The indefatigable Brassard was swallowing a dose of his own medicine, only he dealt out the noxious mixture retail, and was now forced to imbibe it wholesale. The first week proved to him that he could do no business under these conditions, and his only hope was that the opposition would be ruined before the end of the season. Even this was small consolation, for his own profits of the year were inevitably gone, and he would be face to face with a deficit instead of a revenue. Who was Bendale's backer? That was the question; and then the next and most important point was, how full a purse did he hold? So energetic and capable a man as Brassard was not likely to be kept long in the dark about any piece of information he desired to get and was willing to pay for. Before the end of the month he knew that his competitor was Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood, and that Bendale and the rest were merely puppets.
"Mr. Brassard to see you, my lord," said the solemn Ponderby.
"Quite so. Show him in, Ponderby."
The large-headed, short-legged, bull-necked man entered the luxurious apartment, where Stranleigh was lounging in a chair, smoking a cigarette. The morning paper slipped from his hand to the floor.
"Ah, how are you, Mr. Brassard? Delighted to meet you again. What lovely weather we are having. Won't you take a chair?"
