Alas, two minutes of Acherley’s conversation proved enough to destroy the baronet’s complacency for the day. Acherley blurted out his news, neither sparing oaths nor mincing matters. “Ovington’s going!” he declared. “He’s bust-up—smashed, man!” And striking the table with a violence that made his host wince, “He’s bust-up, I tell you,” he repeated, “and I think you ought to know it! There’s ten thousand of the Company’s money in his hands, and if there’s nothing done, it will be lost to a penny!” Sir Charles stared, stared aghast. “You don’t say so?” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe it!” “Well, it’s true! True, man, true, as you’ll soon find out!” “But this is terrible! Terrible!” Acherley shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be terrible for him,” he sneered. “But—but what can we do?” the other asked, recovering from his surprise. “If it is as bad as you say——” “Bad? And do, man? Why, get the money out! Get it out before it is too late—if it isn’t too late already. You must draw it out, Woosenham! At once! This morning! Without the delay of a minute!” “I!” Sir Charles could not conceal the unhappiness which the proposal caused him. No proposal, indeed, could have been less to his taste. He would have to make up his mind, he would have to act, he would have to set himself against others, he would have to engage in a vulgar struggle. A long vista of misery and discomfort opened before him. “I? Oh, but—” and with the ingenuity of a weak man he snatched at the first formal difficulty that occurred to him—“but I can’t draw it out! It needs another signature besides mine.” “The Secretary’s? Bourdillon’s? Of course it does! But you must get his signature. D—n it, man, you must get it. If I were you I should go into town this minute. I wouldn’t lose an hour!” Sir Charles winced afresh at the idea of taking action so strong. He had not only a great distaste for any violent step, but he had also the feelings of a gentleman. To take on himself such a responsibility as was now suggested was bad; but to confront Ovington, who had gained considerable influence over him, and to tell the banker to his face that he distrusted his stability—good heavens, was it possible that such horrors could be asked of him? Flustered and dismayed, he went back to his original standpoint. “But—but there may be nothing in this,” he objected weakly. “Possibly nothing at all. Mere gossip, my dear sir,” with dignity. “In that case we might be putting ourselves in the wrong—very much in the wrong.”