"He’s floating a fine scheme that’s got thousands in it," he explained. "We dined at Richmond with some friends last week, and, coming home in the drag, Phil Montague--that’s his name--let me into a secret or two, and promised me shares. Mind, Martha, I’m doing this for you. Don’t say I never think of you. When I’m gone, you’ll draw many a fine dividend from the ’Automatic Postcard Company.’ And when you draw ’em, think of me, far away--probably frying."
Mr. Phil Montague called again, and, finally, I know that grandpapa took at least a thousand pounds of his capital out of Something Three Per Cents, and put them into Automatic Postcards. Then he suddenly determined to go upon the Stock Exchange himself. I think that he would have carried out this mad project, but other affairs distracted his attention. Hardly was the company of Mr. Phil Montague well floated when that gentleman called again, dined by invitation, and broached a new scheme to grandpapa.
This man represents my own greatest failure as a student of character. I was utterly deceived in him. He simply laid himself out to deceive me. Doubtless he felt that if he could get me on his side he would be able to deal with grandpapa all the more easily. Outwardly Mr. Montague was both religious and modest; which qualities, openly paraded in a stockbroker, appeared very beautiful to me. He also quoted Scripture, not ostentatiously, but evidently from habit. He constantly alluded to his dead mother, and told me that he took exotics to her grave at Brompton every second Sunday afternoon. How many financiers would do that? He never talked business in front of me, and I found after he had known my grandpapa about a month that the old man began to grow very secretive and peculiar. A cunning furtive look appeared in his eye; he was away from home--in the City and elsewhere--a great deal; he avoided discussion of his affairs as far as possible. Once I asked him some question about Mr. Montague’s own status, and he laughed, and answered in bad taste--
"Spoons, eh? Well, Martha, old chip, I believe he’s gone on you, too, or else he’s playing the fool because he thinks it will please me. ’Fine woman, your sister,’ he said to me last week. ’Fine for her age--she’s sixty,’ I answered."