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Updated: May 14, 2025
Upon reflection, the performance of having sold the same property first to Tavender in Mexico and then to the Rubber Consols Company in London might be subject to injurious comment, or worse. The fact that it was not a real property to begin with had no place in his thoughts. It was a concession and concessions were immemorially worth what they would fetch.
The face itself no yes it was the face of old Tavender. "In the name of God! What are you doing here?" Thorpe gasped at this extraordinary apparition. Still staring, he began to push back his chair and put his weight upon his feet. "Well Thorpe" the other began, thrusting forward his head to look through his spectacles "so it is you, after all. I didn't know whether I was going to find you or not.
A vaguely superstitious consciousness of being in the presence of Fate laid hold upon him. His great day of triumph had its blood-stain. A victim had been needful and to that end poor simple, silly old Tavender was a dead man. Thorpe could see him, an embarrassing cadaver eyed by strangers who did not know what to do with it, fatuous even in death. A sudden rage at Kervick flamed up.
"Gafferson," Thorpe repeated, very slowly, and with almost an effect of listlessness. He was conscious of no surprise; it was as if he had divined all along the sinister shadows of Lord Plowden and Lord Plowden's gardener, lurking in the obscurity behind this egregious old ass of a Tavender. "He's a tremendous horticultural sharp," said the other. "Probably you've heard tell of him.
Three days later he personally saw Tavender off at Waterloo station by the steamer-train, en route for Southampton and New York. The old man was in childlike good spirits, looking more ecclesiastical than ever in the new clothes he had been enabled to buy.
Thorpe had been looking with abstracted intentness at a set of green-bound cheap British poets just at one side of his sister's head. "You must find that card!" he told her now, with a vague severity in his voice. "I know the name well enough, but I want to see what he's written. Was it his address, do you remember? The name itself was Tavender, wasn't it? Good God!
Thorpe returned his look with the good-natured beginnings of a grin. "But what would you be good for?" he queried, in a bantering tone. "People I have about me have to be of some use. They require to have heads on their shoulders. Why just think what you've done. I don't mean so much about your letting Tavender slip through your fingers although that was about the worst I ever heard of.
Lord Plowden, meditating upon it, had seen a way to be nasty and had vindictively plunged into it. He had brought Tavender from Mexico to London, to use him as a weapon. All this was as obvious as the nose on one's face. But a weapon for what? Thorpe, as this question put itself in his mind, halted before a shop-window full of soft-hued silk fabrics, to muse upon an answer.
Lord Plowden had sought out Rostocker and Aronson, and had told them that he had it in his power ignominiously to break the "corner." He could hardly have told them the exact nature of his power, because until he should have seen Tavender he did not himself know what it was.
"Oh, that's all right! Glad to do it," replied the other, lightly. In truth he had not let Tavender stray once out of his sight during those three days.
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