Peter had spoken with great certainty about Beresfords; but as he climbed down the prison-like stone staircase of Great Winchester House he began to wonder whether he might not have misjudged the situation. Two and a half years ago, Maurice would have jumped at the opportunity of acquiring Jamesons on the terms Peter now proposed to accept. But things had altered in the cigar-trade; perhaps the arguments he intended using would not be effective.

The whole proposition was very distasteful. He found himself hating the City, almost wishing he were back in the firing-line. And when, through various passages, he made his own offices, distaste deepened. Sitting there, talking generalities to Miss Macpherson (it would be time enough to tell her the business must be sold, after he had seen Maurice), memories thronged over him. He saw his father again, uncording a parcel of dock-samples, old George with his duster, Tom Simpson, himself as a raw youth.

Recollection conjured up many such pictures that morning: comedies, farces, tragedies, all enacted among the cedar-boxes and the mahogany furniture of 28 b. Lime Street.

After Miss Macpherson had given him the promised figures and gone off to her lunch, he prowled about the place. It seemed like a tomb now; all the life gone out of it. The faces of the two girls in the clerks’ room were as strange as the emptiness of the dusty racks.

Yet, for all its apparent deadness, Jameson & Company still made profits. For a moment, studying the rough balance-sheet Miss Macpherson had prepared, Peter doubted his wisdom in selling out. Why shouldn’t he make a fight for it, let her carry-on? There was enough money on deposit in the Bank to stall off Simpson’s executors for at least six months. The selling of goods, under war-conditions, presented no difficulty. What one could import, one could dispose of.

Still doubtful, he went out to lunch, avoiding the Lombard lest he should meet Beresford, going instead to a noisy old-fashioned chop-house where the food was as good as the service execrable. Over his chop, wisdom prevailed. For Patricia’s sake and the sake of his children, he dare not risk any more financial complications. With which resolution firmly in his mind, Peter walked down St. Mary Axe, entered the elaborate warehouses of Beresford and Beresford.

Maurice, dapper as ever, eye-glassed, patent-booted, but short-jacketed and bowler-hatted in deference to war-conditions, happened to be in the outer-office; welcomed Peter as a long lost brother.

“But what are you doing in mufti?” he asked, leading way through the glass-partitioned sales-rooms (which, Peter noticed, were as bare of stock as his own) into a green-carpeted sanctum of saddle-bag chairs and roll-top desks.

“Usually get out of uniform when I’m on leave,” explained Peter.

The little dude unlocked one of the desks; sat down at it; produced a box of fat oily Cabanas; pushed them across.

“Trust goods. But not at all bad,” he said.

Peter lit up; took the chair at the side of the desk; asked:

“Is your brother Charlie in town?”

“Yes. He’ll be back from lunch in about ten minutes.”

“Good,” said Peter. “I’ve come round to talk business. It’ll save time if you’re both here.”

“Business?” queried the other, letting the monocle drop from his eye-socket. “What sort of business?”

“Tell you when Charlie comes in. How are things in general?” They settled down, Maurice on tenterhooks to find out what Peter could be driving at, to desultory trade-gossip.

“Too much Government control for my liking,” said Maurice. “Still, except for the freights, I’m not grumbling.”

His brother came in: a fat little man with goggly eyes and red hands, one of which he extended cordially to Peter.

“Very glad to see you back, Peter. Very glad indeed. When’s the war going to be over?”

“Peter’s come round to talk business,” interrupted Maurice.

“Business!”—Charlie hung up his soft hat—“what sort of business? I didn’t know there was any business left to talk about.”

He also unlocked his desk; sat down at it; took out a cigar-box; selected a weed. Looking at the two of them, Peter could not help a totally unreasonable feeling of contempt—contempt not only for them, but for himself for wanting money from them. There was a little of the Weasel’s rasp in his voice as he began:

“The business is this. As you know, Simpson is dead. There’s no one left to carry on Jamesons. And so, I’ve got to sell it. I’ve come to you first. You know almost as much about the show as I do. If you want it, you must make up your minds within twenty-four hours....”

“Rather rushing things, aren’t you, Peter?” interrupted Maurice.

