you have the shares at as low, say, as one and a half. I'm not sure, mind you; but it might be done."
"What do Wildcats stand at now?" inquired Roland, timidly. Dermot smiled at him, pityingly.
"They're never quoted," he replied. "There's no market in them, you see. In the ordinary way nobody ever sells Wildcats. I don't suppose a hundred pounds' worth have changed hands in the last six months."
All of which, again, was perfectly true.
 | An image should appear at this position in the text. To use the entire page scan as a placeholder, edit this page and replace "{{missing image}}" with "{{raw image|The Strand Magazine (Volume 47).djvu/591}}". Otherwise, if you are able to provide the image then please do so. For guidance, see Wikisource:Image guidelines and Help:Adding images. |  |
Then Dermot read Roland an article on Wildcats in The City Eagle—a financial organ with which Roland was unacquainted. As Dermot had had to pay one hundred pounds for the article in question he was to be excused for the enthusiasm with which he spoke of the writer's gifts and of the high opinion in which he held his judgment. From what was said in the article Roland rather gathered that, compared with Wildcat Reefs, the Bank of England was a risky concern in which to put one's money.
Two days later Roland Bleke became the proud possessor of twenty thousand one-pound shares in the Wildcat Reef Goldmine, and Dermot Windleband gave his bank a glad surprise by paying in thirty thousand pounds to his account.
It was not, perhaps, till four days later that Dermot again came back from the City with the worried look. Mrs. Windleband could not understand it. Never—even in the most desperate crises—had she known the Napoleon of Finance to look in the least perturbed. She wondered what could be the cause.
When Dermot told her—which he did while they were dressing—her eyes grew big with horror. She could not believe it.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "You can't mean it. Dermot—I've known you to do silly, almost inexcusable things in your time; but this—this—is positively criminal!"
Her husband winced at the words, but he did not attempt to deny the justice of her accusation.
"If he sees the papers in the morning!"
"He mustn't! He sha'n't!"
She walked restlessly up and down the room, trying to think of a plan.
"We must try and keep it from him—for to-morrow, at least," she said, at last. "Go up to town by the early train—he won't be down—and take all the papers with you.
