“It is you who don’t understand, Sir Hunter,” he said. “If Fratten were to come on this Board, he would want control—these big men always do. Why else do they come on to our small company Boards? To swallow them up; swamp them. Fratten’s a sound enough man in his own way, but he’s old-fashioned—no use to us. He would turn this Company into a ‘safe-as-houses,’ ‘no risk’—and no result—business, with an investment schedule like his own Bank’s—the last thing we want. You might just as well close the whole thing down. His name might impress an unenlightened investor, but it wouldn’t impress a broker for a minute—a broker would know that Fratten is not the type of man to run an Investment Company, he wouldn’t recommend us to his clients—and the number of investors who deal without the advice of a broker isn’t worth considering. The thing’s a washout, I tell you—a rotten washout!” Lessingham’s anger spurted up again in his last words—his usually controlled voice revealed, in that sentence, the primeval qualities of his race. Sir Hunter sat back in his chair, a look of blank astonishment on his face. It lightened, however, as an idea seemed to strike him. “But Fratten wouldn’t have control,” he said. “He’s not coming into this to make money, but to oblige me—as an old friend. I didn’t tell you—we were old school friends—we met the night before last at an Old-Boy dinner. He wouldn’t want control—or even to interfere. I was going to suggest that we should each of us sell him 5%; but if you aren’t keen, I’ll let him have 10% of my own—that’ll leave me with only 50%, you and Resston’ll still have your fifteen and Wraile his ten. He’s only coming in to oblige me.” “He’s not coming in at all if I can stop it,” exclaimed Lessingham fiercely. “I don’t know what you think you are, Sir Hunter. You’re Chairman of the Board and you hold a majority of shares, but this isn’t an infantry brigade—your word’s not law. You can outvote us, but we can get out—and if you bring this fellow in, I shall—then see how you get on without me. Wraile can please himself.” As he spoke, there was a knock at the door and one of the clerks came in. “Gentleman of the name of Fratten to speak to you on the ’phone, Sir Hunter, sir, please. Shall I put him through?” “Fratten!” Lorne looked round him with momentary hesitation, then straightened his back. “Yes, put him through, put him through, my lad, what?” he exclaimed. There was a moment’s silence as Sir Hunter held the receiver to his ear, then: “Hullo, Garth, good-morning; good-morning, my dear fellow; good of you to ring me up. What? This morning? By all means, come when you like; come now.” (His eyes wandered defiantly from face to face.) “Yes, of course—delighted to see you, my dear fellow; delighted.” He replaced the receiver and returned the telephone to its stand on the wall behind his chair.