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confidential whisper.
    “Well, I expect you realise that if you make
an oil strike in a big company it can only put the percentage of your profits
up by a tiny amount, but if you make a strike in a small company, naturally
that profit will be reflected as a considerably larger percentage of the whole.”
    “Are you telling me you have made a strike?”
    “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that,” said
David. “I would be obliged if you will treat that remark in confidence.”
    David could not remember how he arrived home
or who put him to bed, and he appeared late in the office the next morning.
    “I am sorry, Bernie, I overslept after a
little celebration with Richard at Annabel’s.”
    “Doesn’t matter a bit. Glad you enjoyed yourself.”
    “I hope I wasn’t indiscreet, but I told some
lord, whose name I can’t remember, that he ought to invest in the company. I
may have been a little too enthusiastic.”
    “Don’t worry, David, we’re not going to let
anyone down and you needed the rest. You’ve been working your ass off.”
     
    James Brigsley left his London flat in
Chelsea and took a taxi to his bank, Williams & Glyn’s. James was an
extrovert by nature and at Harrow his only real interest had been acting, but
when he had left school, his father would not allow him to go on the stage and
insisted that he complete his education at Christ Church, Oxford, where again
he took a greater interest in the Dramatic Society than in gaining his degree
in politics, philosophy and economics. In fact he had never mentioned to anyone
since leaving Oxford the class of degree he managed to secure. (The fourth
class Honours degree, for which James was such a natural, has since been
abolished.) From Oxford he joined the Grenadier Guards, which gave him considerable
scope for his histrionic talents. This had been James’s first introduction to
society life in London, and he succeeded as well as a personable young viscount
might be expected to do in the circumstances.
    When he had completed his two years in the
Guards, the Earl gave him a 500-acre farm in Hampshire to occupy his time, but
James did not care for the coarser country life. He left the running of the
farm to a manager and concentrated on his social life in London. He would
dearly have liked to go on the stage, but he knew the old man thought Mrs.
Worthington’s daughter’s ambition an improper pursuit for a peer of the realm.
The fifth Earl didn’t think much of his eldest son, one way and the other, and
James did not find it easy to persuade his father that he was shrewder than he
was given credit for. Perhaps the inside information David Kesler had let slip
would provide him with the opportunity.
    In Williams & Glyn’s fine old building
in Birchin Lane, James was shown into the bank manager’s office.
    “I should like to borrow some money against
my farm in Hampshire,” said Lord Brigsley.
    Philip Izard, the manager, knew Lord
Brigsley well and also his father. Although he had respect for the earl’s
judgement, he did not have a great deal of time for the young lord.
Nevertheless, it was not for him to query a customer’s request, especially when
the customer’s father was one of the longest-standing customers the bank had.
    “Yes, my lord, how much do you have in mind?”
    “Well, it seems that farmland in Hampshire
is worth about a thousand pounds an acre and is still climbing. Why don’t we
say one hundred and fifty thousand pounds? I should like to invest it in
shares.”
    “Will you agree to leave the shares in the
bank as security?” enquired Izard.
    “Yes, of course. What difference does it
make to me where they are?”
    “Then I am sure we will find it acceptable
to advance you a loan at two per cent above base rate.”
    James was not at all sure of the going rate,
but he realised that Williams & Glyn’s were as competitive as everyone
else, and that their reputation was beyond discussion.
    “And will you acquire for me