knew who it was that had just gone out. On my shaking my head negatively
he smiled queerly, said "De Barral," and enjoyed my surprise. Then
becoming grave: "That's a deep fellow, if you like. We all know where he
started from and where he got to; but nobody knows what he means to do."
He became thoughtful for a moment and added as if speaking to himself, "I
wonder what his game is."

And, you know, there was no game, no game of any sort, or shape or kind.
It came out plainly at the trial. As I've told you before, he was a
clerk in a bank, like thousands of others. He got that berth as a second
start in life and there he stuck again, giving perfect satisfaction. Then
one day as though a supernatural voice had whispered into his ear or some
invisible fly had stung him, he put on his hat, went out into the street
and began advertising. That's absolutely all that there was to it. He
caught in the street the word of the time and harnessed it to his
preposterous chariot.

One remembers his first modest advertisements headed with the magic word
Thrift, Thrift, Thrift, thrice repeated; promising ten per cent. on all
deposits and giving the address of the Thrift and Independence Aid
Association in Vauxhall Bridge Road. Apparently nothing more was
necessary. He didn't even explain what he meant to do with the money he
asked the public to pour into his lap. Of course he meant to lend it out
at high rates of interest. He did so--but he did it without system,
plan, foresight or judgment. And as he frittered away the sums that
flowed in, he advertised for more--and got it. During a period of
general business prosperity he set up The Orb Bank and The Sceptre Trust,
simply, it seems for advertising purposes. They were mere names. He was
totally unable to organize anything, to promote any sort of enterprise if
it were only for the purpose of juggling with the shares. At that time