"None whatever, sir."
The two men exchanged long and in a way searching glances. Harrison was,
as always, the lank and cadaverous nonentity, the man of negative
suspicions and infinite reserves. His eyes were fixed upon the carpet. He
was a study in passivity.
"What happens to the business, eh--to your big operations?"
Wingate enquired.
"The business suffers to some extent, of course," Harrison admitted.
"Your banking arrangements?"
"I have limited powers of signature. So far the bank has been lenient."
"I see," Wingate ruminated,--and waited.
"The general policy of the firm is, as you are aware, to buy," Harrison
continued thoughtfully. "That policy has naturally been suspended during
the last forty-eight hours. There are rumours, too, of a large shipment
of wheat from an unexpected source, by some steamers which we had failed
to take account of. Prices are dropping every hour."
"Materially?"
The confidential clerk shook his head.
"Only by points and fractions. The market is never sure of our
principals. Sometimes when they have bought, most largely they have
remained inactive for a few days beforehand, on purpose to depress
prices."
"Do people believe in--their disappearance?"
"Not down here--in the City, I mean," Harrison replied grimly. "To be
frank with you, the market suspects a plant.
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