I don't see it in that light," Copley said coolly. "You have a right to do what you like with your own. You are justified in scratching the horse and, indeed, you have every excuse for doing so. I don't see that it matters much whether it is done to-day or in a fortnight's time. You may lose the few thousands pounds you put on the colt, but that seems probable in any case. And, on the other hand, you have it in your power to wipe out your debt to me--that is, to benefit to the extent of forty thousand pounds."

Sir George's indignation began to ebb. He no longer felt a disposition to smite Copley hip and thigh; he was thinking of his own position and future.

"And if I refuse?"

Copley shrugged his shoulders eloquently.

"In that case, there is no more to be said or done," he answered. "I would help you if I could, but I am powerless just now. But perhaps you will think better of it. I am sure you will be tired of that man in possession by the end of a week."

CHAPTER x.x.x

AN ULTIMATUM

Copley rose as if the interview were over, and he had done all he could for his friend. But Sir George lingered. He stood gazing into the fire thoughtfully and moodily. Copley's last shaft had gone home. Sir George's whole nature revolted from spending a week in the company of the man in possession. He wanted to gain time, to have an opportunity to consider matters, and, above all, to get rid of the incubus which, in his mind's eye, he could see seated patiently in the library at Haredale Park. Yet he also knew what he ought to have done. He ought either to have knocked Copley down out of hand, or to have walked out of the house with a curt intimation that he and Copley must be strangers in the future.

But, like the weak man he was, when the pinch came he did neither of these things. It would never have occurred to him to a.s.sert that he was a man of honour. All the world had taken it for granted, and in this opinion Sir George shared. But, on the other hand, he was face to face with disgrace, and in a few days would be homeless and penniless, a mark for the finger of scorn, and the object of pity of those whom he had looked down upon from a lofty standpoint. But was there, after all, any great harm in what Copley suggested? Scores of owners of horses had done such things before, and he had a genuine excuse for drawing the pen through the name of the Blenheim colt, since it had fallen ill. If other people benefited by the knowledge, it was no concern of his. If the colt were no better at the end of a fortnight, he could be scratched and things go on as they were. Besides, the colt was a good one, and in the autumn there would be every chance of winning the St. Leger with him.

This reasoning was all very specious and wrong, but it wasn't long before Sir George had justified himself, as Copley felt sure he would do.

"Wait a little," Sir George said. "You can't expect me to make up my mind at once. I must have time to think it over. But I can't do anything as long as that man is at Haredale Park. If you can get rid of him for me----"

"Oh, I think I can do that," Copley interrupted. "But if I telephone to Absalom & Co. from here they will want some guarantee from you that--well, you know what I mean. They won't want any writing, your word will be good enough for that."

Sir George expanded at this suggestion. It never struck him that a mere negotiation on this point from Copley's view would be as good as a written doc.u.ment.

"I think I can give it," he said.

"Very well," Copley said briskly. "I am glad to hear you talk like that.

It is a commonsense view of the situation. Sit down and smoke your cigar in peace and don't worry any more about the matter. I'll go into my office and ring up Absalom & Co., and in an hour's time you will be free from your trouble."

For three-quarters of an hour Sir George sat immersed in gloomy thoughts. Manipulate the transaction as he might, deceive himself as he pleased, there was no getting away from the fact that he was contemplating a shameful thing, and the knowledge that he was saving himself did not mend matters. The best part of an hour had pa.s.sed before Copley returned with a cheerful face.

"I thought I could manage," he exclaimed. "I felt sure there would be little difficulty, if we only convinced Absalom & Co. that there was a good thing for them here. But, mind you, I had to give them my word.

They wouldn't accept anything in the least vague. Nothing is to be done for a fortnight; in fact, not till after the next meeting at Mirst Park, and at the end of that time the Blenheim colt is to be scratched. You have only to keep him short of exercise, and the public will conclude that something serious is amiss with the colt. I had to promise this before I could move these people at all. Of course, if you don't want to go as far as that I can ring them up again. It would be a pity to do so, however, seeing that by this time Absalom's have taken steps to withdraw their action, and in a few minutes the man at Haredale Park will receive a telegram calling him back to London at once. You had better think the matter over. Don't say that I persuaded you, for, if you wish to break off negotiations, it is not too late to do so."

Copley's voice was gentle, but there was nothing persuasive about him.

He meant to leave the matter entirely in Sir George's hands. But, as he had confidently expected, Sir George did not repudiate the bargain. On the contrary, he thanked Copley for what he had done, and when they left the library a few minutes later the arrangement was ratified. As they made for the stable-yard Copley paused as if something had suddenly occurred to him.

"There is one other matter," he said. "I didn't like to mention it before for fear you should imagine I was forcing your hand. Now I can speak freely. It relates to your daughter. When I lent you that money I expected to have the privilege of calling myself your son-in-law. I have not yet had anything definite from Miss Haredale; in fact, I am afraid she dislikes me. But things can't go on like this, and you promised to put in a good word for me. I daresay you will think it strange, but I have set my heart on this marriage. It will be well, perhaps, to let your daughter know how things stand. I fear she doesn't comprehend the position. Tell her yourself."

There was no mistaking the ring of command in the last words.

"Certainly," Sir George promised. "I will do so without delay. I can't for the life of me understand May's hesitancy. Almost every girl in the county would jump at the chance of being Mrs. Raymond Copley. Besides, May must marry a rich man. But leave it to me, Copley. Come over after dinner this evening and see if we can't fix this thing up once and for all."

Sir George returned to Haredale trying to feel on good terms with himself and elated with the turn things had taken. But he could not disguise that he had done wrong. He could not still the voice of conscience. However, he was relieved to hear from his butler of the departure of Brown on receipt of a telegram. The man had made certain promises. He would call again later in the day, but had left his address in case Sir George wanted to write to him. It was very correct and discreet, no one was any the wiser, n.o.body had guessed about this black disgrace, and in the fullness of his heart Sir George wrote a short note to Brown enclosing a cheque. He was sealing up the envelope and putting on the stamp when May entered.

She was fresh from her ride. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks glowed. There was something in her gay abandon and her clear light of innocence that jarred upon Sir George. Why should she have none of this trouble? Why should she be outside of it all? To some extent, she was the cause of the mischief. But for her Copley would never have lent Sir George any money; but for her he would never have found himself in the clutches of Absalom & Co. This was as specious as his other moralizing, and he never imagined that he had fallen into a trap set by Copley. What he wanted was some one to vent his anger upon.

"Where have you been?" he asked irritably. "I have been looking for you everywhere. I have just been having a conversation about you with Mr.

Copley. He wants to know----"

"He already does know," May said coldly. "I thought I had made that quite clear. I shall be glad if you will not allude to this again. It is most distasteful to me."

Sir George brought his fist with a bang on the table.

"You are a fool," he cried. "I beg pardon, but I can't think of any other word. You don't seem to realize what obligations we are under to Mr. Copley. Do you know that if he liked he could turn us out of the house to-morrow? Do you know that even this morning he has saved us from a great disgrace? And he has done all this out of affection for you. I can a.s.sure you that Mr. Raymond Copley is not the man to be played with."

"My dear father," May protested, "why this violence? I don't in the least want to play with Mr. Copley."

"Oh, this is no joking matter. You ought to be proud to think that a man like that is ready to lay his wealth at your feet. Now, I want you to understand that if you treat him in this way he will very likely teach you a lesson. It is no use beating about the bush. We are in his hands.

And, therefore, you must marry him."

"Must, my dear father. Surely----"