Grey Timothy/Chapter 9
IX.—MR PALLARD WINS HEAVILY
Gladys Callander was preparing to make an afternoon call when the grind of motorcar wheels on the gravelled drive took her to the window. Before the house was a strange car, and alighting therefrom was a man who was no stranger, for it was her erratic cousin.
She hurried downstairs to meet him, angry with herself that his coming should bring the blood to her face and make her heart beat faster.
He was waiting in the drawing-room.
“Have you got time for a little chat?” he asked quickly, and seeing that she hesitated, “It’s rather important,” he urged, “and I shan’t keep you more than half an hour.”
“Come into the garden,” she said.
They walked a little way before he spoke.
“You know Lord Pinlow, of course,” he said. What made her make the reply she did, she could never afterwards understand.
“Oh, yes, I am engaged to be married to him.” It was not true; she knew it was not true when she said it, but she said it.
He stopped, and looked at her gravely, his lips tight, his eyebrows drawn level in a frown.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Then he looked past her and seemed to be thinking.
“None the less,” he went on after awhile, “I’ve got to say what I have to say: Pinlow and his friends have got your father in a nice mess.”
“My father?” she asked in alarm.
“Your father,” he repeated grimly.
“But how?”
“Speculation,” said Brian. “He’s been investing in a pretty unholy mining share. Pinlow is in it. It wasn’t a big rig; Pinlow had a respectable parcel to unload, and he unloaded them upon your innocent parent.”
“But what does that mean?”
“It means that unless a miracle happens your father will lose more money than it is good for any man to lose. I went to him yesterday to persuade him to sell. I’m afraid I wasn’t any too tactful.”
“I don’t quite understand,” she said. “Has my father been making unwise investments?”
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” he replied smilingly. “I tried to get him to drop them, but, acting on the advice of—of your fiancé” she winced—“he resolved to hold his stock.”
“And now?”
Brian shrugged his shoulders.
“Now the shares he bought at six pounds he won’t be able to sell at three. I tried to hold ’em up, but as soon as I put ’em to six he bought again.”
She was deep in troubled thought.
“Will he lose much?” she asked.
“That depends entirely upon when he sells and what he holds. My information is that he has about twenty thousand shares—if he loses three pounds a share he will lose sixty thousand pounds.”
The girl went white.
“You don’t mean that? Why, father couldn’t afford to lose as much. I—I don’t know much about his business, but I know that much. It would ruin us.”
Brian nodded his head slowly.
“So I think,” he said. “Now I’ll tell you why I’ve come down. To the man who can hold, and afford to hold, Beitjesfonteins, they are not a bad investment, always providing one can get rid of the present board. I am willing to buy your father’s interest at the price he paid. If I go into the market to buy them, I shall probably be getting Pinlow’s and his ‘precious friends’. As the stock stands to-day, and with the information I have about your father’s holdings, I should say that he stands to lose about forty-five thousand pounds.”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said quietly, “that would mean that the loss would fall on you.”
“I know that,” he interrupted, “but so far as I am concerned the loss would not concern me—and I would take jolly good care that I lost nothing. Now the question is, have you sufficient influence with your father to induce him to sell to me?”
“I have no influence,” she said sadly. “Father would be very angry if he knew that I had any communication with you; he would be furious if he knew the nature of the communication.”
They had reached the little belt of pine wood that lies behind Hill View, and she turned.
“Then it’s pretty hopeless,” he said, and she inclined her head.
“You mustn’t think that I’m not grateful, and I half know that what you have said about Lord Pinlow is true. I am sure that man has an evil influence”
A look of amazement on his face stopped her. For a moment she looked around to see what had caused it, then blushed scarlet as she remembered.
“You said you were engaged to Pinlow,” he said slowly.
She was a picture of pretty confusion as she stood there twisting her handkerchief in her hand.
“I—I am not exactly engaged,” she faltered. “He has asked father, and I have said I would sooner marry a—a sweep, and father was very annoyed—and I loathe Lord Pinlow”
“I see,” said Brian wisely. “You hate Pinlow like the dickens, and you’ll never marry him; but otherwise you’re engaged to him.”
They both laughed together, and then suddenly, before she knew what had happened, Brian’s arms were round her waist, and Brian’s lips were pressing hers.
She made the faintest resistance, murmured only a little at his temerity, and lay a passive and a happy creature in his strong arms.
“All this is very wrong,” she found courage to say at last.
“It would never occur to me,” he confessed; but she gently disengaged herself.
