The Market-Place | Page 7

are
mine as vendor--and I have ear-marked in my mind one hundred
thousand of them to be yours."
Lord Plowden's face paled at the significance of these words. "It is too
much--you don't reflect what it is you are saying," he murmured
confusedly. "Not a bit of it," the other reassured him. "Everything that
I've said goes."
The peer, trembling a little, rose to his feet. "It is a preposterously big
reward for the merest act of courtesy," he insisted. "Of course it takes
my breath away for joy--and yet I feel I oughtn't to be consenting to it
at all. And it has its unpleasant side--it buries me under a mountain of
obligation. I don't know what to do or what to say."
"Well, leave the saying and doing to me, then," replied Thorpe, with a
gesture before which the other resumed his seat. "Just a word
more--and then I suppose we'd better be going. Look at it in this way.
Your grandfather was Lord Chancellor of England, and your father was
a General in the Crimea. My grandfather kept a small second-hand
book-shop, and my father followed him in the business. In one sense,
that puts us ten thousand miles apart. But in another sense, we'll say
that we like each other, and that there are ways in which we can be of
immense use to each other, and that brings us close together. You need
money--and here it is for you. I need--what shall I say?--a kind of
friendly lead in the matter of establishing myself on the right footing,
among the right people--and that's what you can do for me. Mind--I'd
prefer to put it all in quite another way; I'd like to say it was all
niceness on your part, all gratitude on mine. But if you want to consider
it on a business basis--why there you have it also--perfectly plain and

clear."
He got up as he finished, and Lord Plowden rose as well. The two men
shook hands in silence.
When the latter spoke, it was to say: "Do you know how to open one of
those soda-water bottles? I've tried, but I can never get the trick. I think
I should like to have a drink--after this."
When they had put down their glasses, and the younger man was
getting into his great-coat, Thorpe bestowed the brandy and cigars
within a cabinet at the corner of the room, and carefully turned a key
upon them.
"If you're going West, let me give you a lift," said Lord Plowden, hat in
hand. "I can set you down wherever you like. Unfortunately I've to go
out to dinner, and I must race, as it is, to get dressed."
Thorpe shook his head. "No, go along," he bade him. "I've some odds
and ends of things to do on the way."
"Then when shall I see you?"--began the other, and halted suddenly
with a new thought in his glance. "But what are you doing Saturday?"
he asked, in a brisker tone. "It's a dies non here. Come down with me
to-morrow evening, to my place in Kent. We will shoot on Saturday,
and drive about on Sunday, if you like--and there we can talk at our
leisure. Yes, that is what you must do. I have a gun for you. Shall we
say, then--Charing Cross at 9:55? Or better still, say 5:15, and we will
dine at home."
The elder man pondered his answer--frowning at the problem before
him with visible anxiety. "I'm afraid I'd better not come--it's very good
of you all the same."
"Nonsense," retorted the other. "My mother will be very glad indeed to
see you. There is no one else there--unless, perhaps, my sister has some
friend down. We shall make a purely family party."

Thorpe hesitated for only a further second. "All right. Charing Cross,
5:15," he said then, with the grave brevity of one who announces a
momentous decision.
He stood still, looking into the fire, for a few moments after his
companion had gone. Then, going to a closet at the end of the room, he
brought forth his coat and hat; something prompted him to hold them
up, and scrutinize them under the bright light of the electric globe. He
put them on, then, with a smile, half-scornful, half-amused, playing in
his beard.
The touch of a button precipitated darkness upon the Board Room. He
made his way out, and downstairs to the street. It was a rainy, windy
October night, sloppy underfoot, dripping overhead. At the corner
before him, a cabman, motionless under his unshapely covered hat and
glistening rubber cape, sat perched aloft on his seat, apparently asleep.
Thorpe hailed him, with a peremptory tone, and gave the brusque order,
"Strand!" as he clambered into the hansom.