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Frederic, Harold, 1856-1898

"The Market-Place"

He was active and bold and clever,
and he was in the thick of the fight. Therefore he
should be the judge in all things. And that is our ruin.
In the time of the South African excitement, he won
a great deal of money. Then he lost it all and more.
Then gambling began, and his fortunes went now up, now down,
but always, as his books show to me now--sinking a little
on the average. He grew more adventurous--more careless.
He put many small counters upon different numbers on
the table. You know what I mean? And in an accursed moment,
because other gamblers were doing the same, he sold two
thousand of your shares, without having them in his hands.
Voila! He wishes now to put a bullet through his brain.
He proposes that as the fitting end of Fromentin Freres."
Thorpe, his chin on his breast, continued to regard the
melancholy figure opposite with a moody eye. It seemed
a long minute before he broke the tense silence by a sigh
of discomfort. "I do not discuss these things with anybody,"
he said then, coldly. "If I had known who you were,
I don't think you'd have got in."
The Marquis of Chaldon intuitively straightened himself
in his chair, and turned toward the speaker a glance
of distressed surprise.
"Or no--I beg your pardon," Thorpe hastened to add,
upon the instant hint of this look--"that doesn't convey
my meaning.


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