Success
have no conclusive proof that it is. Why not give him another chance?
It would pay us; we want him badly enough.”
The suggestion thus seriously made was surprising to most of them; but,
unexpected though it was, it was discussed for a while. The position
was something too grave for the directors to be able to afford to
dismiss, without consideration, anything which might help to improve
it. The torpedo accident that day had brought home to them, as nothing
else could, the loss Galhardy’s had sustained when Michael Annarly was
dismissed; they did not fail to realise that his return might be of
great value now. So, in spite of the unexpected nature of Casterman’s
suggestion and its distastefulness to some of them, they discussed it
for a considerable time. But in the end they decided against it; more
were opposed to it than approved it, and they were a section which
could not be won over. Shannon never swerved from his strong objection;
even the influence of Duncan, who was in favour of it, did not alter
him. He maintained that they had proved Annarly to be a man capable
of great unscrupulousness when driven into a corner; he himself held
him one not to be trusted, in any sense of the word. It was not fair,
he said, to themselves, to other employees, even to the man himself,
to reinstate him unless he could be fully cleared—as he never could
be. There were others who held this opinion, though less strongly; and
others who thought with Casterman that the uncleared, but unproved,
charge against him did not matter, or at least that they would be well
advised to risk the consequences of his return. Sir Joseph swayed now
one way now the other, anxious to do what was benevolent to the man,
but having the welfare of Galhardy’s much at heart; that welfare, it
finally seemed to him, would be best served if the genius were not
reinstated.
“If he could be really cleared,” he said reluctantly, as the others
were going, “if only that were possible.”
“It’s impossible,” Casterman said; “if we wait for that we’ll never
have him.”
“If only we could trace that letter,” John Duncan said; “that letter
troubles me, so much hangs on it.”
“It does, it does,” Sir Joseph agreed, and shook him by the hand.
He went to the door with him, an honour he paid no one else, inquiring
for his health, and thanking him for coming.
Brett, by the desk, watched. Watched him close the door after the last
of the directors and come back towards his desk.
“That letter seems to trouble Mr. Duncan, sir,” he observed.
“Yes,” Sir Joseph answered. “A fine old man, a wonderful man still.
Always a dreamer and an enthusiast.”
Brett looked down at the papers before him. “He does not seem satisfied
with my steel,” he said. “Nor”—he raised his eyes a second, and the
look in them if nervous was disagreeable—“nor am I.”
“Nor are you?” Sir Joseph repeated pleasantly. “I am sorry to hear
that. What’s the matter? But perhaps you had better reserve it for
another time; it is already late; we have a good deal to get through.”
Brett did not begin work. “I understood that I was to have commission
on that steel,” he said, with another flicker of the eyelids.
“Did you?” Sir Joseph spoke affably, but absently.
“Yes—and I have received none yet.”
“Dear me. How remiss; the matter must be looked to—if you really were
to receive it. I have no clear remembrance of any such arrangement; no
doubt the other directors will recollect the board meeting at which it
was discussed.”
“It was not discussed at a board meeting; the arrangement was privately
made between you and me only; but other people know about it, some
people not on the board.”
“That is indiscreet,” Sir Joseph reproved. “I am surprised that you
should have talked of affairs of the firm outside. I always thought
your discretion could be relied on.”
“I know you did,” Brett retorted with spite, though afterwards he
coloured nervously. “I mean—I believe I am usually discreet. I do not
consider I have been indiscreet now. I have said nothing that matters,
only mentioned to Carson and a few friends like him that I had worked
up Annarly’s steel and was to receive commission on it.”
“Ah, I see.” Sir Joseph still spoke pleasantly, but there was a look
in his eyes which Brett, who knew better than most what his suave
manner was worth, understood. “Do you know,” he said, and Brett was
not surprised to hear him say it, “I have no recollection at all of
any such arrangement being definitely made? And I hardly think my
directors would quite approve it. You heard some of them to-day express
an opinion that you had not improved on Annarly’s work. I doubt if they
would think you were entitled to the considerable sum which we may hope
the commission should amount to.”
“Oh?” Brett said. He drove his pencil into the paper before him rather
unsteadily, but he kept to his point; the eyes, which he was afraid to
raise, were very venomous in expression now.
“I half thought you might have forgotten, sir,” he said, “although,
I think, if you look you will find it has been put on record. What
made me think you might not recollect, is that I don’t recollect your
dictating that letter to Annarly, that second letter.”
He raised his eyes now, and met the other’s fully. For an almost
imperceptible fraction of time they looked at one another, then:
“That’s unfortunate, though hardly important,” Sir Joseph said, “since,
at the time the matter came up for discussion, you gave me and others
the hour at which you both wrote and posted the letter.”
“I know I did,” Brett answered; “if I remember rightly, you yourself
suggested—I mean ‘reminded’ me of the exact hour.”
“Did I? It is unlike you to need reminding of such things; usually your
memory is good.”
“Yours, if I may say so, sir, is not.”
