Mr. Haswell, a stout, jovial-looking, little man with a florid complexion and white hair, rose at once to greet him.

“How do you do, Alan,” he said in a cheerful voice, for as a cousin by marriage he called him by his Christian name.  “I am just this minute back from Paris, and you will be glad to learn that they are going to support us very well there; in fact I may say that the Government has taken up the scheme, of course under the rose.  You know the French have possessions all along that coast and they won’t be sorry to find an opportunity of stretching out their hand a little further.  Our difficulties as to capital are at an end, for a full third of it is guaranteed in Paris, and I expect that small investors and speculators for the rise will gobble a lot more.  We shall plant L10,000,000 worth of Sahara scrip in sunny France, my boy, and foggy England has underwritten the rest.  It will be a case of ‘letters of Allotment and regret,’ and regret, Alan, financially the most successful issue of the last dozen years.  What do you say to that?” and in his elation the little man puffed out his chest and pursing up his lips, blew through them, making a sound like that of wind among wires.

“I don’t know, Mr. Haswell.  If we are all alive I would prefer to answer the question twelve months hence, or later, when we see whether the company is going to be a practical success as well, or not.”

Again Mr. Haswell made the sound of wind among wires, only this time there was a shriller note in it; its mellowness was gone, it was as though the air had suddenly been filled with frost.

“A practical success!” he repeated after him.  “That is scarcely our affair, is it?  Promoters should not bother themselves with long views, Alan.  These may be left to the investing public, the speculative parson and the maiden lady who likes a flutter—­those props of modern enterprise.  But what do you mean?  You originated this idea and always said that the profits should be great.”

“Yes, Mr. Haswell, on a moderate capitalization and provided that we are sure of the co-operation of the Porte.”

Mr. Haswell looked at him very searchingly and Sir Robert, who had been listening, said in his cold voice: 

“I think that we thrashed out these points long ago, and to tell you the truth I am rather tired of them, especially as it is too late to change anything.  How did you get on with Jackson, Vernon?”

“I did not get on at all, Sir Robert.  He will not touch the thing on any terms, and indeed means to oppose it tooth and nail.”

“Then he will find himself in a minority when the articles come out to-morrow.  Of course it is a bore, but we are strong enough to snap our fingers at him.  You see they don’t read The Judge in France, and no one has ever heard of it in Constantinople.  Therefore we have nothing to fear—­so long as we stick together,” he added meaningly.