She was not prepared to listen to the story of the Yun Nan Concession and its beginnings. She was in truth in a state bordering upon fear, and she rose from her voluminous chair.
“I hardly know Mr Lynne well enough to discuss him–-” she began.
“And yet you are going to marry him?”
The flush which came to her cheeks was rather of annoyance than embarrassment.
“That is a matter which concerns me entirely, Mr Fing,” she said, and he smiled.
“Fing-Su? Well, I prefer that name. St Clay is cumbersome and a little stupid.”
He was regarding her absently.
“You are a clever girl. There is intelligence in your face; you are sensitive to impressions; you have indeed all the qualities which I desire in an assistant—and I have many assistants, yellow and white.”
“I don’t quite understand you,” she said.
“Let me put it clearly to you. I have a reason for wishing the friendship—at least the non-antagonism—of Clifford Lynne. You are in a position to help me very considerably. Do you know anything about the Stock Exchange, Miss Bray?”
“The Stock Exchange?” she said in astonishment. “No, I know very little.”
“You know this much—that there is a company called the Yun Nan Concessions?”
She nodded.
“Yes; Mr Narth was telling me yesterday morning that the shares stood at two and three-quarters.”
“The ordinary shares,” he corrected gently. “You have never seen the founders’ shares in the market.”
She smiled.
“I don’t think I should recognize them if I saw them,” she said frankly. “The Stock Exchange is a mystery to me.”
“Yet there are forty-nine founders’ shares.” He spoke with great deliberation. “And I wish to buy one!”
She stared at him in astonishment.
“One?” she repeated.
He nodded.
“Just one. They have no market quotation. Originally they were worth one pound. Today for that one share I am prepared to pay a million!”
She could only shake her head helplessly.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you—unless,” as a thought struck her, “you would be able to buy one from Mr Narth.”
He was amused.
“My dear young lady, Joseph Bray has left no founders’ shares to Mr Narth; he has left ordinary shares. The only person from whom such a share is purchasable is your fiancé, Clifford Lynne. Get me that certificate and I will give you a million pounds! You shall have no reason to marry a man who has been forced upon you by your stupid relations. A million pounds! Think of that, Miss Bray—an enormous fortune which will make you as free as the air and independent of Narth and Lynne! Think this matter over! I would not like you to make a decision at this moment. And please remember that in doing this you would be pleasing my dearest friend and patron, now, alas! dead.”
He walked to the door and opened it with a flourish. Evidently the interview was at an end.
“You will think of this? And will you be good enough to regard all I have said in this room as confidential? And please remember that, the day you hand me that share certificate, I will give you a cheque on the Bank of England for a million pounds. I will ask no questions–-“
Her steady eyes met his.
“There will be no questions to ask,” she said quietly, “for I shall never bring the share. If it is worth a million to you, it is surely worth a million to Mr Lynne.”
He smiled his inscrutable smile.
“The cheque will be ready for you. This may mean a great deal for you. Miss Bray,” he said.
Joan hastened to her relative’s office, and with every turn of the car wheels her anger grew.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mr Stephen Narth was obviously uncomfortable.
“I hope you didn’t mind, Joan?” he said, as he faced the indignant girl. “The truth is, I am rather under an obligation to the fellow, and he was so keen on seeing you about this business that I simply had to get the thing over. Why he wants to buy a founders’ share in the company, heaven only knows. They’re not worth a penny.”
She was staggered by this intelligence.
“Not worth a penny–-?” she began.
“Not worth a penny,” said Narth. “Well, perhaps that is an exaggeration. They’re entitled to a nominal dividend of 2˝ per cent, which means that they’re worth about eight shillings per share. They’ve never been on the market and never will be. I don’t believe old Joe had many, either. But I’ll make sure.”
He rang a bell, and to the patient Perkins:
“Get me the Articles of Association of the Yun Nan Concessions Corporation,” he said.
In a few minutes the clerk came back with a thick, blue-covered volume, which he laid on the desk. Mr Narth turned the dusty sheets and stopped at the first page with an exclamation.
“That’s queer! I didn’t know Lynne was a director.” He frowned. “A sort of nominee, I expect,” he said, as he turned page after page.
Five minutes’ silence, broken only by the rustle of the leaves, and then:
“Well, I’m damned!” gasped Mr Narth. “Listen to this: ‘The policy of the Company and the direction of its reserves shall be determined by a Board of Administration which shall be nominated by ballot. At the ballot only holders of the aforesaid founders’ shares shall vote. Notwithstanding anything contained in these articles which may be construed otherwise, the Board of Directors shall be the nominees of such a majority–-’”
He looked up, startled.
“That means that the ordinary shareholders have no voice at all in the management of the company,” he said, “and that of forty-nine shares issued, Fing-Su has twenty-four—phew!”
He looked at the girl open-eyed.
“Somebody told me today that the Yun Nan Company had a reserve of eight millions!” he said. “Got it out of coal and a goldfield and the money they had sent them after the Russian revolution…”
He was a little incoherent.
“And the majority are held by Clifford Lynne,” he said slowly, and for the first time he became conscious of the ruthless struggle that was in progress for the control of this great reserve.
His hand went up to his trembling lips.
“I wish to God I was out of it!” he said huskily, and something of his fear was communicated to the girl.
Driving back to Sunningdale, Mr Narth’s car, in which she was travelling, overtook a very ordinary-looking taxicab, and it was only by accident that she glanced at its occupant. It was Clifford Lynne, and at his signal she stopped the car.
He got out of the cab, walked to the car and, without even asking permission, he opened the door of the car and stepped in.
“I’ll travel with you as far as the end of my street,” he said. “The fact is, my cab is rather uncomfortably loaded with grub! I’m taking possession of my new domain.”
He was looking at her keenly.
“You have been to town. I won’t presume to anticipate the rights of a loving husband and ask you why you are traveling in this splendour, but I presume that you have been visiting friend Narth?” And then, quickly: “You didn’t see Fing-Su, did you?”
She nodded.
“Yes, I saw him,” she said. “I had an interview with him this morning.”
“The devil you did!”
If he was angry he did not betray his emotions.
“And what did that naďve and ingenious child of nature say to you?” he asked banteringly. “I’ll bet it was something pretty crude! There never was a Europeanized Chinaman who did not go through life under the delusion that he was a diplomat!”
Should she tell him? She had given no promise, and only had Fing-Su’s request that the character of the interview should be secret.