“This is not what you came to talk about,” she smiled.
“I’m not so sure,” he protested. “I had an idea that I might screw my courage to the point.”
“I really must go back to the house; let me go, dear.”
But it was a long time before they wended their way slowly back again.
“I shall make an attempt to see your father,” he said. “I suppose he’ll be very annoyed. I mustn’t kiss you in front of the chauffeur … Perhaps if I come into the house you would give me a cup of tea?”
She shook hands with him hastily.
“I have given you enough to-day,” she said demurely, and took a safe farewell of him from the top of the steps.
Brian sped back to town, singing all the way, to the scandal of his respectable chauffeur.
He reached Knightsbridge to find his broker waiting for him. Burton was being entertained by the doctor with a sketchy dissertation on appendicitis.
“Don’t go, Ernest,” said Brian, “there’s nothing you can’t know. Well, Burton, how is the great stock?”
“Down to nothing,” said the broker. “Your little adventure has cost you a couple of thousand pounds. I sold all I could, but practically there is no market.”
“Have you found out anything about Pinlow?”
“He’s in it; they say in the City that he has cleared a small fortune.”
“Um!” said Brian. “What say my scouts?”
A dozen telegrams lay awaiting Brian on the table. He opened the first. It ran:
“MILDAM CAME A GOOD GALLOP TO-DAY; LOOKS LIKE ANOTHER TRIAL. SHE IS WONDERFULLY WELL AND A BEAUTIFUL MOVER.—CARR.”
Carr was the name of the watcher that Pallard had sent to report on his rival’s progress.
He opened the second.
- “PINLOW’S MAN LAID YOUR HORSE TO LOSE HIM SIX THOUSAND.”
The wire was from his agent at one of the big clubs.
The next wire was from his trainer, and was to the effect that Grey Timothy was well.
He picked up the next telegram.
“LOOK OUT FOR PINLOW, HE’S GOT YOU TAPED.—CAGGLEY.”
“Ernest,” inquired Brian, looking up, “you are acquainted with the argot of this village; what does ‘taped’ mean?”
“It means ‘marked down’,” said the doctor, as he read the telegram.
“Got me marked down, has he?” said the other grimly.
He looked at his watch.
“I’ve a man coming to see me in ten minutes,” he said. “You fellows can clear out into the billiard-room when he comes. Burton, do you know the editor of the Market Review?”
“Yes, a man named Garson.”
“Straight?”
“Absolutely—too straight; he’s fairly poor.”
“That’s a healthy sign,” said Brian thoughtfully.
When Garson called, Brian was alone. After a formal exchange of greetings, Brian came to the point.
“Mr Garson, I have asked you to see me on a matter which I regard as important. I am a very busy man, and I am not going to beat about the bush. I want you to attack Beitjesfonteins—the board, the management, the general business. I will put you in possession of the facts—more facts than you possess perhaps.”
“It is curious you should ask that,” said the editor. “The fact is, I have already got an article in type attacking the company. You know, of course, that the story of the discovery of a new leader was a lie?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised at anything,” said the young man. “Now, I want you to make your article strong—in fact, libellous.”
The editor shook his head doubtfully.
“I own the paper,” he said, “and it isn’t a very paying property as it is—a libel would ruin me.”
“I’ll indemnify you against all loss in that direction,” said Brian, “and I will give you a cheque for five hundred pounds on account—is it a bargain?”
“It is a bargain,” said the other, after a few seconds’ hesitation. “You will tell me, of course, your own object in attacking the stock?”
“I will tell you as much as it is necessary for you to know,” smiled Brian.
And this he did in as few words as possible. The interview was a short one—it was shortened by the arrival of a telegram.
Brian opened it and read the contents; then, as Mr Garson took his leave, he went to the telephone. He put through a number.
“Is that the Vicfort Club?” he asked.
“Yes? Will you tell Mr Levinger I wish to speak to him?”
In a moment the voice of his commission agent came through.
“That you, Levinger?” he demanded. “It is me—Pallard—speaking. What is the best you can get Grey Timothy?”
“There are plenty of eights,” said the voice.
“Get me another thousand on at the best price you can get,” said Brian; “and lay me Mildam to lose five thousand.”
He heard the click of the receiver as Levinger hung it up, then he returned to the table and read the telegram again.
“MILDAM IS COUGHING.—CARR,” it ran.
“Now, Pinlow,” he said, half to himself, “I think this will annoy you.”