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“Yes, sir. Will you see the proof of the press report, or will you leave it to me?”

“To you.”

“Yes, sir. It was a good meeting, wasn’t it?”

Old Heythorp nodded.

“Wonderful how your voice came back just at the right moment. I was afraid things were going to be difficult. The insult did it, I think. It was a monstrous thing to say. I could have punched his head.”

Again old Heythorp nodded; and, looking into the secretary’s fine blue eyes, he repeated: “Bring ’em in.”

The lonely minute before the entrance of his creditors passed in the thought: ‘So that’s how it struck him! Short shrift I should get if it came out.’

The gentlemen, who numbered ten this time, bowed to their debtor, evidently wondering why the deuce they troubled to be polite to an old man who kept them out of their money. Then, the secretary reappearing with a cup of China tea, they watched while their debtor drank it. The feat was tremulous. Would he get through without spilling it all down his front, or choking? To those unaccustomed to his private life it was slightly miraculous. He put the cup down empty, tremblingly removed some yellow drops from the little white tuft below his lip, refit his cigar, and said:

“No use beating about the bush, gentlemen; I can offer you fourteen hundred a year so long as I live and hold my directorships, and not a penny more. If you can’t accept that, you must make me bankrupt and get about sixpence in the pound. My qualifying shares will fetch a couple of thousand at market price. I own nothing else. The house I live in, and everything in it, barring my clothes, my wine, and my cigars, belong to my daughter under a settlement fifteen years old. My solicitors and bankers will give you every information. That’s the position in a nutshell.”

In spite of business habits the surprise of the ten gentlemen was only partially concealed. A man who owed them so much would naturally say he owned nothing, but would he refer them to his solicitors and bankers unless he were telling the truth? Then Mr. Ventnor said:

“Will you submit your pass books?”

“No, but I’ll authorise my bankers to give you a full statement of my receipts for the last five years–longer, if you like.”

The strategic stroke of placing the ten gentlemen round the Board table had made it impossible for them to consult freely without being overheard, but the low-voiced transference of thought travelling round was summed up at last by Mr. Brownbee.

“We think, Mr. Heythorp, that your fees and dividends should enable you to set aside for us a larger sum. Sixteen hundred, in fact, is what we think you should give us yearly. Representing, as we do, sixteen thousand pounds, the prospect is not cheering, but we hope you have some good years before you yet. We understand your income to be two thousand pounds.”

Old Heythorp shook his head. “Nineteen hundred and thirty pounds in a good year. Must eat and drink; must have a man to look after me not as active as I was. Can’t do on less than five hundred pounds. Fourteen hundred’s all I can give you, gentlemen; it’s an advance of two hundred pounds. That’s my last word.”

The silence was broken by Mr. Ventnor.

“And it’s my last word that I’m not satisfied. If these other gentlemen accept your proposition I shall be forced to consider what I can do on my own account.”

The old man stared at him, and answered:

“Oh! you will, sir; we shall see.”

The others had risen and were gathered in a knot at the end of the table; old Heythorp and Mr. Ventnor alone remained seated. The old man’s lower lip projected till the white hairs below stood out like bristles. ‘You ugly dog,’ he was thinking, ‘you think you’ve got something up your sleeve. Well, do your worst!’ The “ugly dog” rose abruptly and joined the others. And old Heythorp closed his eyes, sitting perfectly still, with his cigar, which had gone out, sticking up between his teeth. Mr. Brownbee turning to voice the decision come to, cleared his throat.