The Beresfords lost no time in getting to grips, no opportunity of pointing out the worthlessness of the concern they proposed acquiring.

At his very first interview with George Reid, their intermediary—the dignified portly principal of Messrs. Guthrie, Guthrie, Jellybrand, Sons and Guthrie—made their attitude very clear. He was given to understand, he said, that Jameson & Co. had been for many years prominently associated with a German firm, domiciled in Cuba, who had recently been black-listed by the British Government for serious misdemeanours. Under the circumstances, and as patriotic merchants, his clients felt some diffidence in negotiating.

When Reid (primed by Peter who had anticipated the argument) pointed out that Beresfords had also, prior to the war, traded with Beckmanns, and that they had only abandoned trading with them because his clients, Messrs. Jameson & Co., refused to supply further shipments, Mr. Guthrie professed bland ignorance.

The matter—went on Mr. Guthrie—was not of vast importance: still, it undoubtedly affected the question of goodwill. And, while on the subject, he felt it only fair to say that—had Messrs. Beresford taken his advice—they would have thought twice before entering into negotiations at all; as, in his opinion, the excess profits tax would swallow up any increased earnings that could be made. However, his clients had pledged their word, and he would be glad to have the balance-sheet—which, with Mr. Reid’s permission, he would take away and study at leisure.

Followed a long letter, querying the item of “furniture and fixtures,” alluding once again to the debated question of goodwill, suggesting that the book-debts should be guaranteed by the sellers, the stock valued by some independent expert. Followed another interview, a demand to examine the lease of the premises, and—(“I told you so, Reid,” said Peter when he heard of it)—a very tactful request for a copy of the contract with Beckmanns!

Meanwhile Maurice insisted on entertaining Peter and Patricia to dinner at Claridges’: a dinner during which he assumed the deal already completed, and after which, over enormous cigars and exiguous liqueurs, he did his best to settle all disputed points in his own favour.

“Horrid cynical little man,” commented Patricia after he had dropped them at Harley Street.

“Oh, we’re all thieves together in the cigar-trade,” answered Peter. “If I were in Maurice’s position and he in mine, I should do just the same. He knows that if he can only play out time till my leave’s up, he’ll get the business at his own price.”

“Well, I think it’s very mean of him.”

“Don’t be so foolish, Pat”—Peter laughed the new bitter laugh she was growing to hate. “There’s no sentiment in commerce.”

She thought of their mad happy Christmas together; and sighed. He had reverted to his old absorbed self, the Peter of Nirvana days: grim, concentrated, efficient. She was his chattel again, no longer his pal.

That sentiment swayed him, that he hated parting with the “old business,” that his weakened resolution needed constant screwing-up to bluffing-point—Patricia did not realize. She knew that he was fighting a losing battle against time, felt dimly that his financial anxieties were more on her behalf and the children’s than his own. And for these things her heart sympathized with him: but her neglected love suffered, suffered impotently.

Reason asked: “Why do you love this man?”—and found no sure answer. Reason told her that he was hard, incapable of any but the most casual affection; that his fidelity indicated nothing but lack of temperament, that he would have been happier unmarried. But Instinct, ousting reason, replied: “And in spite of it all, you do love him.”

It took many years before Patricia, looking back on that dark week, realized herself one of those women whose love can only walk hand-in-hand with their respect; that whatever this man of hers might do or say, instinct, stronger than any reasoning power, gave her the key to his motive: and always, that motive was the same—a desire, voiceless but founded on sure conviction, to do the right thing....

Still, it was a beast of a week! Try as she might, Patricia could not wrest his mind from his business problems to herself. Even during their visits to Francis, he seemed incapable of putting the thing aside. She grew to resent the constant messengers bringing bulky envelopes from Reid, the servants, “Your office wants you on the telephone, sir,” the afternoons he must spend in the City.

For Peter had no intention of allowing Maurice to play out time. He hustled Reid till Reid hustled Guthrie; met this point; refused that; threatened here; was purposely dilatory there; used every artifice to bring matters to a climax before the Thursday morning when he must return to France.

In the end, by luck rather than judgment, he succeeded. Maurice Beresford (afraid lest Peter should carry out his latest threat—to liquidate Jameson & Co. altogether) suggested a conference. They met, the two accountants and the three principals, at Guthrie’s offices; sat down in his mahogany board-room to a long session. Talk, as usual at such meetings, coiled away from essentials; wound itself into interminable knots over unimportant minutiÆ ... till Peter’s temper, long held in leash, got the better of him.

“And don’t you think, Mr. Jameson,” began Guthrie blandly, “that the transfer should be made as from the date of the balance-sheet?”

“If you want to know what I think,” Peter flashed back at him, “I think we’re all sitting round this table like a lot of blithering idiots, talking sanguinary rubbish. Anyway, I’m fed up with it. Look here, Maurice”—he turned on the little man furiously—“you’ve been mucking about for six days. I’ve met you over the guaranteeing of the book-debts, the price of the fixtures, and the indemnity for repairs under the lease. What the hell more do you want?”

Guthrie, ruffled out of his portly dignity, sat silent and disgruntled; Reid’s eyes twinkled; Charlie Beresford fidgeted uncomfortably; but his brother, screwing monocle into eye-socket, retorted calmly:

“I don’t want to pay anything for goodwill.”

“Then the deal’s off.” Peter began to gather up the papers in front of him. “If you won’t pay more than the actual value of the assets, I’ll wind up the show myself....”

“But ...” began Maurice.

“Though why the devil you’ve wasted all this time, God alone knows,” finished Peter. He completed the collection of papers, rose to go.

For once in the history of Beresford & Beresford, the junior partner saved the situation. Maurice, not realizing Peter’s temper unassumed, thinking it a bluff, sat silent; leaving Charlie’s frightened acquisitiveness to exclaim:

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t pay something for goodwill. Only, it’s a question of how much. Couldn’t we compromise, Peter?”

Our Mr. Jameson sat down again. The outburst had steadied his nerves; his commercial judgment revived. Inwardly, he laughed a little: it seemed quaint that his loss of temper should have brought the Beresfords to heel so quickly. But what he actually said was:

“Compromise? Why the whole amount’s only chicken food.”

“Damn dear chicken-food,” commented Maurice. “You’re asking a year’s profits. That’s about two thousand five hundred pounds.” He changed his tone. “Look here, Peter, your time’s valuable, so’s mine. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. The indemnity under that lease of yours might run into a lot of money. Supposing we waive it, and give you a thousand in cash for the goodwill.”

Pouted Guthrie, recovering his dignity: “That seems to me a very liberal offer.” ...

And at twelve hundred, Peter compromised. It was a weak thing to do, and he knew it weak as he did it; but time pressed, and somehow he felt sick of haggling. The old Peter, the Peter who would have fought up to the last ten-pound note, had left his patience at Ypres!

But it was the old Peter who insisted on the immediate exchange of letters; who dictated the rough agreement to Guthrie’s pert blond typist; appended steady signature at foot.

“And about the contract itself?” asked Maurice Beresford as the party, all smiles and handshakes, broke up. “You’ll have that sent out to you, I suppose?”

“It won’t be necessary, Maurice. Reid has my power of attorney. You see”—our Mr. Jameson couldn’t resist a last crow over old opponents—“I never expected to bring you up to the scratch before I went away!”

But Maurice only chuckled, “Well, there’s one thief less in the cigar-trade anyway, Peter”; and insisted on accompanying him to the corner of Lombard Street....