«There's half a score of your ancestral halls," said Julius Rohscheimer, «that I could sell up to-morrow morning!
Of the quartet that heard his words no two members seemed quite similarly impressed.
The pale face of Adeler, the great financier's confidential secretary, expressed no emotion whatever. Sir Richard Haredale flashed contempt from his grey eyes—only to veil his scorn of the man's vulgarity beneath a cloud of tobacco smoke. Tom Sheard, of the Gleaner, drew down a corner of his mouth and felt ashamed of the acquaintance. Denby, the music-hall comedian, softly whistled those bars of a popular ballad set to the words, «I stood in old Jerusalem.»