Simpson protested; was cut short with a curt, “Forget it, Tom. I wouldn’t let you stand more than your share if you were worth a million. All I came up for was to see if I could be of any use.” “There’s nothing much to be done, Peter. The man’s gone; the cigars are gone; the money’s gone.” “Can’t we bring an action in the Dutch courts?” “He’ll be over the border by now; selling the stuff in Germany. It’ll be worth a small fortune over there. Perhaps it serves me right for going on dealing with Beckmanns. Probably they put him up to it. There have been some ugly rumours about the Beckmann firm lately. I didn’t want to worry you with them. But people say young Albert gave a dinner-party to celebrate the sinking of the _Lusitania_. I wrote to them about it. Of course, they denied it. Here”—he pulled a document from the basket on his desk; handed it to Peter. The document, a statement sworn before the British Consul in Havana, contradicted the rumour, “that either Señor Albert Beckmann and/or any member of the _Cuban_ firm of Beckmann y _Compania_ had ever adopted a policy hostile to Great Britain and her Allies, and specifically that they had never celebrated in any way the sinking of the _Lusitania_. . . .” “It reads like a lie,” said Peter. “It is a lie,” said Simpson. “And what are we going to do about it?” “About Hagenburg?” “No. About Beckmanns.” Peter’s voice grew steely. “We must cut ’em out, Tom. Not another case. Do you agree?” The older man hesitated a moment. “Supposing they ship their goods to some one else.” “Let ’em, Tom. Let ’em. When I come back after this show’s over, it won’t be to buy goods from any dirty Hun—Cuban or otherwise. You’re with me? Right. Then let’s get down to business. How much has this bastard done us in the eye for?” “About nine thousand, five hundred.” “Phew!” Peter whistled. “Let’s get out the private ledger and see exactly how we stand.” For half-an-hour, they pored over the cold figures. “It means,” said Peter, summing them up, “that we’re worth about fourteen thousand pounds a-piece. Lucky you didn’t have a Nirvana of your own, Tom. What? Question now is: Can we run this business on a capital of twenty-eight thousand?” “I think so. We’ve got five thou. on deposit; and the Bank will lend us the rest. Goods are selling almost as soon as they arrive, too. That’ll help.” “We shall have to cut our drawings down, though. At least I shall. You always were economical. . . .” They settled, after some discussion, on £750 a year each, the firm to pay and debit Peter’s account with his Life Assurance Policies; and Peter, with a final: “Now for God’s sake, don’t worry, Tom,” went back to Aldershot. . . . “Did you get your business settled all right, dear?” asked Patricia, meeting him in the dusk. “Quite all right, old thing.” He climbed aboard; and she swung the car round the big station Square. “I wanted to talk to Simpson about your allowance while I was away,” went on the man.