“Possibly,”—it must be remembered that Peter knew his men pretty well—“but what am I to do? Leave doesn’t last for ever; and I’ve got to have the whole thing settled before I go away.”

“But what’s the price?” Charlie’s mind moved more directly if less rapidly than his brother’s.

“Well”—Peter spoke slowly—“of course you’ll take stock and book-debts at a valuation. We shan’t quarrel about that. The only question is how much the goodwill’s worth.”

“Goodwill!” Maurice screwed his monocle back into his eye. “My dear Peter, you must be joking. I shouldn’t dream of paying for goodwill.” (“Then he’s a buyer!” commented Peter’s mind.) “A cigar importing business has no goodwill. You and I decided that years ago. It’s a personal business.”

“Not under present conditions. The import-licence represents a share in an absolute monopoly.”

“Only while the war lasts.”

They wrangled about goodwill for ten minutes. Then Maurice said casually:

“I suppose you’ve got to pay out a good deal of money to Simpson’s estate.”

“A certain amount,” admitted Peter, “and frankly that’s one of the reasons why I’m anxious to dispose of the business. You see, it’s a bad time to get rid of outside investments”—he spoke as if he had millions of them—“and although Simpson’s capital was not enormous, I don’t feel inclined to realize a lot of shares so as to replace it.”

“So you want us to do it for you,” said Maurice.

“Your position’s different to mine. You’re both here to look after things: I’m not.”

“That’s quite true,” interrupted Charlie.

Maurice, who wanted the business badly but did not wish to appear over-keen, looked angrily across at his brother; took up the running himself.

“You’d want to be paid in cash, I suppose?” he said.

“Take your own time about that,” answered Peter largely. “If it suits you better to pay me out as you realize the stock and book-debts, I don’t mind. There’ll be interest, of course.”

Maurice came back to the question of goodwill; was sheered off by Peter; began to fish for figures. But these, his antagonist refused to give.

“My accountant’s working on them,” he prevaricated, “they’ll be ready tomorrow. But it’s no good showing them to you unless you’re prepared to deal.”

“Can’t you give me some idea? I’m only trying to find out if we can afford it.”

It was time to fire the last shot. “Maurice,” said Peter, “you know as well as I do that there’s no question of affording. All you’re asked to do—barring the payment for goodwill—-is to take over sound stock and good book-debts; realize on ’em; and pay the money over to me. If you don’t want to do it, say so; and I’ll either sell the show to Elkins or tell my accountants to liquidate.”

“You’re in such a hurry,” began Maurice. “Can’t you leave us till tomorrow?”

“No, I can’t.”

“But about this goodwill. How much do you want for it?”

“A year’s profits.”

The two brothers looked at each other; and Peter, watching, saw that he had the fish hooked. They didn’t want Elkins to have the business. They didn’t want it liquidated. They wanted it for themselves.

“Look here, Peter,” began Maurice ingratiatingly, “you and I are old pals. Of course, I quite see you must have this thing settled quickly. But I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to pay more than it’s worth for the business: any more than we should like to pay you less.”

“Of course not,” smiled Peter. He knew Maurice Beresford in his “between-you-and-me-and-the-gate-post-and-as-old-friends” mood.

“Well, why not leave the details to our accountants? You want to sell. We’re quite prepared to buy. A few hundreds one way or another can’t make any difference to either of us. Don’t you think that’s best, Charlie?”

Charlie looked up from his desk; began, “Well, I think we ought to know how much money is involved”; caught his brother’s eye; ended up, “Yes. I think that would be the best way.”

“There’s only one thing,” said Peter at parting, “I think you ought to keep on our old Staff, at any rate until they can find other jobs.”

“My dear Peter,” purred Maurice, “we’re so short-handed that they’ll be a god-send.”

But when Peter broke the news to Miss Macpherson, she said, very firmly: “Oh, I don’t think I’d like to work for Beresford & Beresford, Mr. Jameson. I’d rather go into one of the Government Offices. You see, to have carried on while you were away would have been a kind of war-work, wouldn’t it? Whereas if I went to them....”

She left the sentence unfinished, and its hearer a little amazed. For Government Offices did not pay the same wages as private employers; and patriotism in money-matters—except his own, about which he always felt a trifle foolish—was a little beyond the scope of P.J.’s imagination....