“I wonder,” Kendrick murmured.  “The harvests last year were bad all over the world, you know, and this year, except in the States and Canada, they will be worse.  With another fifty million it might be done.”

“But they’re taking deliveries,” White pointed out.  “They have granaries all over the kingdom, subsidiary companies to do the dirty work of refusing to sell.  Already they say that three quarters of the wheat of the country is in their hands, and mind you, they sell nothing.  The price goes up and up, just the same as the price of their shares has risen.  They buy but they never sell.  Some of the big banks must be helping, of course, but I know one or two—­one in particular—–­who decline to handle any business from them at all.”

“I should say their greatest risk was Government interference,” Kendrick observed.  “Gambling in foodstuffs ought to be forbidden.”

“It would take our Government a year to make up their minds what to do,” White scoffed, “and by that time these fellows would have sold out and be on to something else.”

“Well, it’s too hot for shop,” Kendrick yawned.  “I think I shall cut work on Friday and have a long week-end at Sandwich.”

“I have a good mind to do the same,” his companion declared.  “And as to B. & I.’s there’s money to be made out of them one way or the other, but I shall advise my clients not to touch them.—­Hullo, we’re discovered!  Here’s Sarah.”

The young lady in question, escorted by a pink-complexioned, somewhat bored-looking young man, who cheered up at the sight of the iced drinks, greeted the two friends with a smile.  She was attired in the smartest of garden-party frocks, her brown eyes were clear and attractive, her complexion freckled but pleasant, her mouth humorous, a suggestion which was further carried out by her slightly retrousse nose.  She seemed to bring with her an agreeable atmosphere of wholesome things.

“You shall advise your clients not to touch what?” she enquired.  “Are there any tips going?”

Kendrick shook his head.

“You stick to the tips your clients slip into your hand, my dear young lady,” he advised, “and don’t dabble in what you don’t understand.  The Stock Exchange is a den of thieves, and Maurice here and I are two of the worst examples.”

Miss Sarah Baldwin made a little grimace.

“My clients are such a mean lot,” she complained.  “Now that they have got over the novelty of being driven in a taxicab by a woman, they are positively stingy.  Even Jimmy here only gave me a sovereign for picking him up at St. James’ Street, waiting twenty minutes at his tailor’s, and bringing him on here.  What is it that you’re going to advise your clients to leave alone, please, Mr. White?”

“British and Imperial Granaries.”

The young man—­the Honourable James Wilshaw—­suddenly dropped his eyeglass and assumed an anxious expression.

“I say, what’s wrong with them, White?” he demanded.  “They’re large holders of wheat, and wheat’s going up all the time.”