Sir Joseph ignored the words; he may not have heard them, they were not
very audible; he dismissed the subject curtly, as done with, saying
there was nothing to be gained by discussing it further, and that work
must be attended to now.
Brett took up his pen; his hands were twitching a little; he realised
that he had done a dangerous thing and that he might be thankful to
have come off as well as he had. But he was not thankful, he was
bitterly angry and humiliated too. It had been a great effort to him,
and the result had been far other than he had anticipated; he would
not give in without another struggle, he would not be treated thus
contemptuously, as not worth answering; he was dangerous, and Sir
Joseph should at least know it.
“There are two things of which I should like to remind you, sir,” he
said; “one is that on the afternoon you dictated the first letter to
Annarly, you saw Mrs. Carr-Harris and also dictated a long report; the
one before Annarly’s letter, the other after, and at neither time was
there any symptom of pain or uncertainty as to your words—such as is
alleged to have given rise to the mistake in that letter to Annarly.
Indeed, I never remember to have heard you speak more clearly and
definitely than when you instructed me to write and confirm the consent
you had verbally given him.”
“Is that so? Then I can only recommend you to be careful to whom you
mention it, as it is not to your credit; in the face of exceptional
clearness, such a mistake as you made in an important letter is very
remiss.”
“Mistake!”
“Certainly. Your next point? You said there were two things of which
you wished to remind me; please to be quick. I am willing to bear with
you so far as possible, but my patience is becoming exhausted.”
Brett swallowed; for the moment he found it a little hard to speak. Sir
Joseph’s methods were something of a revelation to him, and although
he had worked with him some years and knew him pretty well, they were
a shock too. To his sense of rectitude as well as other things; some
men’s sense of rectitude can be shocked by such revelations when they
affect themselves, even though they do not realise them when they
affect others.
“The other point,” he said, feeling it of small avail, “was the coming
of Sir James Shannon. He came one evening after that first letter was
written, and told you what representatives of those French people had
said casually to him and others about their firm being very interested
in Annarly, and expecting to get something good from him. He had taken
fright at it, and came to you to put a stop to the whole business.
There was no talk of the second letter until after that. I don’t know
if you told Sir James you had already refused your consent to Annarly,
you did not tell me until after he had gone.”
“Did I not?” Sir Joseph’s voice was quiet, but ominous. “I should like
you to be quite sure on that point, for, so you said at the time of the
inquiry, the second letter had already been dictated and posted then.
Either you were not speaking the truth then, or you are not now.”
Brett flushed faintly, and shifted under the other’s eyes, “Supposing I
made a mistake then?” he muttered. “Supposing I remembered now that I
had been wrong about that date, and felt it my duty to—to tell people?”
“Ah? Supposing you did, if you felt it your duty. By the way, whom
should you think suitable to tell?”
“There’s Annarly.”
“Annarly? Yes, just so. Have you his address? I believe he is foreman
in some small works in the Midlands. Curious how he has sunk; I suppose
back to his original level. Of course, your communication might
interest him, though I should hardly imagine so; he would not regard it
as important. I do not regard him as important either——”
“Not where he is, possibly,” Brett suggested, “but perhaps elsewhere?”
“Perhaps,” Sir Joseph agreed, “though I hardly think so. I can hardly
imagine him a person of any importance anywhere again.”
And Brett felt it to be true; this suave, cool-headed old man would
take care the man he had been driven by circumstances to wrong should
never achieve to a position dangerous to himself. It was useless to
think of Annarly as of value; useless really to think of anyone,
he knew it, and knew now that he himself was valueless, merely a
cat’s-paw; still, he made one last effort. “Mr. Duncan was always
troubled about that second letter,” he said; “he might think it
important that I had made a mistake about the date, about having
written it at all.”
“No doubt,” Sir Joseph answered. “I think it rather important myself,
or at least regrettable, very regrettable, indeed; temporary loss of
memory in a man of your age is to be regretted. I suppose we must
ascribe it to that? There is no other explanation, unless it is that
I made a mistake, and”—he put a wrinkled finger on the other’s arm—“I
never make mistakes. Understand, I never make mistakes.”
He had made no mistake in Brett. There was really no need for him to
say, as he did when they parted that evening, “There are two essential
qualities in a secretary, the one is memory, and the other discretion.
In both you have shown yourself lamentably deficient to-day; don’t
let it occur again. I believe it is the first time; it must be the
last, else”—he glanced with meaning towards the door—“there is no
alternative.”
CHAPTER XVII
On the last Saturday in March Nan went to see Mr. Cordover. He had
not himself been to the City that day, but sent the car for her in
good time in the morning with the promise that she should be back by
dark. As her father often worked all Saturday afternoons and did not
really want her until the evening, she thought she might as well go.
Accordingly she went, and much enjoyed the drive out through the bare
country; and, as usual, very much enjoyed her visit when she got there.
She was a welcome and familiar guest by now in Mr. Cordover’s house;
the little lame old lady, the old setter, the one-eyed cat, and all