“I say, I say,” his breath came rattling and wheezing.  “What’s up at the Hour?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered curtly.

“They said you took it yesterday.  You’ve been playing the very devil, haven’t you?  But I suppose it was not off your own bat?”

“Oh, I never play off my own bat,” I answered.

“Of course I don’t want to intrude,” he said again.  In the gloom I was beginning to discern the workings of the tortured apoplectic face.  “But, I say, what’s de Mersch’s little game?”

“You’d better ask him,” I answered.  It was incredibly hateful, this satyr’s mask in the dim light.

“He’s not in London,” it answered, with a wink of the creased eyelids, “but, I suppose, now, Fox and de Mersch haven’t had a row, now, have they?”

I did not answer.  The thing was wearily hateful, and this was only the beginning.  Hundreds more would be asking the same question in a few minutes.

The head wagged on the mountainous shoulders.

“Looks fishy,” he said.  I recognised that, to force words from me, he was threatening a kind of blackmail.  Another voice began to call from the top of the stairs—­

“I say, Granger!  I say, Granger....”

I pushed the folding-doors apart and went slowly down the gloomy room.  I heard the doors swing again, and footsteps patter on the matting behind me.  I did not turn; the man came round me and looked at my face.  It was Polehampton.  There were tears in his eyes.

“I say,” he said, “I say, what does it mean; what does it mean?” It was very difficult for me to look at him.  “I tell you....” he began again.  He had the dictatorial air of a very small, quite hopeless man, a man mystified by a blow of unknown provenance.  “I tell you....” he began again.

“But what has it to do with me?” I said roughly.

“Oh, but you ... you advised me to buy.”  He had become supplicatory.  “Didn’t you, now?...  Didn’t you....  You said, you remember ... that....”  I didn’t answer the man.  What had I got to say?  He remained looking intently at me, as if it were of the greatest moment to him that I should make the acknowledgment and share the blame—­as if it would take an immense load from his shoulders.  I couldn’t do it; I hated him.

“Didn’t you,” he began categorically; “didn’t you advise me to buy those debentures of de Mersch’s?” I did not answer.

“What does it all mean?” he said again.  “If this bill doesn’t get through, I tell you I shall be ruined.  And they say that Mr. Gurnard is going to smash it.  They are all saying it, up there; and that you—­you on the Hour ... are ... are responsible.”  He took out a handkerchief and began to blow his nose.  I didn’t say a single word.