Chapter EIGHT

At ten o'clock that night quite a number of wireless sets would be shut off at the item "The Economy of our Banking System," and would be turned on again at ten fifteen, when the Jubilee Jazz Band would be relayed from Manchester.

Binny read the programme through and came at last to the ten o'clock item.

"Moran. Is that the fellow who saw me yesterday?" asked the old man.

"Yes, sir," said Binny.

"Banking systems--bah!" snarled old Lyne. "I don't want to hear it. Do you understand, Binny?--I don't want to hear it!"

"No, sir," said Binny.

The white, gnarled hands groped along the table till they reached a repeater watch, and pressed a knob.

"Six o'clock. Get me my salad."

"I saw that detective today, sir--Mr. Smith."

"Get me my salad!"

Chicken salad was his invariable meal at the close of day. Binny served him, but could do nothing right. If he spoke he was told to be quiet; if he relapsed into silence old Hervey cursed him for his sulkiness.

He had cleared away the meal, put a cup of weak tea before his master, and was leaving him to doze, when Lyne called him back.

"What are Cassari Oils?" he demanded.

It was so long since Binny had read the fluctuations of the oil market that he had no information to give.

"Get a newspaper, you fool!"

Binny went in search of an evening newspaper.

It was his habit to read, morning and night, the movements of industrial shares; a monotonous proceeding, for Mr. Lyne's money was invested in gilt-edged securities which were stately and steadfast and seldom moved except by thirty-seconds. Cassari Oils had been one of his errors. The shares had been part of a trust fund--he had hesitated for a long time before he converted them to a more stable stock. The period of his holding had been two years of torture to him, for they flamed up and down like a paper fire, and never stayed in one place for more than a week at a time.

Binny came back with the newspaper and read the quotation, which was received with a grunt.

"If they'd gone up I'd have sued the bank. That brute Moran advised me to sell."

"Have they gone up, sir?" asked Binny, interested.

"Mind your own business!" snapped the other.

Hervey Lyne used often to sit and wonder and fret himself over those Cassaris. They were founder's shares, not lightly come by, not easy to dispose of. The thought that he might have thrown away a fortune on the advice of a conservative bank manager, and that when he came to hand over his stewardship to Mary Lane he might be liable--which he would not have been--was a nightmare to him. The unease had been renewed that day by something which Binny had read to him from the morning newspaper concerning oil discoveries in Asia Minor.

In the course of the years he had accumulated quite a lot of data concerning the Cassari Oilfield, most of it very depressing to anybody who had money in the concern. He directed Binny to unearth the pamphlets and reports, and promised himself a possibly exasperating evening.

Eight o'clock brought a visitor, a reluctant man, who had rehearsed quite a number of plausible excuses. He had the feeling that he, being the last of the old man's debtors, was in the position of a mouse in the paws of an ancient cat, not to be killed too quickly; and here, to some extent, he was right.

Hervey Lyne received him with a set grin which was a parody of the smile he had used for so many years on such occasions.

"Sit down, Mr. Dornford," he piped. "Binny, go out!"

"Binny's not here, Mr. Lyne."

"He's listening outside the door--he's always listening. Have a look."

Dornford opened the door; there was no sign of the libelled servant.

"Now, now." Again he was his old business-like self, repeating a speech which was part of a formula. "About this money--three thousand seven hundred, I think. You're going to settle tonight?"

"Unfortunately I can't settle tonight, and not for many nights," said Jerry. "In fact, there's no immediate prospect of my settling at all. I've made arrangements to get you four or five hundred on account----"

"From Isaac and Solomon, eh?"

Jerry cursed himself for his stupidity. He knew that the moneylenders exchanged daily a list of proposals which had come to them.

"Well, you're not going to get it, my friend. You've got to find money to settle this account, or it goes into the hands of my collectors tomorrow."

Jerry had expected nothing better than this.

