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Oppenheim, E. Phillips (Edward Phillips), 1866-1946

"A Millionaire of Yesterday"

The muscles of
his face twitched, and his finger-nails were buried in the flesh of
his fat, white hands. Side by side he had worked with Trent for
years without being able to form any certain estimate of the man or
his character. Many a time he had asked himself what Trent would do
if he knew - only the fear of his complete ignorance of the man had
kept him silent all these years. Now the crisis had come! He had
spoken! It might mean ruin.
"Send for him?" Da Souza said. "Why? His memory has gone - save
for occasional fits of passion in which he raves at you. What would
people say? - that you tried to kill him with brandy, that the clause
in the concession was a direct incentive for you to get rid of him,
and you left him in the bush only a few miles from Buckomari to be
seized by the natives. Besides, how can you pay him half? I know
pretty well how you stand. On paper, beyond doubt you are a
millionaire; but what if all claims were suddenly presented against
you to be paid in sovereigns? I tell you this, my friend, Mr.
Scarlett Trent, and I am a man of experience and I know. To-day in
the City it is true that you could raise a million pounds in cash,
but let me whisper a word, one little word, and you would be hard
pressed to raise a thousand.


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