"Suppose I find you two thousand by the end of the week?" he said. "Will you give me a reasonable time to find the remainder?"

To his surprise he was speaking huskily--the imperturbable Jerry, who had faced so many crises with equanimity, was amazingly agitated in this, the most crucial of all.

"If you can find two thousand you can find three thousand seven hundred," boomed the old man. "A week? I wouldn't give you a day--and where are you getting the two thousand from?"

Jerry cleared his throat.

"A friend of mine----"

"That's a lie to begin with, Mr. Gerald Dornford," said the hateful voice. "You have no friends; you've used them all up. I'll tell you what I'll do with you." He leaned over the table, his elbows on the polished mahogany. He was enjoying this moment of his triumph, recovering some of the old values of a life that was now only a memory. "I'll give you till tomorrow night at six o'clock. Your money's here"--he tapped the table vigorously--"or I'll bankrupt you!"

If his sight had been only near to normal he would have seen the look that came into Jerry's face, and would have been frightened to silence. But, if he saw nothing, he sensed the effect of his words.

"You understand, don't you?"

Some of the steel went out of his tone.

"I understand." Jerry's voice was low.

"Tomorrow you bring the money, and I will give you your bill. A minute after six o'clock, and it goes to the collector."

"But surely, Mr. Lyne"--Jerry found coherent speech at last--"two thousand pounds on account is not to be sniffed at."

"We shall see," said the old man, nodding. "I've nothing else to say."

Jerry rose; he was shaking with anger.

"I've got something to say, you damned old usurer!" He quivered with rage. "You bloodsucking old brute! You'll bankrupt me, will you?"

Hervey Lyne had come to his feet, his skinny hand pointing to the door.

"Get out!" His voice was little more than a whisper. "Bloodsucker ... damned old usurer, am I? Binny--BINNY!"

Binny came stumbling up from the kitchen.

"Throw him out--throw him on his head--smash him!" screamed the old man.

Binny looked at the man who was head and shoulders taller than he, and his smile was sickly.

"Better get out, sir," he said under his breath, "and don't take no notice of me."

Then, in a louder, truculent tone:

"Get out of here, will you?" He pulled open the street door noisily. "Out you get!"

He struck his palm with his fist, and all the time his imploring eyes begged the visitor to pardon his lapse of manners.

When he came back the moneylender was lying back, exhausted, in his chair.

"Did you hit him?" he asked weakly.

"Did I hit him, sir? I nearly broke me wrist."

"Did you break _his_ wrist or anything else of him?" snarled Hervey, not at all interested in the injuries which might have come to the assailant.

"It'll take two doctors to put him right," said Binny.

The old man's thin lips curled in a sneer.

"I don't believe you touched him, you poor worm!" he said.

"Didn't you hear me----" began Binny, aggrieved.

"Clapping your hands together! Liar and fool, do you think I didn't know that? I may be blind but I've got ears. Did you hit the burglar last night--or when was it? You didn't even hear him."

Binny blinked at him helplessly. Two nights before somebody had smashed a glass at the back of the house and opened a window. Whether they succeeded in entering the kitchen or not it was impossible to say. Old Hervey, a light sleeper, heard the crash and came to the head of the stairs, screaming for Binny, who occupied a subterranean room adjoining the kitchen.

"Did you hit him? Did you hear him?"

"My idea was to bring in the police," began Binny. "There's nothing like the lor in cases like this...."

"Get out!" roared the old man. "The law! Do you think I wanted a lot of clumsy-footed louts in my house ... get away, you make me sick!"

Binny left hurriedly.

For the greater part of two hours the old man sat, muttering to himself, twisting and untwisting his fingers one in the other; and then, as his repeater struck ten, he turned to the wireless set at his side and switched it on. A voice immediately blared at him ...

"Before I discuss the banking systems of this country I would like
to say a few words about the history of banking from the earliest
times...."

Hervey Lyne sat up and listened. His hearing, as he had said, was extraordinarily sensitive.